Page 11 of Where It All Began
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. Sheneededthis. 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,Idon’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, butno! I’m stuck here withyou,the plodding, disinterested, stuck-in-the-1950s farmer! Do you think Ienjoybeing 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.
