Red Rose Bouquet: A Contemporary Christian Novel (Grace Revealed Book 2) Page 8

  He had two plates loaded with sliced cheddar-jack and rolls and was running a knife through a couple of oranges, when Cheryl pushed through the back kitchen door.

  “How was the shower?” He grinned without looking at her.

  “Hmm. Think you’re pretty smart, don’t you?”

  He thought he’d been fairly nice, leaving her a clean towel and some soap one of the cabin leaders had left behind several weeks back. Guess she could take it for whatever she wanted.

  “Thank you.” Her soft voice came close behind him.

  He stopped cutting and froze for a moment. A faint smell of sweet cranberries mingled with the aroma of the oranges he’d been cutting, and he couldn’t resist a long breath. Glancing over his shoulder, he found she stood behind him, fidgeting with the cuff of the sweatshirt she wore and looking toward her feet.

  Not what he’d expected. He set the knife onto the cutting board and turned.

  “You’re welcome.”

  Cheryl looked up and lifted a hand to push her damp hair off her face. It was there again, that vulnerable expression he’d seen at the bonfire the other night. The one that pulled on his heart. Without thinking, Brock took in her whole appearance. She looked tiny, swallowed up in his sweatpants and hoodie. Small, and completely adorable. With the almost timid expression in her pale-blue eyes, he could nearly imagine that she was the girl he faintly remembered—his best friend’s little sister, whom he might have had a bit of a crush on.

  No he hadn’t. Had he? Couldn’t remember, and it didn’t matter anyway.

  He cleared his throat and turned back to the counter. “Are you hungry? I’m starving, so I thought maybe you’d try eating today…”

  “Please stop.”

  He looked over his shoulder at her. She’d folded her arms over her chest, and the softness that had been in her eyes hardened. They locked gazes for a breath, and then he dipped a small nod. No more picking at her food aversions. Maybe he should quit trying to irritate her all together. He couldn’t define why he was doing it in the first place, and whatever the reason, it was bound to be a childish one.

  “I’m almost done here, and we can eat.” He picked up the knife and started back on the oranges.

  “Did you say there was coffee somewhere?”

  Brock nodded toward the sink opposite where he worked. She slipped around him to pour herself a mug.

  “Do you want some?”

  There was that unexpected soft voice again.

  “Yeah, I’d take a cup.” He divided the orange slices between the plates and then scooped them up.

  She finished pouring him coffee, and they both moved to the swinging door that led into the large dining hall. Brock used his back to push the door open and held it while she passed in front of him. Again, a faint hint of sweet cranberries tickled his nose.

  Cheryl stopped two feet into the room and scanned the smattering of tables dotting the large space. “Where to?”

  “Did you get warm enough?”

  She smiled—a real one, not a sarcastic, snotty version. “Mostly. Coffee should finish the job.”

  Brock tilted his head toward the large stone fireplace on the opposite wall. “I can build a fire, if you want.”

  Her attention left him as she examined the room, slowly taking in the log walls, wide picture windows, the fireplace, and finally settling on the piano. “Quite a place you’ve made here.”

  “Thank you.” His chest expanded. Who knew Cheryl’s mild approval would matter?

  She continued to gaze at the piano.

  It wasn’t anything special—the instrument had been a hand-me-down from a place over in Steamboat. Brock brought it in because he thought the kids might enjoy plunking on it every now and then. Sometimes they did. Usually it was more like pounding on it, which he typically ended with a quick redirection outdoors. Once in a while, though, one of the kids would sit down and play. The beat-up old thing needed tuned badly, but when those young fingers could summon music from the keys, it didn’t matter. He always heard the beauty in the music, not the flaws wrought from neglect and abuse.

  Brock moved forward, stopping beside her. “I remember you playing.”

  Her attention flew up to him. “You do?”

  “Yep.” He grinned, heat tickling his cheeks. “I used to hang around, just to see if you would.”

  “You did not.”

  Actually, he had. Hadn’t thought about it in years, but in that moment, his memory produced a vivid picture of Cheryl sitting at the upright piano in Nana’s house. She’d looked happy, lost in the melodies as she slipped into the oblivion of song. He’d remembered wanting to sit next to her on the bench, to watch her fingers as they magically turned notes into music.

  Strange memories to dwell on after he’d just thrown her into the pond. Especially since nothing—well, not much of anything—about the grown-up version of Cheryl Thompson was endearing. That was a puzzling contradiction…

  Not really his concern. Brock led the way to the table nearest the fireplace, and they settled onto chairs opposite each other.

  “Do you still play?” he asked.

  “No.” The single syllable came short and cold.

  “But I thought Nana gave you the piano?”

  “I sold it.” She wouldn’t look at him. Instead, her focus moved from the food on her plate to the window over his shoulder. “Life changed.”

  “Yes. I can see that.”

  Her gaze collided with his and held. The hollow sadness in her eyes reached into his chest and gripped his heart. He didn’t know what to do with it, but he was certain that few saw what he’d just glimpsed.

  Panic suddenly filled him, and he looked away. The last time God revealed something so plainly and powerfully like that, it had been a calling that upended his life.

  No. And that was stupid anyway. Considering a parallel between Cheryl and that moment in Mexico was presumptuous. Ridiculous.

  “Tell you what.” Brock pushed against the tug of fear. “How about we pray, then I’ll build that fire.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll head back to town when we’re done.”

  “Well…that could be a problem.” He lifted his mug and sipped the hot coffee. “You’ve got a flat.”

  “What?”

  “The rear passenger tire on your car. It’s completely flat.”

  She pushed up from her seat and marched to the window. As predicted, she crossed her arms and scowled. “That’s awesome.”

  “Well don’t get all frosty about it.” Brock thunked his mug back onto the table. See? Clearly no parallel between God’s clear redirection in Mexico and whatever kept nudging him about this woman. She was simply a pain. The end. “I’ll fix it. Just let me eat first.”

  Her mouth twisted to one side. “Fine.”

  Fine? How about thanks?

  Brock choked down a growl. Cheryl could handle her own life. His was completely full—didn’t have room in it for a spoiled woman who’d apparently forgotten all of the manners he knew she’d been raised with. That whole calling thing? He’d imagined it—probably because of the work he did with the kids. Work that he was certain about, because these kids needed an advocate, someone to be their voice. Cheryl was different—she had a voice of her own and was clearly more than capable of using it. She wasn’t powerless.

  She certainly didn’t need him.

  ~12~

  Humiliation never ceased on this little ranch. First a dunk in the pond, then a fall in Brock’s spare bedroom, and now she was stuck. Nana was going to hear about this. An earful complete with “You’d better not ever pull something like that again.”

  Brock shoveled his food into his mouth like he was a starved man. He hadn’t been that rushed two minutes before. More than likely had something to do with her little temper tantrum.

  Why was she always so horrible?

  She tried to cut the thought short before it formed. Guilt, when she allowed it to penetrate, made it hard to wall up her em
otions.

  “Is there a spare in the trunk?” Brock asked.

  She lifted her attention from her plate to him. “Excuse me?”

  “A spare tire? In the trunk?”

  “I don’t know. It’s a rental.”

  “That explains some things.”

  She scowled. “Such as…”

  He snorted. “What’s a born-and-raised mountain girl doing driving a little squirrel-mobile like that around these parts? How’d you even get it over the passes? And why’d you pick that color?”

  “You don’t like the orange?”

  His silent smirk served as an answer.

  “Well, I didn’t pick any of it. So now you know.”

  “One mystery solved.”

  “Were there more?” Oh no. The words were out of her mouth before she could filter them.

  Brock lifted his eyebrows and waited, as if he expected her to retract the question. She should—that was quite an opening for heaven knew what—but she didn’t. What would he want to know about her?

  No one really cared enough to dig into her personal life. Ever. So how curious was he?

  She remembered the way he eyed her the other night—she’d known that look well. Interest. Interested how? That was the question. It usually had the same answer. She also remembered how he’d questioned her later that evening. She’d avoided him, and he’d let her.

  Why the questions now?

  “Okay.” Brock brushed the crumbs off his fingers onto his plate and leaned back against his chair. “Since you asked…let’s start with, where have you been all these years?”

  Cheryl tipped her head to one side and studied him. He didn’t shrink away. There was always a point, however, when men knew enough. Backstory wasn’t that interesting to them, which usually kept her relationships…uncomplicated. They would ask just enough to be polite. She would give just enough to make them feel successful in their charade.

  “Not a big mystery. I’ve been in California.”

  “Yes, that’s what your brother said. Some big-time lawyer. He’s pretty proud.”

  Ethan proud of her? Probably not. “I’m not a big-time lawyer. I’m an assistant to the LA district attorney. The deputy DA. It’s not really that glamorous.”

  “Must be pretty important. You haven’t been back in years.”

  “Says the famous world traveler.” She lifted an eyebrow. “How long have you been back?”

  “Five years.” He reached for his mug and took a sip.

  She waited for him to fill the silence. He simply set his mug down and looked at her.

  Not the sultry look that she’d come to expect from men. Brock’s inspection dug deep, beyond the carefully maintained exterior that made her the object of many lustful eyes. His intensity was electrifying, making her heart quiver. What did he see when he studied her like that?

  Time to redirect his attention. “A camp for foster kids…that doesn’t sound very Brock King-of-the-Slopes Kelly to me.”

  “We already talked about that.” He leaned back, crossing his arms. “Why didn’t you come home? Even just for a visit?”

  She looked away, wishing that he’d stop probing her with his eyes, sifting her with his questions.

  “Ethan says something happened, but he doesn’t know what.”

  Her wall of indifference didn’t raise fast enough, and she flinched. Quickly, while staring out the window, she cut off the emotion that threatened to strangle. The stoic mask she kept at the ready hardened her face. She didn’t have to answer his questions.

  “He’s right, isn’t he? Something happened.”

  She pushed off the chair. “I’m going to get started on that tire.”

  Brock continued to watch her. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

  No. She didn’t. Dad hadn’t been around to show her, and no one else had bothered to teach her things like car maintenance.

  “I told you I’d take care of it.”

  “I don’t want to be stuck here longer than I have to,” she snapped.

  He drew a long breath and slowly pushed off his chair. “Okay. I’m on it, after you answer one question.”

  “You’re blackmailing me?”

  “More like a ransom for your car.”

  “No.”

  He crossed his arms.

  “I don’t owe you anything, Brock Kelly.”

  “You haven’t even heard the question.”

  Hadn’t he already asked it? What happened?—that was what he wanted to know. She settled her coldest glare on his face. He didn’t back off, nor did he lose his calm composure.

  “Do you miss playing?”

  She took the tiniest step back. “What?”

  “That’s the one question. Do you miss playing the piano?”

  She glanced over at the instrument and then looked back at him. He grinned, but not the ornery kind. It reached past the circle of ice she maintained around her heart and began to thaw a tiny corner.

  Dangerous. She crossed her arms over her chest and took a step back as he nodded toward the piano.

  “It’s out of tune, but you’re welcome to play it.” He finally stopped looking at her and stacked one plate on the other before taking them back to the kitchen.

  Cheryl stood with her heart throbbing. Alone in the dining hall, she stared after the door Brock had passed through. He didn’t reappear, and she heard the back kitchen door slap closed less than a minute later.

  Why would he ask that?

  ~*~

  Brock had the tire iron set out and was lifting the spare from Cheryl’s trunk, when he finally heard the twangy notes from the piano inside. So. She did want to play—he hadn’t just imagined the glimpse of longing in her eyes when she’d looked at the beat-up old thing.

  She’d sold her piano? That just didn’t make any sense. She’d played it every day. Every. Day. Why would she sell something that clearly had been important to her?

  The broken chords and stuttering notes slowly morphed into fluid music. That it’d been a while since her fingers had touched the keys carried through the songs she stumbled through at first, but by the time Brock had the car jacked up, the spare tire on, and was ready to crank down the lug nuts, she had found her rhythm.

  Maybe he should have worked slower.

  He reversed the pump on the floor jack and slowly lowered the car body until he could slide the lift out from under the frame. It took ten more minutes to replace the jack, fit the flat tire into the rental’s trunk, give each of the lug nuts one last turn, and put the tire iron away. Wiping his hands on an old dish towel he’d kept in the garage, Brock checked his watch. One o’clock. His day off was quickly trickling away. Fishing had been a bust, and he hadn’t started on any of the chores he would have liked to check off. Mowing the lawn around his cabin. Rehanging the front door that had begun to sag, making it stick and difficult to open. And changing the oil in his truck.

  He’d have to pick one and call it good. Oddly, though, when he pictured Cheryl sitting across the table from him, drowning in his old sweats, irritation wasn’t what he felt.

  Intrigue. And compassion. Not irritation. Strange, since she was about as approachable as a mountain lion and as warm as a January night.

  He left the garage and walked toward the lodge. Music continued to drift from the dining hall. Brock paused, his hand on the door, and listened while the familiar tune floated on the cool mountain air.

  It had been one of her favorites—he knew because she’d played it often. She didn’t play it as well now—the movement came clumsily, and the chords were often wrong. But she was playing from memory. It made him smile.

  Careful not to disturb her, he slipped inside and wandered toward her spot at the piano. Lost in her effort, she didn’t notice him until he sat on the bench next to her.

  Her fingers stalled, and the music silenced. She looked up, and his breath nearly hitched. Soft-blue eyes. Eyes that he recognized from years gone by.

  He swallowed back the
startle and forced a grin. “From Forest Gump, right?”

  Her far-off gaze cast down to her hands, which still rested on the keys. “Yes. The ‘Feather Theme.’”

  “I remember.”

  A pause settled between them, and then she breathed out a tiny laugh. “I haven’t even heard it for years, let alone played it. That was terrible—and I can’t remember the rest.”

  “It wasn’t terrible.”

  She glanced at him again, and her smile faded. He felt her body stiffen, and she pulled her hands away from the piano. Retreating again. Coming back to the present, because whatever was between now and way back then hurt.

  Brock wrestled against the urge to ask what had happened. He’d tried that already. Thing was, people who buried their pain usually didn’t heal. But they didn’t appreciate being poked either.

  Maybe she just needed a friend.

  “I wasn’t lying, you know.” He leaned down and nudged her with his shoulder.

  She looked up again. “About what?”

  “Hanging around to hear you play. I really did that.”

  Her eyebrows pushed together, as if she didn’t believe him.

  “I wouldn’t lie to you. Promise.”

  She studied him for another breath and then nodded.

  What did she see when she looked at him? The cocky King-of-the-Slopes guy who’d somehow decided that the world crumbled at his feet? Surely she knew there was more. Just as he knew—felt—there was more to her than Arctic winds and a strict diet.

  Urgency clawed in his chest, which spiraled confusion in his brain. He couldn’t define why it was suddenly so important that she know he wasn’t the shallow, self-obsessed man he’d been in front of all of the crowds all those years ago. Or worse, why he needed to know what lay underneath her blustery facade.

  But not knowing why didn’t deter the need.

  Brock elbowed her, tipping his head as if they were two teenagers whispering in study hall. “Your turn.”

  “My turn for what?”

  “A secret. I told you one. Now it’s your turn.”

  Tossing her hair, which had dried, over her shoulder, she snorted. “You’re cute.”

  “Thanks. But I wasn’t kidding.” He held her car keys up and away, dangling them as if they were bait. “Come on…just one. It can be anything, like you secretly love hot dogs. Or you knew what that can of bug spray would do to your skin, but you really wanted to go swimming…”