“I shouldn’t have assumed you couldn’t do your own gardening,” she said, her blue eyes meeting his. “I don’t like when people assume things about me.”
He sighed and glanced out the front window toward the yard. “Honestly, your assumption wasn’t far off. It would be a pain in the ass to get on the ground and garden, but I’m not looking for help.”
She rolled her lips together and nodded. “Got it.”
“I’m not giving the brownies back, though.” He put his hand on the platter. “They’re mine now, and you can’t have them.”
She laughed, and the sound ran straight down his spine, warming his bones. “No worries. I made some for myself, too.” She glanced at his cookbooks again. “So, if you aren’t with the fire department anymore, do you do a different job now?”
The question instantly splashed cold water on his mood. The thought of telling this sexy, vibrant woman that he was retired and on a disability pension and couldn’t seem to get himself to do anything useful made his stomach turn. He’d grown up with a dad who’d sat at home, zoned out on pills or booze, who claimed a shoulder injury prevented him from working even though it hadn’t prevented him from taking swings at his mom on a regular basis.
Hill knew his own injury had been very real, and the disability pension necessary, but at thirty-one, he hadn’t planned on that being the end of his working life. He couldn’t be a firefighter, but he was capable of other things—theoretically. But he’d made no headway on making something new happen. The fact that he was still without a job or a purpose two years in because of this fucking depression was his worst nightmare coming home to roost. He missed the pride of being able to tell someone he was a firefighter. He missed feeling like he was doing some good in the world. He missed cooking for his crew and feeling useful. But in this moment, what he missed most was the way women used to look at him like he was a possibility.
He shifted on the couch. “I own a couple of properties that I rent out, so I spend some time taking care of that.” Part truth. He did own a few properties with his aunt and uncle, the people who’d raised him, but they had a management company handle the logistics. So it was income but not an actual job. “And a friend of mine thought I should try to write a cookbook, but I think knowing how to cook and writing about cooking are two different skill sets. So I’m kind of in the exploratory career phase again.”
Andi nodded, a pensive look on her face. “That sounds both exciting and terrifying.”
He scoffed. “Exciting?”
She shrugged. “Maybe that’s not the right word, but figuring out what you want to do when you grow up is kind of two-sided, right? Terrifying because—holy crap, grown-up life choices. But on the other hand, you get to choose again, like a redo. Poof, new path.” She moved her hands like she was casting a spell. “I work at this coworking space a few blocks from here—WorkAround—and it’s full of people figuring out what they want to do with their lives on their own terms. Lots of them have tried a number of jobs or businesses and haven’t quite landed on the One yet, but that’s okay. Maybe there isn’t a One. Maybe there’s a Two or a Three. Or maybe we’re meant to do a series of things in life.”
“You believe that?”
“I think so. I mean, I love being a writer and I love podcasting right now, but who’s to say that in ten years I’ll still love it? Maybe I’ll want to do something completely different then.” She sniffed. “My parents think the whole concept is complete bullshit—very millennial/Gen Z of me, you know? Why can’t I go and get a nine-to-five and a steady paycheck? And I get where they’re coming from, but they don’t see what I see at WorkAround. You can feel the energy of the place when you walk around. It’s like we’re all running our little life experiments. How cool is that?”
She was rambling again, but he found himself leaning in. “You do sound exceptionally millennial.”
She grinned, looking not at all offended. “At the risk of sounding like an old hippie, life’s too short, man.”
“It definitely is.” A shudder went through him at that. He was exceptionally aware of how quickly life could be snuffed out. When that roof beam had come down on him in a fiery blaze, he’d thought his ticket had been pulled. He probably should be all Let’s take life by the horns now that he had gotten a second chance, but he couldn’t access that kind of enthusiasm. His enthusiasm well was bone dry. He wished he could just plug into Andi and channel one percent of that kind of energy for himself.
“Well,” she said, breaking him from his train of thought, “if you ever want to get some inspiration, I can give you a tour of WorkAround and introduce you to some people. Sometimes it helps hearing what other people are doing to spark some ideas in your own brain. I got the podcasting idea that way. And it’s not that far from here. Plus, they have a chef vlogger there. He may be able to brainstorm with you about the cookbook thing. There’s also a kitchen on-site that people rent out to do food photography or cooking videos or to host cooking classes. You might find that interesting.”
The invitation caught him off guard. “Wow, that sounds like an alien planet compared to the firehouse.”
She laughed. “It can be sometimes. There’s definitely a variety of characters there. But seriously, I could show you around.”
He didn’t know what the point would be. He’d never been the entrepreneurial type. After what he’d been through with his dad, he’d never considered anything but the most stable of careers. “Thanks. Maybe one day.”
She glanced at the clock on his side table, and he followed her gaze. Damn. He needed to be heading out for his lunch with Ramsey, but talking to Andi was like getting a taste of a drug. How long had it been since he’d had a conversation with someone who wasn’t focused on his injury or mental state? Who wasn’t calling or stopping by to check on how he was doing?
“It’s getting late,” she said, slapping her knees and standing up. “I better get going. I know you probably have things to do, and my book isn’t going to write itself. It’s lazy that way.”
He let out a breath, already mourning the loss of her company, and stood to follow her to the door. “Yeah, I have to head out to meet a friend. But thanks again for the brownies. You really didn’t need to go through that kind of trouble.”
She stopped at the door and turned to face him. “Not a problem. I enjoyed making them. My friends tell me my love language is baked goods.”
His eyebrows lifted.
She cringed. “And…that sounded weird.” She laughed self-consciously. “I just mean that I communicate in baked goods—usually purchased, not baked. I promise I’m not hitting on you.”