Page 19 of Grouch-ish

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I not only finished working on both dressers, but asked if there was anything else I could do.

Pear’s gaze fixates on the child’s pieces for a long moment before stating, “I’m not certain why Dad saved the white one. It belonged to my sister. As for the child’s chest, I think he was just putzing with that one. Maybe planning to resell it.”

“Is that the plan for the bench?”

Pear turns her gaze back to the bench which has had a thorough sanding and looks ready to be stained or painted. A soft smile curls her lips. “The bench was my mother’s. From our old house back in Chicago. Dad could never part with it after Mom—” Pear shakes her head, unable to speak.

Cap’s wife was Pear’s mom. How had I not put two and two together?

“When did she pass?”

“I was eleven.”

“My dad left when I was ten. Not quite the same thing, but I know Cap never remarried and neither did my ma.” Another understanding. We were both raised by single parents.

Her tender smile doesn’t change but her eyes shift. Compassion and further understanding fills them. Perhaps a little girl needed her mother growing up. I certainly wish my dad had been present.

Waving a hand in the air, like I’m swatting at dust, I say, “But enough sad stories for one day, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Her voice remains quiet as she turns back to the bench but slowly stands. Her hands press at her lower back, and she arches backward. “I don’t think my body is made to squat like that for so long. I’m not as flexible as I used to be.”

Lifting my hand to my mouth, I bite my knuckles. Images of her in a variety of positions race through my head. On her back. On her knees. I don’t need her to be flexible. I just want to be close to her. But we’ve already established there’s a thin line between us. One called her dad, and the other called my penance. I’m not here to mess anything up.

Still, I can’t help the visions dancing in my head of her and me, and an overstuffed bed.

“Get your mind out of the gutter, fireman,” she calls, giving me a knowing smirk.

I chuckle. “How’d you know it was in the gutter?”

“You have a certain gleam in your eye when your thoughts drop below my belt.”

“Oh yeah. Been checking out my eyes, have you?”

“Been looking below my belt?”

I won’t deny it, but I also won’t admit that I have trouble peeling my gaze from those hips. Or her ass. My fingers itch to dig into that firm flesh and just squeeze.

Something flies through the air, gaining my attention, but dropping before my boot-covered toes. Glancing downward, I find the sandpaper she’d been using balled up and inches from my foot.

“Did you just try to throw something at me?”

She shrugs, but her teeth dig into the corner of her lower lip.

“If you’re gonna toss something—”

“Don’t you dare say I throw like a girl. Like that would be an insult.” Her cocky confidence has my body humming in a new way.

“I was going to say, at least make it something that can go the distance.”

“Yeah?” She chews harder at her mouth before her eyes shift toward the door.

The energy around us spikes. It’s been a good day. I feel accomplished working on the furniture. I also feel a little lighter sharing about Melissa. The circumstance of my marriage is a familiar tale with the guys in the firehouse. However, the situation isn’t something I easily share with others, especially women. Telling Pear felt right and hearing her story felt good, too.

When her eyes shift left again, I follow her gaze. “What are you looking at?”

She lifts her index finger and taps at her lower lip, drawing my attention to the cherry-red plumpness. “Thinking about what I could throw at you . . . that would go the distance.”