She scans me without moving her head. “Knew I sized you right. And you smell a hell of a lot better too.”
I prop my feet up on the glass coffee table and cross my legs at the ankles. “You know how people have flashbacks?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“I’m having a flash forward, like, fifty years forward. It’s not a pretty picture.”
She laughs a little, then goes still and quiet again. After a second, she sighs and eases her head to my shoulder. Having her lean on me like this creates a bittersweet ache.
I reach across my body to cup her head. Stroke her cheek with my thumb. Her skin is so soft. Her hair even softer.
I lay my head back, tilt it to lean against hers, and drift to sleep.
My tingling arm wakes me. Natalie stirs, but only enough to shift to her side and curl her legs up so she fits on the sofa, using my thigh as a pillow.
I take a strand of her hair and wind it around my finger, over and over. For the millionth time over the last two years, I think about the day Evan died. Sometimes I’m still livid with him for being stupid that night. For putting his own needs ahead of Natalie’s. I spend an equal amount of time hating myself for not outing him and possibly preventing his death.
I try to take in every nuance of her profile. The twist of strawberry-blonde hair on the back of her head, the slope of her cheekbones, her little nose, her full lips. I let my thumb slide over her plump lower lip, remembering how it felt to kiss her—like a lightbulb popped in my chest.
What would she do if I kissed her awake? If I kept kissing her until she couldn’t breathe? What would happen if I got her into bed and made her feel alive again?
Movement in the open doorway draws my gaze. My captain, Ken Sorenson, is standing there, hands in the pockets of his uniform pants, a stern look on his face. He’s in his forties, fit, gruff, and all about tradition.
Nothing I do now will make him unsee this intimate situation. Rushing to look innocent will only make me look guilty as hell.
He stops in front of me, on the other side of the glass table, and one side of his mouth quirks up in a smirk, but he keeps his voice quiet. “Don’t you look comfortable?”
I’m suddenly aware of what I’m wearing, and heat creeps up my neck. I’m equally as quiet. “Hey, Cap.”
He eases to a seat in a chair on the opposite side of the table, rests his elbows on his knees, and looks at Natalie like a father would look at his daughter. “How’s she doing?”
I lift one shoulder. “Hanging tough.”
“She’s a lot like her old man that way.”
“I didn’t realize you knew him.”
“I was a probie when he died. Good man. Any word on Betsy?”
“Not yet.”
His gaze lowers to Natalie again. “You’re in a tough spot, kid. I feel for you.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Your best friend’s wife? A firefighter’s widow?” He shakes his head.
“All due respect, Cap, that’s bullshit. Evan’s been dead two years. If she wants to see a firefighter, she should be able to. It’s a free fucking country. Besides, there’s nothing happening here but friendship. Am I going to get judged for that too? If I support her, I’m a poacher. If I don’t, I’m heartless. I can’t fucking win.”
“Chill, kid,” Sorenson says. “I, personally, don’t think there’s anything wrong with you two being together, but I can tell you right now, it will be a problem as you try to promote.”
I blow out a breath and shake my head. “That’s so stupid.”
“Look, loyalty and honor are part and parcel of this profession. They’re the lifeblood of the fire service. It’s how we can trust each other with our lives, and it’s what you signed up for. It’s also a requirement to manage your future employees effectively. Without respect and trust between a captain and his crew there’s dissension, morale issues, other unsavory behavior. How can the brass promote you if they’re worried about how you’re perceived by your coworkers?”
I want to say if everyone got their heads out of their asses, none of this would be an issue. But I can’t lie; promotion is a shiny object that captivates me, and I’m not going to get there by annoying the upper echelon.
“You’re on everyone’s radar,” Sorenson says. “Seen by the brass as a real nugget in the rough. You’ve got a great future in the fire service ahead of you. All I’m saying is watch how you play your hand.”
Nugget is a term used in the fire service for a family member of someone in management, also known as brass, or someone who has the potential to become brass.
Sorenson pushes to his feet. “She’ll always be one of us. Let us know if she needs anything. I’ll have the guys bring your truck here and leave Natalie’s car at her house. My suggestion: take her home and let her go. It’s the best thing you can do for everyone involved.”
I watch the captain leave with frustration festering inside me. And maybe some heartache too. One thing is for sure, Natalie would be worth all the trouble it would take to get her. The problem is, she doesn’t want to be gotten. At least not by a firefighter. And I can’t say I blame her.
5
Natalie
I’m floating in and out of sleep when I hear, “I’m looking for Natalie Ryan.”
I force my eyes open and swivel to a sitting position, still a little wobbly. “I’m Natalie. How’s my mom?”
The doctor is in his forties, his features angular and severe. He takes the seat across from me and Cole. “She’s all done. She tolerated the procedure well. As Dr. Davenport said, her burns are a combination of second and third degree. She has a long road ahead of her. There won’t be anything easy about the next year, but with time and physical therapy, there’s no reason she can’t live a reasonably full life.”
“Reasonably full?” I ask.
Cole lays his hand on my back and slides it up, under my hair where it rests on my neck, warm and reassuring.
“The burns on her hand and wrist are deep and traverse several joints,” the doctor says. “Even with skin grafts, the scar tissue will be thick and tight. So she won’t be playing Mozart on a baby grand, but she should eventually recover enough movement and strength to do most things.”
I let out a breath, relieved, but still traumatized. “How is her pain?”
“Minimal at the moment. Third-degree burns kill nerve endings, so she doesn’t feel those. The second-degree burns will be painful when the medications wear off. But we’ve got a pharmaceutical cocktail of sorts to address the majority of the nerve pain.”
“That sounds awful. No offense.”
“None taken. The truth is, burns are miserable.”
Misery all around. My heart hurts with every beat. “What’s next?”
“As soon as we find a bed, she’ll go to one of the regular floors. We’ll keep her pain under control and continue the course of rehydration. We’ll contact Legacy to discuss whether or not she’ll need to be transferred there. Either way, skin grafts will be the next step toward helping her heal for the long term. Even after she comes out of anesthesia today, she’ll be sleeping. I suggest you head home, get some decent sleep, and come back in the morning when she’s awake.”