Page 75 of Grouch-ish

Turning back for my room, I quickly collect my suitcase and tote and return to the living room. Brock steps forward and takes the case, then heads toward the front door so he doesn’t drip snow all over the floor.

I step up to my dad, offering him a hug and muttering, “What’s happening?”

“I think I’ll let him explain.” Dad presses a kiss to my temple and pulls back, holding me arm’s length away from him. His eyes are full of emotion. “You’re a beautiful, intelligent woman. And I trust you.”

He glances over his shoulder at Brock. “And I can’t believe I’m saying this aloud, but I trust him.”

Brock tips up his chin, a smirk twisting his lips. He doesn’t look at me and turns for the door, holding it open.

I slip into my coat and boots and lead him outside. Once there, Brock opens the passenger door of his truck, setting my suitcase behind the seat.

Somehow, I’d missed that a plow made one sweep up our drive and back to the road in the distance, which looks relatively clean despite yesterday’s blizzard.

“What’s happening right now?” The angry tension spiraling around Brock is not reassuring me that I should ride anywhere with him despite my father’s faith in his fellow firefighter.

“You’re getting in the truck.” He stands back and holds the edge of the open door, essentially trapping me from escape although I don’t know where I’d run. “And I’m driving us back to Chicago.”

“Is this wise?” I question.

“Don’t think you’re in a position to question things right now, snowflake. Get. In. The. Truck.” While the words are terse, his tone isn’t aggressive. Hurt maybe. Confused. Irritated but not frightening.

I climb in the truck, and he shuts my door.

As soon as Brock enters his side, my mouth falls open. “Can I just say—”

“Nope.”

“But I want to—”

“No.”

“Brock.”

The cab of the truck is warm, the engine already running. Continuing to ignore me, Brock puts the truck in reverse and cautiously backs up.

“Fireman,” I drone.

Brock presses the brakes hard. The truck jolts to a halt. His eyes close a second before popping open and leveling me with a smoldering glare.

“We’re not going to talk. Not yet. I need a coffee. You need hot chocolate. Then, we’re going to hit the road.”

He’s telling me he’s mad, but he’s offering to buy me a hot chocolate.

I’m so confused but I roll with it as we pull down the drive and enter the local highway heading in the direction of Chicago.

+ + +

Nearly an hour passes before I can’t take the tense silence in the truck any longer.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt. “It was wrong. It was deceitful. I don’t know what came over me. And I’m sorry.”

Brock doesn’t respond.

“What happened with my dad?” They’d clearly had a chat outside while I was in the shower and then in my room.

“Nope,” he snaps.

“Brock, at least tell me he didn’t let you go from the department.”