Page 9 of Grouch-ish

“I mean . . .” She clears her throat but doesn’t fill in the space, only glances at something over my shoulder.

I’d peer behind me but I’m too afraid to look away from her. Afraid she’ll close this door on me when I need this chance. I need these twelve days.

“You’re welcome.” Her quiet acceptance is like a warm blanket.

“Really?” I shouldn’t sound so surprised, and I quickly swallow my shock and try again. “I mean, excellent.” I’d love to promise she won’t regret it. I’ll make the top of Santa’s good boy list. However, I’m not good at making promises, and I’m not about to start becoming a liar. I offer one simple truth.

“You have nothing to fear from me.”

She tilts her head to the side, leaning it once more against the solid front door, holding firm to her position as keeper of the warm indoors. Another minute passes between us before she makes some mental decision, steps back and holds the door open wider.

“Somehow I doubt that,” she mutters as I pass her but I don’t question her meaning.

The sudden heat hits me first.

The fragrant scent of something cinnamon and sweet baking is next.

However, the sight before me is what has me tongue-tied.

The living room hosts a huge stone fireplace dressed in evergreen garland with white fairy lights twinkling amid the mix. Bright red ribbons hold the entire strand against a railroad tie-sized wooden mantel. A lumpy-looking three cushion couch faces the giant hearth while an over-stuffed red plaid chair sits in the corner. A giant Christmas tree stands beside it, bursting with ornaments and more miniature lights.

The small kitchen is open to the living space with a rectangular wooden table and six ladder-back chairs in a tight dining area. Black cabinets with a butcher block countertop in a U-formation look hand-crafted and wrap around the dining table, centering the space.

Essentially, the sight is something straight out of a magazine depicting Santa’s quaint home in the North Pole.

“I guess you can sleep in Dad’s room,” Paradise mutters more to herself, leaving me standing just inside the front door, stomping my boot-covered feet.

“I need to grab my bag,” I state, remembering my duffle is in the truck.

Paradise gives me a back-handed wave as she retreats down a hallway between the living room and kitchen.

After retrieving my bag, I quickly return inside the warm house, shucking off my jacket and helping myself to hang it on the peg rack already laden with coats and scarves. A bench rests beneath the collection, and I unlace my boots and toe them off, setting them inside an empty cubby underneath the seat.

Rubbing my hands together, I step up to the fire in the hearth that’s both a hazard and magical. The space is large and deep, and while the fire is set toward the back of the open space, the flame isn’t contained behind a fire-resistant mess grate or glass doors. The size and shape of this fireplace is something straight out of a Western movie.

I stand before it, hands held open and upright, mesmerized by the warm blaze and dancing heat. Being a fireman, a dichotomy exists within me. Fear and respect for flames.

I glance up at a wooden set of doors over the fireplace where a bird is painted on each panel, each almost kissing the other but separated by the sliver of a seam. The decoration looks Scandinavian and very apropos for the rest of the décor in this place. Upon closer inspection of the slightly misshapen outlines to the scratchy brush strokes within them, it looks like a child painted each bird.

Underneath one bird is written Pear. Beneath the other is Peach.

I snort. Peach and Pear. Cute.

“My dad loves this fireplace. It’s one of the reasons he bought this farm.”

Paradise’s quiet voice startles me. I didn’t hear her approach, nor notice that she was standing right beside me, gazing up at the painted birds as I had been doing.

“Cute birds,” I quip.

Paradise huffs once. Her arms are crossed, and she can’t seem to take her eyes off the birds. She’s changed into a pair of loose-legged ivory pants and a matching cropped sweater that hits the top of her waistband. The material looks soft, fluffy almost, reminding me once more of a snowflake.

“Dad thinks this place was originally a one room cabin. Hence the large fireplace and open concept.” She nods toward the hallway without removing her eyes from the decorated panels. “The rest of the house, which includes two bedrooms and a bathroom, was an addition.”

I don’t really have a response to her explanation of the blueprint, so I remain quiet, absorbing more heat and finding strange comfort in her close proximity.

“I suppose I need to feed you,” she eventually says, pulling her gaze from the decoration and glancing at me. Her eyes roam the length of my body from head to toe.

Yeah, I’m fit which also means I like to eat. Meat. Potatoes. Willing women who look like snow—