Page 74 of Grouch-ish

My person was inside the house behind me or so I thought.

“If you deserve another chance . . .” Cap pauses. “Don’t you think she does as well?”

My head turns so fast my neck cracks after a night sleeping on a blanketed floor. A night spent loving a woman with my body but also opening my soul to her.

I wanted her to let me into her heart because she was already deep within mine. Implanted by a Dutch pear pie and moonlight kisses. Fireplace confessions and tent blanket shenanigans.

“She didn’t tell me the truth,” I remind him.

He tilts his head. “True. And I don’t condone a relationship that starts on a lie.”

Another but hangs between us.

“However, she had good intentions. She wanted to help you,” he reminds me.

“She did,” I whisper, my throat thick as I blink toward the owl house.

Valentine’s owls, and pears, and cows. I stifle a chuckle. Where will she be on Valentine’s Day?

I turn my head, staring at my captain, knowing the answer.

I want her with me. I want her as mine.

Chapter 22

[Pear]

The tears fall once I’m in the shower, then I scold myself. I’d done this to myself. I’d lied and everything backfired.

I’d fallen in love with him and now he hates me.

With shaky limbs, I pack my suitcase, picking up the twelve days of letting loose I had at the farm. Dad will want to talk, and cleaning is an anxious habit. If I can’t straighten out my life, at least I can straighten up my belongings.

When I head to the front room, preparing to pick up the reminder of yesterday, I stumble when I see the blankets are folded and set on the couch with the pile of pillows we used. Plus, the dining chairs are returned to their proper place around the table. Our clothing is conspicuously missing, and I glance toward the fire, re-ignited to a low flame inside the fireplace.

Dad probably burned the evidence of my transgression.

Suddenly, the front door opens, and Brock steps into the entry way. He stomps his boots before looking up at me, where I’ve frozen in the middle of the living room.

Our gazes lock for a minute.

“I’m driving you to Chicago.”

My mouth falls open, but the front door opens a second time, and Dad walks in, clapping his glove-covered hands.

My gaze leaps to him. He glances from me to Brock and back.

“He said he’s driving me to Chicago,” I state but my dad doesn’t look as stunned as I am. “Maybe I should stay.” My nerves rattle within me. “We should talk.”

Dad observes me a long moment before removing his gloves and shucking off his jacket. “I’ll see you soon in Chicago.”

What? I stare from one man to the next. My dad removes his boots and swipes off his cap, like he’s settling in to stay. Brock remains standing by the door, fully dressed, prepared to leave.

“Gonna get your things?” Brock asks me, his tone a bit terse.

I look from him to my dad, who’s fighting a grin. When he looks up at me, he shakes his head with an expression that says, see what I have to deal with.

The choice is mine. Stay or go? Hide my heart or follow it?