Chapter Six
He wasn’t exactly gentle when he put the bandages on her, but he didn’t slap them in place either. And maybe he did take a little extra time smoothing the adhesive down, but that was more to annoy her than it was to enjoy the spark of awareness he felt every time he touched her.
“If I were Man Allen, would you be bandaging me up?” Phoebe demanded. She swung her legs impatiently from her perch on top of the table.
He raised his gaze from her palms to her face. She was annoyed. Good. So was he. “Man Allen probably wouldn’t fuss about it nearly as much as you are.” John tightened the lid on the mercurochrome and boxed up the unused bandages.
“I’m not fussing!”
“Now you’re pouting,” he pointed out, and before he knew what he was doing, he’d flicked a finger over her lower lip, which was most definitely protruding.
It felt like the kind of static shock from wearing thick socks on carpet in the winter. A discharge of energy, a spark. Whatever it was, they both felt it. John took a quick step back and busied himself with his meager first aid supplies.
Phoebe remained—thankfully—quiet. She looked down at his handiwork on her palms but said nothing.
He cursed himself. Being attracted to Phoebe was not part of the plan. In fact, it was the worst thing he could do. He didn’t want to be sharing his home, his farm, his days with anyone. And the sooner Phoebe gave up and packed up, the sooner he could get back to his life just the way he liked it. Wanting her was out of the question.
He shoved the bandages and supplies back in the cabinet and looked at the clock on the wall. “Might as well have lunch while we’re in here.”
Phoebe slid off the table, suspiciously subdued. “Can I help?”
“If you promise not to get any blister pus in the sandwiches.”
She blinked those wide eyes at him. “I’m sorry. Did you just make a joke?” She took four slices of bread from the loaf on the counter.
John handed her two plates and opened the refrigerator. “No. I really don’t want you to get pus in my sandwich.”
“Is it because you aren’t around people very often that you don’t know how to be funny?” she asked.
“I like being alone. There’s no pressure to be anything other than what I am,” he said pointedly.
“And what does my presence pressure you to be?” she asked, accepting the sliced turkey and American cheese he handed her.
“A babysitter,” he said, before he thought better. “A host.” A polite human being who wears pants in the house even at night, he added silently.
Her full lips curved at their corners. “Mayo or mustard?” she asked.
He reached over her, careful not to touch her again and retrieved two glasses from the cabinet above her. “Both.” She was too pretty for his liking. He didn’t want to be attracted to her. She’d gathered her hair in a braid that hung down her back. Her jeans fit her a little too well around the hips and her shapely ass. Her t-shirt said Culture Club across the chest and accentuated all the right curves. He tried to focus on the words rather than what was under the cotton. Culture Club was probably some ridiculous philosophical, question-asking society at Penn State. A club designed to pick apart human beings and sort them into categories, John decided. Phoebe was probably president.
She opened drawers until she found his pitiful selection of utensils and pulled out a knife.
With Phoebe rummaging around his home, it was becoming painfully obvious that he really needed to take care of some basic shopping for the house. Something he’d put off because what did he care if he only had one set of sheets, three mismatched towels and a handful of forks? It was another thing to add to the list of things he resented about her. Her presence was a constant reminder of just how far behind he was in making his house a home.
“Do you ever answer any question with more than one syllable?” she asked conversationally as she slathered the bread with mayonnaise.
“Do you ever do anything besides ask questions?”
She leveled a frosty look at him and set the knife down with a clatter. “I would like to be writing my thesis, but it’s a little difficult without answers!”
“I don’t know what you want from me.”
“Answers, John. I want answers. Real ones. Not just ‘yes, no, because.’”
So, there was a temper in there in addition to mule-headed stubbornness, John noted. It was a combination that should be off-putting to him. He didn’t like temperamental, pushy women. And that was exactly what Phoebe was. Lecturing him in his own kitchen after he was nice enough to let her stay? He didn’t go for drama, not in entertainment and certainly not in women.
And yet, as he watched her fume her way around the room muttering about obstinate men, he wondered why he was entertaining the idea of putting his hands on her and kissing her until she finally shut up.
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It took eight days before Phoebe broke. Eight days of weeding, shoveling, mowing, painting, fixing, cleaning, scooping, and one-word answers before she cracked like a piñata at a 5-year-old’s birthday party.
Getting answers out of John Pierce was like trying to pick a deadbolt with a toothpick. And she was getting tired of the splinters.
Phoebe had tried everything. Softening him up with meals, giving him what she deemed an appropriate amount of quiet time, leading with softball questions that she already knew the answers to. Nothing. Worked.
Prying more than a one- or two-word answer from John’s mouth was impossible. It seemed the longer she was there, the quieter he became. And it was driving her in-freaking-sane.
She had so much riding on him. She needed this. The desperation was palpable. Her family was counting on her graduating this summer. There was no money for another semester of school, and it was time for her to repay the support her parents had so generously given her. It was her turn to make a difference in their lives.
She and John had finished up in the fields a little early today. The beautiful summer day offered up baby blue skies, cotton ball clouds, and absolutely no helpful conversation with John. After a shower and a change of clothes, Phoebe settled in at her typewriter with the scant notes she’d taken since her arrival. Every morning she woke confident that today would be the day she found a way over or around John’s walls. And every night she went to bed frustrated.
They didn’t have to be friends, damn it. She just needed him to help her out. What was so hard about talking to her?
The longer she stared at her notes, the higher her temper spiked.
And when John waltzed in—walked really, but she was annoyed enough to see only condescension in his stride—her fingers tightened on the pencil she held until she heard the crack.
He opened the fridge and grabbed a beer. “You want one?” he offered.
“No. Thank you,” she said coolly.
“Something wrong?” he asked, leaning against the counter obnoxiously amused.
She pushed her chair away from the table and stood slowly. She’d give him one last chance. One last chance to redeem himself before she murdered him on the spot with his own beer bottle. “Why did you decide to let the field east of the woods go fallow?”
He leveled her a look that transmitted his annoyance loud and clear. “Felt like it.”
And so began her rampage.
“Okay, that’s it!” She closed the distance between them carried by temper. “What. Is. Your. Damage?” She drilled a finger into his chest—a solid wall of muscle—to accentuate every word.
“My damage?” He looked baffled.
“What is wrong with you? Are you incapable of communicating with other human beings? Do you hate having a woman under your roof that much, or is it just me that you can’t stand?”
“Where is this coming from?” he asked, setting his beer down on the counter with reluctance.
“Oh, I don’t know!” Phoebe threw her arms up in the air. “Maybe it’s coming from the fact that you said I could stay. You knew what I needed. You are the reason I’m here, and you’re treating me like I have leprosy.”
“Do you have to argue about everything?” John asked, rubbing his fingers over his brow. His calm tone shoved Phoebe even further over the edge.
“Do you have to automatically dismiss everything I have to say?” Her voice was a full octave higher than usual, and at this point, she didn’t give a damn. “I was invited here, then I had to beg you to let me stay. I could have spent the summer with my family or somewhere I’d be welcome, but no! I’m stuck here with you, the plodding, disinterested, stuck-in-the-1950s farmer! Do you think I enjoy being in a place where I’m not wanted? In a position of needing something from someone who obviously can’t stand having me around? Do you think I like that?”
“Um. No?” John ventured.
“You’re damn right no!” Phoebe glared at him until her vision turned red. She let out a groan of exasperation. If she didn’t get out of this house right now, she was going to burn it down with him in it and not feel a lick of guilt as she merrily roasted marshmallows over his charcoaled corpse.
She stormed out of the kitchen and down the hallway. Her purse and car keys were on the rickety table just inside the door. She snatched them up and yanked open the front door.
“Phoebe, hang on,” John called after her.
Her only response to him was a middle finger over her shoulder a second before she slammed the door behind her.
Phoebe stormed off the porch and slid behind the wheel of her Triumph. She took a tiny bit of pleasure at sending gravel flying as she tore down the lane. John Pierce wasn’t the only one who could behave like a manner-less asshole.
She turned the wheel toward Blue Moon and let the late afternoon soak into her, hoping it would bake the anger out of her. God, she just needed a break to figure him out. She could crack him. She knew she could. She just hadn’t found the right approach yet. Of course, screaming like a banshee at the man in his own kitchen probably wasn’t her best choice, but he’d deserved it. The lout.
Phoebe reached over and cranked up her radio. This was nothing some good tunes and summer sunshine couldn’t cure. And if that didn’t work, she’d do a little shopping in town. And then when she got back to the farm…
Shit. She didn’t have a key. He’d never offered her one, and though she wasn’t sure John even locked his doors, what would she do if he locked her out? What if he’d just been pushing her to get her out?
“Damn it,” she muttered to herself. If this was it in her relationship with John, her thesis was toast. Which meant she wouldn’t be graduating in August. She’d need to track down another first-generation farmer and spend another semester researching, writing, polishing. By the time she graduated, the research stations position with the PA Department of Agriculture would have gone to someone else and her parents’ house would be in foreclosure.
She could kiss her best laid plans good-bye if something didn’t magically change in the next thirty minutes.
She turned onto Main Street and pulled into a parking space in front of a sprawling tri-level brick building. The sign said McCafferty’s Farm Supply. She got out of the car and studied her options. She was in no mental state to browse farm supplies. The bakery was tempting as always, but it was the pay phone in the park that pulled her. She desperately needed to hear a friendly voice.
Phoebe emptied her change purse and fed the requisite quarters into the phone. It rang twice before Phoebe was rewarded with her sister’s cheerful greeting.
“Hey, Rose.”
“Oh, man. What’s wrong?” her sister demanded.
Phoebe smiled even as her eyes filled with tears. “I miss you. Is that a crime?”
“No seriously, what’s going on? How’s the whole farm thing going?”
“It’s like not going at all,” Phoebe confessed. “I can’t crack this guy. And I need this—we need this—so bad. I’m feeling desperate.”
Her sister hmm-ed on her end. “What are you going to do?” Rose knew better than to offer Phoebe advice. They both were well-aware of the fact that Phoebe was the headstrong one, the sister who jumped first and worried about consequences after the fact. The sister who ignored well-meaning advice like it was background noise.
“I don’t know. I basically just screamed at him and drove off in a childish but very satisfying temper tantrum.” Phoebe rested her head on the foggy plastic surrounding the phone. “How’s Dad doing?” she asked, changing the subject.
“The doctors seem pleased with his progress. But, as we guessed, going back to work is out of the question. I honestly don’t see him ever going back.” Phoebe could picture Rose sitting on the stool in her kitchen twirling the phone cord around her finger.
“What’s Mom doing for money?”
“She picked up another cleaning job. I got a part-time gig at a restaurant downtown across from the office. We’re getting by.”
Phoebe drummed her fingers on the shelf under the phone. “I promise you, the second I graduate, every cent I have is going to pay off that medical debt.”
“You focus on your thesis and graduation. We’ve got this for now,” Rose promised her.
Phoebe would. And she’d do whatever it took to graduate on time and start supporting her family the way they’d supported her. “It just sucks that you had to get a second job.”
She could hear Rose’s shrug. “Eh, it’s not so bad. Keeps me from having to move back in with Mom and Dad, and I met a guy at the restaurant.”
Phoebe perked up. Rose was famously picky when it came to men. “What’s his name? How did you meet him? What’s he like?”
“Is this how you’re interrogating your farmer because I think you’re doing it wrong,” Rose quipped.
“Ugh. Just tell me about the guy.”
“His name is Melvin, and he’s an auditor. And I don’t want to say any more and jinx it, so I’m changing the subject. Have you broken the news to Mom and Dad that you’re staying with a hot single man all by your virginal self this summer?”
“First off, I’m no more a virgin than you are, and secondly, God, no! They’d have had a cow and never would have let me if they’d known.”
“Where do they think you are?”
“I’m on a family farm,” Phoebe insisted. The crux of her lie relied on not expanding on how large or small that family was. “Technically it’s their fault for not asking more questions.”
“Yeah, let me know how that defense holds up,” Rose snorted.
“How is the subject ever going to come up unless my smartass sister starts making comments?”
“You keep your mouth shut about Melvin, and I’ll keep mine shut about your summer of debauchery.”
“There’s no debauching going on,” Phoebe insisted. She’d made the mistake of mentioning John’s ridiculous physical appeal in the letter she’d sent describing her summer plans. “He’s gorgeous and sexy and manly, but his personality—or more specifically the distinct lack thereof—is a Big. Fat. Nope.”
Rose sighed into the phone. “That’s a shame. Your summer would be a lot more fun with some action with hot farmer.”
“Yeah, well it would be a lot more productive if hot farmer was capable of more than one or two syllables at a time.”
“Crap,” Rose announced. “I gotta go. I have a perm appointment. Talk in a couple days?”
“Yeah. I miss you, Ro. And I promise as soon as I graduate, I’m taking the burden off you.”
“We’re family. It’s what we do,” Rose said. “Go wear down your farmer.”
“Go perm your hair.”
Phoebe hung up, feeling a mix of determination and dread. She wouldn’t let her family down, and she wouldn’t let a stubborn, jerky farmer stand in her way either. She just needed a plan. She looked around the square, returning the friendly wave of a family of four wandering the downtown with ice cream cones. The two little girls wore matching handmade fringed vests.
Maybe soaking up some of the local culture would give her an idea on how best to crack John Pierce like the idiotic egg he was.