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

by Jennifer Rodewald

  “Wait.” He stopped her retreat with a hand on hers. “Where are you going?”

  “Back.”

  “Why the hurry?”

  Was he setting a play now? After he’d completely insulted her the night before? She stared at him.

  “Come on. You need some fresh air.” His hand still on hers, he tugged until she took a step toward him.

  “Where is everyone?”

  He led her out the back door he’d sneaked through, holding it until Cheryl hit the outdoors. “Ethan and Brandi have the kids out on a hike. It’s my morning off.”

  Bet Nana knew that too. “What do you do with your morning off?”

  “Fish.”

  Ew. “Uh, no thanks.”

  “You need to chill, girl.” He paused, flashing a thoughtful look her way. “Actually, no. You need to warm up. Sunshine would help.”

  Did this seriously work for him? “Your version of humor isn’t really funny.”

  He shrugged as they reached the corner of the lodge closest to Gramps’s old cabin. His gear waited, a long pole leaning up against the building and a tackle vest lying on the ground.

  “Come on. What’s the worst that could happen? You’ll get a tan from real rays, and I can tell Ethan that his pathetic attempt at a setup was tried and proved to be a sad failure.”

  “I think this was Nana’s doing.”

  One corner of his mouth lifted. With raised brows, he tipped his head in the direction of the pond.

  Cheryl sighed. “Fine. Let me grab my sunglasses.” And bug spray.

  Brock nodded and reached for his gear. Catching his smirk, Cheryl wondered if he’d been in on the scheme as well.

  Fishing indeed.

  ~10~

  Figure that. She said yes. And what was he thinking asking her, anyway? Fishing was supposed to be relaxing. Having Cheryl the winter-storm-of-the-century along would certainly be anything but.

  Brock inhaled, long and deep. Nana was some kind of nuts, even without the dementia at work. Who in their right—or alternative mind—would pair him with Cheryl Thompson? Rubbing the back of his neck, he looked back up to the car she’d driven, where she was dousing herself with spray.

  Ha. That was a quick one-eighty. Brock chuckled. Guess little miss know-it-all didn’t know everything. He set his fishing gear down on the dock and walked over to the fire pit. She’d probably appreciate a chair. Not that he expected her to stay long. But maybe a little sit in the sunshine would do her some good. And then, when Ethan asked, because he was definitely in on this scheme, Brock could say, She just sat there for ten minutes and then left. End of story.

  He lifted one of the Adirondacks and walked it over to the dock. Placing it on the back left, opposite side of his casting arm, he stood upright and watched Cheryl walk down the path toward him.

  She was pretty. Dark hair hanging loose to dance in the mountain breeze. Eyes the color of the wild blue geraniums that grew along the hiking paths.

  Pretty, yes. She knew it too. He’d seen her in E’s car the other night, preening like a cat after she’d caught him looking at her. Like she knew exactly what he was thinking. He hadn’t been thinking any of those lustful thoughts she’d obviously assumed were going through his head. He’d been wondering why she left and never looked back.

  Cheryl stepped onto the dock, bringing with her a spray bottle and a heavy scent of Deet.

  “So you believe me about the mosquitoes, do you?”

  She dropped onto the chair. “They ate me alive the other night. Not fun.”

  “Tried to warn you. What did you use? You stink.”

  Her eyebrows lifted. “Just what you said: bug spray.”

  “Huh. Guess you mean to keep every insect away within a two-mile radius.”

  “Exactly.”

  Brock shrugged out of his hoodie, slid his vest over his T-shirt, and pulled his pole upright. After he selected a fly that hopefully matched the latest hatch, he tugged the end of the line loose.

  “You want a go at this?” He spoke without looking at her.

  “Fishing?”

  He nodded.

  “No. My dad took me once, when I was little. Said every fisherman had to bait their own hook. Not my thing.”

  “Let me guess—you used worms.” He looked over his shoulder at her.

  She wrinkled her nose. “Never again.”

  He turned back to the hook he was working on. “Well, if you change your mind, I use flies—the fake kind. I tie them myself.”

  Silence.

  She wasn’t really thinking about it, was she? Me and my big mouth.

  Brock glanced back to her. She sat on the edge of her chair, rubbing both arms.

  “You okay?”

  Her attention snapped to him. “Yeah. These stupid bites are really annoying. I think the bug spray may have made it worse.”

  “Don’t scratch them.”

  She dropped her hands and leaned back against the chair. “Okay, smart guy. I do know some things.”

  Clearly. He finished with the fly and shimmied the pole until he cradled the handle in his palm. “Sure you don’t want a try?” Why was he still offering?!

  “Definitely sure.”

  Good. Feeding the line, he began the rhythmic swings, casting like Gramps had taught him when he was a boy. He completed the first set and began jigging the line with a delicate touch, when Cheryl started fidgeting again.

  He didn’t even look. “Don’t do it. It’ll get worse.”

  She kept moving—he could hear her squirming against the wood of the chair.

  “You’ll scar.”

  “Oh my gosh!” Her howl punctured the air.

  “Cheryl! You’ll scare the fi—” Brock glanced back and froze.

  Cheryl stood—no, danced on the dock in front of her chair, her arms flailing around as she moved to brush at every exposed part of her skin. She’d worn jeans, but her tank top left plenty of surface area to cover.

  “Are you okay?”

  She continued to wiggle, moving like she was desperate to get away from an invisible attack. “My skin is on fire!”

  Brock set down his pole and moved toward her dance floor. The bottle of bug spray she’d used sat on the arm of her chair next to her phone. He grabbed it, reading the label.

  “Good grief, kid. Where did you get this?”

  “Harvey, at Outdoor Adventures.”

  “You might as well dump lighter fluid on your skin.”

  She locked her eyes on him, a mixture of anger and tears in her eyes. “You said to use bug spray.”

  “My bug spray. Not this.” He looked her over again. Fiery red streaks smattered her arms like graffiti. “You’re probably allergic.”

  Her hands continued to rub at her shoulders, neck, and arms. Though her lips pressed tight together, a throaty noise—something like a muffled scream—escaped.

  The red on her skin kept darkening, spreading.

  Brock glanced around, his eyes settling on the water gently lapping against the dock. He’d never hear the end of it, but maybe if he went in with her…

  Did it even matter?

  Decision made, he wrapped her in a bear hug, and though she fought against him for the two backward steps it took for him to reach the edge of the dock, he held tight and launched off of the wood landing.

  The cold water hit like a jolt of ice, and he let go of her as soon as they were submerged. When he surfaced, she was already flailing at the top, gasping for air.

  She remembered how to swim, right?

  Two strong strokes and he was right next to her again.

  “Don’t touch me, you jerk.” She shoved water at his face.

  “Can you swim?”

  She calmed her fight against the water. “Yes, I can swim,” she snapped.

  He kicked away from her. “Good. Get that junk off of your arms and neck before you get out.”

  After reaching the dock, he hooked both palms on the wood surface and launched upward, lifting hi
mself out of the cold water.

  Man, wet jeans were heavy. And his tackle vest? He’d have to empty it completely to make sure nothing rusted—which the tack probably would anyway—and it would take hours to dry it out.

  He kicked his sopping shoes off by his pole and finished reeling in the line. Fishing. With Cheryl. Great idea.

  Her hands appeared over the edge of the dock, and a feminine grunt accompanied the noise of splashing water. The top of her head bobbed up and then fell, followed by another telling splash.

  Brock snorted.

  She tried again. Small squeak of a grunt, glimpse of her dark hair, and then a splash.

  He laughed.

  “Shut up.” Her voice darted from the surface of the water.

  “Do you need help?”

  No response.

  With his wet pant legs rustling against themselves, Brock moved to the edge of the dock and squatted. Cheryl glared up at him. He couldn’t help but smirk.

  “We tell the kids that we say help please when we need something.”

  She continued to shoot flares of indignant hatred from her eyes.

  “Okay. Well then, good luck.” He began to stand.

  “Get me out of here.”

  Eyebrows raised, he looked back at her. “What was that?”

  Her lips trembled.

  “Are you crying?”

  “No. It’s cold.”

  That was true. Mountain ponds never warmed up much, and it was only the end of May. They could still get snow.

  “Would you like out?”

  “Brock!”

  “Ask nicely.”

  She looked away, swallowed, and looked back at him. “Please get me out.” Every word was ground out like it was pure torture.

  He moved to kneel on the dock and reached for her arms. With a secure grip, he lifted, coming to his feet as she emerged from the water. Once her feet were secure on the dock, he let go and turned away.

  Interesting catch.

  Probably his only catch of the day. Fish weren’t going to be biting for a while, not after that ruckus.

  He ran a hand through his hair, shaking out the water, before he began gathering his gear. A quick glance back told him Cheryl hadn’t moved. He stood again, hands on his hips, ready to lecture her for being such a brat.

  Her arms wrapped tight around her body, she stood dripping wet and shivering.

  “Hey. You okay?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Cheryl, did you get hurt?”

  She shook her head. “I hate being cold.”

  Something in her voice caught his heart. It was almost like a call for help—not just for that moment, but for something deeper. An ice princess who hated being cold. Maybe there was more to that…

  Brock looked around, and his attention landed on the sweatshirt he’d shed before he’d put on his fishing vest. The zip-up hoodie wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. He snagged it, draped it over her shoulders, and began rubbing her arms.

  She continued to shiver under his hands. Without thinking, he pulled her against his chest, wrapping his arms around her. Though she remained stiff, she didn’t push away.

  Suddenly he remembered how pretty she was. Those geranium-colored eyes. The wavy dark hair that now hung down her back, rivulets of water racing down the glossy strands. And if she smiled…

  What a dumb thing to think about.

  He stepped back, moving his hands to her shoulders. “Better?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the stinging…did you get all the bug spray off?”

  “Yes.” She shivered again.

  It was pretty chilly standing there dripping wet. Dry clothes would help.

  “Come on. I’ve got some sweatpants that have a drawstring. Unless you’d rather stay in your soaked jeans?”

  She shook her head and moved beside him.

  He couldn’t resist pulling her under one arm. Just to keep her warm.

  ~*~

  Brock had given her a towel and led her to his spare bedroom. Cheryl stood in the middle near the bed, shivering while she waited for him to reappear with some dry clothes. So awkward.

  She couldn’t quell the trembling. Cold, yes. But the chill was more than physical. Brock saw her…into the deep places. She could feel it, and the sensation terrified her.

  “So, you’ll need to cinch them up tight.” Brock’s voice came from just outside the door before he reappeared in the bedroom. “They’re bound to cause some embarrassment if you don’t. Fall right off your malnourished little self.”

  Heat penetrated her cold cheeks. Brock grinned, letting her know that he could see her blush, and winked.

  “I am not malnourished.”

  He scanned her body, head to toe, and raised his eyebrows. “You could definitely use some more hot dogs.” That ornery smirk of his poked a dimple into his cheek.

  “Why do you care what I eat?”

  “Why are you so easily provoked?”

  Cheryl glared and held out a hand, which quivered.

  He didn’t pass her the clothes. “You’re really freezing, aren’t you?”

  “That pond isn’t exactly a hot spring.”

  “No. It isn’t. Why don’t you hop in the shower? I’ve got to head over to the lodge, so feel free to take all the hot water you want.”

  Cheryl imagined the conversation with Nana later, starting with Nana asking why she came home in Brock’s sweats. Add a hot shower at his place into that dialog. That’d be perfect. Of course, Nana had started this whole disastrous affair. Hot rolls indeed.

  “I just need dry clothes.”

  Brock shrugged, tossing the sweats onto the bed. “Suit yourself, stubborn.” He turned and moved out the door, talking as he went. “There’s always hot coffee at the lodge when you’re ready. Or not. Whatever, Sherbert.”

  “That’s not my name.”

  His chuckle reached her hearing as he continued away from the room.

  Infuriating man.

  She ripped the towel from her shoulders, tossing it to the floor as she moved to smack the door shut. Her fingers found the button of her jeans, and she began peeling the wet denim from her soaked body. Hopping on one foot with the waistband wrapped around her knees, she tugged the skinny opening over her foot. The heavy fabric folded over on itself and stuck.

  “Dang it,” she mumbled. “Come off.” She gave it another strong tug and thought the fabric gave. It was too late before she realized that she wasn’t free of the wet captivity, and as she attempted to set her foot down, the rumpled legs of her pants caught on the waistband.

  “No, no, no!” Her arms whipped the air like a pair of windmills, but she couldn’t regain her balance. Crashing to the floor, she landed on her hip and groaned in pure irritation.

  Tapping sounded on the bedroom door. “You okay in there?”

  She looked up from her sprawled-out position on the floor and speared her side of the door with a look as if she could see the man on the other side. “I thought you went to the lodge.”

  “So you’re good?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Okeydokey, Sherbert. I’m going now. Try not to destroy my house.”

  “Brock, you idiot.”

  His laughter came loud and clear through the door. “I’m not the one falling all over the place. Good luck, kid.”

  “You’re so irritating!”

  His chuckle moved away from the door and grew fainter as he left the house. Was it possible for this day to get worse?

  She stayed on the floor to tug her legs free of the jeans. Gooseflesh rippled over her body, and she shivered again. The report of the front door opening and closing signaled Brock’s departure. The house was hers alone. That hot shower sounded better and better with every passing moment. She snatched the towel lying limp on the floor, stood on her bare legs, and wrapped the damp terrycloth around herself. Cracking the door, she peeked through the opening, just to double-check. The hall stood empty. After an
other check both ways, Cheryl darted from the bedroom to the only bathroom in the house, through the door across from hers.

  She secured the lock and spun to face the shower. Laid out on the vanity to her right was a fresh towel, a small bar of red-and-white striped soap, and a note.

  Take your time, Sherbert.

  Why did he insist on calling her that?

  She flicked the note aside and grasped the small round soap, bringing it to her nose. The zesty aroma of cranberries filled her senses. With her eyes closed, she inhaled again.

  Why did Brock have a girly bar of smelly soap in his house? Weird.

  She’d ask him. Right after a long, hot shower.

  ~11~

  Brock set the last of his fishing tackle on the picnic table, which was currently bathed in sunshine. Hopefully, it’d all dry quickly and he wouldn’t have to be irritated with Cheryl about ruining his gear.

  He wouldn’t be irritated with her either way, and he knew it.

  Man, though, that woman was one long run of bad mood. He’d never known her to be such a snippety grump when they were in high school. Actually, he remembered thinking she was kind of sweet…

  He rubbed his forehead and turned toward the lodge. Cheryl had already occupied too much of his day. He didn’t need to give her real estate in his mind on top of the messed-up morning they’d just shared. His one day off, and she showed up. Thanks for that, Ethan.

  Stepping from his deck, Brock moved toward the lodge. His progress stalled when he came to Cheryl’s car. It leaned at a telling lopsided angle. He wandered to the rear passenger side and looked down. Yep. Flat. He couldn’t stop the growl that rumbled his chest.

  Coffee first. And lunch. He rubbed his neck and blew out a breath. Changing a tire wasn’t that big of a deal.

  Cheryl would cross her arms and scowl. That’d be fun.

  Maybe if he made her some lunch—something other than hot dogs—it would soften the inconvenience and she’d take it better.

  With his mind set on a plan, he finished his trek to the kitchen. The scent of fresh rolls greeted him, and some of the tension in his shoulders drained. Bread, cheese, and oranges. Surely she’d be good with that menu. Maybe she’d even say thank you.

  He wouldn’t count on it.