From Nowhere (Wildfire #2)

Chapter Five Maren

Chapter Five

Maren

I arrive at the restaurant fifteen minutes early, just before the clouds open into a downpour. There was no rain in the forecast, and the sun’s still partially shining beyond that one angry cloud.

The young hostess with a full head of beautiful black hair and a warm smile seats me by the front window so I can watch for Ozzy. After a glass of wine, the rain begins to let up, and a drenched man parks his bike by the lamppost.

“Oh god,” I whisper. It’s Ozzy.

Is he this much of a tree hugger?

As he turns, we make eye contact. His shoulders lift for a second before slinking into a heavy shrug. I hold up a finger, leave cash on the table for the wine, and step out the front door.

“I’m sorry,” he says, with water dripping down his face. His soaked jeans sag from the weight of it.

I try not to laugh, but it’s hard, so I cover my mouth and shake my head.

“I’m an idiot. I didn’t know it was going to rain.”

“No.” I drop my hand and clear my throat. “I think it was a pop-up shower. Can I take you home to change?”

“No.” He rubs his eyes and exhales. “If I go home, the date’s over. But maybe that’s for the best.”

“Why does it have to be over? Because your daughter is at home? Or are you allergic to rain?”

“Are you always a smart-ass?”

I smile. “Yes.”

He rubs his fingers over his lips to hide his smirk.

“No one’s at my place tonight. Why don’t we go there, and you can dry your clothes in my dryer?”

He squints. “How far is that?”

“A mile or so.”

He nods. “What’s the address?”

“Ozzy. I’ll give you a ride.”

“I’ll get your vehicle wet. Besides, riding might help me dry out. Except ...” He unzips his jacket and pulls out yellow wildflowers that are droopy and a little squished. “I had them in my hand, but when it started to rain, I had to shove them into my jacket, which, in hindsight, is stupid because flowers can get wet.” He hands them to me.

“You brought me flowers?” I reach for them. “No one’s ever ...” I pause, suddenly feeling vulnerable. “Given me flowers. Except when my brother died.”

Ozzy frowns. “Are you serious?”

Giving him a sheepish grin, I nod.

After a beat, he pulls a folded-up piece of paper from his pocket, but it’s stuck together. When he opens it, there’s nothing more than giant blotches of blue ink. “Uh, well, it was a note about the flowers. But I’ll just tell you, even though you probably already know.” He lifts his gaze. “They’re glacier lilies. After the snow melts, they are one of the first to bloom. And they are edible. But you don’t have to eat them.”

Flying gives me butterflies, the really good kind. No man has given me flowers or butterflies—until now.

“Oh!” He holds up a finger and smiles. “And I picked six for you because six is the smallest perfect number. The next perfect number is twenty-eight, but I stuck to a more manageable number and ethical harvesting.”

I’m speechless.

“So”—he clasps his hands behind his back—“I’ll follow you home?”

I shake it off, this surreal feeling. “Um, I’ll text it to you so you have it in case I don’t drive slow enough and I lose you.” I send him my address.

“What about dinner?” he asks.

“Pizza delivery?” I suggest.

Ozzy nods. “I’ll order it. What do you want on it?”

“I’ll eat anything.”

“Every man’s favorite line,” he says.

I dig my key fob from my purse and pause when his words register.

A shit-eating grin spreads across his face. “Sorry. Too soon?”

I roll my eyes. “See you in a bit. Try to keep up.”

“Don’t worry about that,” he says with a wink while bringing his phone to his ear.

I chuckle, walking toward my RAV.

After parking in the driveway, I run into the house, deposit the flowers in a mason jar (since I don’t own a vase), and ensure everything is picked up in my room. Will he be in my room? I don’t know, but a girl should be prepared.

While I’m shoving the last of my dirty clothes into the white wicker hamper, there’s a knock at the door. “Coming!” I steal sweatpants and a T-shirt from Will’s room and jog down the stairs to open the door.

Ozzy’s bent over, untying his black boots on the porch. “Do you want me to strip?”

“Uh ...” My tongue swipes along my lower lip.

Yes. I absolutely want you to strip for me.

Loosening the laces to his other boot, he glances up at me. “ Should I strip? God, you’re such a perv.”

“Stop!” I cup a hand over my mouth and laugh. “You’re obnoxious. Just go.” I point to the right of the stairs toward the back of the house. “It’s all hard surfaces from here to the laundry room. That way and to the left. Here’s something to wear while your things are drying.”

He stares at them. “Your husband’s?”

“Yes. He’s with his mistress tonight, so he won’t mind.”

“Well, he’s an idiot for not minding because I’m a messy eater.”

“ So obnoxious.” I roll my eyes. “In case you are wondering, I have two roommates who are guys. Will’s an engine chief, he owns the house, and Fitz is a smoke jumper.”

Ozzy accepts the clothes with a smirk and treks to the laundry room. “Those lucky bastards.”

Ozzy has game.

“Did you order the pizza?” I holler.

“I did,” he says with the door closed.

This is weird. I don’t bring guys here, probably because I live with two. And I’m nervous because I like Ozzy despite all the questions he evokes.

“Can I get you something to drink?” I ask with my head in the fridge when the laundry-room door opens.

“Anything is fine.”

“Water? Wine? Beer?” I glance over my shoulder. Ozzy wears those gray sweats and that white T-shirt better than Will, or maybe I refuse to look at Will like I’m gawking at Ozzy’s muscular body.

“Beer,” he says.

I steal the last bottle and shut the door.

“Thanks.” Ozzy takes it and twists off the cap.

We stare at each other and smile at the same time, like we’re sharing a private joke, but I don’t know what it is other than I really like this man.

“Stop. You make it impossible to be serious.” Heat fills my cheeks.

“What?” He shrugs before taking a swig of his beer. After he licks his lips, he tries to give me a solemn expression. “Sorry. Ask me a serious question.”

“Who’s watching Lola tonight?” I pour myself a glass of wine.

“Her grandparents.”

“Oh, your parents live in Missoula?”

“No. Yes. Well, my mom lives here, but she’s legally blind, so Lola can’t stay with her. She’s with my in-laws. Ex-in-laws.” His gaze slides to the side, and he hums. “Lola’s grandparents.” He scrubs a hand over his face, then drops it to his side with a heavy sigh. “I haven’t mastered this postdeath terminology. I also haven’t been on a date since my wife died, so it’s never been a big deal.”

I’m his first date since his wife died? It takes a moment for that to sink in. I prefer our flirty banter. Death is a heavy subject for a first date. “I’ll lower the bar for you since this is your first date.”

“I cleared that bar by a mile when I persevered after the torrential downpour, nearly drowning, yet still able to go forward with the night.”

I laugh.

His face sobers. “Sorry. I don’t know how to talk about my wife with a woman who I’m trying to flirt with.” Ozzy shifts his weight to his other leg and drops his gaze to his beer. “I’m off to a winning start on this date.”

I snort. “You’re the best worst date I’ve ever had.”

“That makes no sense, and you know it.” He gives me the hairy eyeball.

“It makes perfect sense. It makes as much sense as going on a date with someone I met on the toilet in the men’s room.” I nod toward the sofa and adjacent leather recliner.

Ozzy follows me so closely I feel the warmth from his body and catch the faint scent of his cologne or bodywash—bourbon and oak.

After his proximity knocks me off kilter, I clear my throat and sit on the far end of the sofa. “Listen, I don’t expect you to pretend that you didn’t lose your wife or that you don’t have a daughter. In fact, if you need someone to talk to, I’m your person. I might even throw in some memories of my brother.”

He sits on the opposite end of the sofa. “My wife’s name was Brynn.”

I sip my wine before nodding. He’s right. It’s a difficult first-date topic. I want to ask him how they met and what she was like, but I don’t. Not yet. “Tell me about Lola. What’s she like, if you don’t mind me asking? I don’t know the protocol for dating a guy with a child. Maybe you’d prefer other questions, like what do you enjoy doing in your free time?”

Ozzy chuckles. It’s genuine and soothing, like someone squeezing my hand. He makes me nervous in a good way. I know virtually nothing about him, but I want to know everything. I’ve had that vibe since our first encounter. Public-bathroom chivalry will do that. I couldn’t stop thinking about him when I was in Chicago.

“In my free time, I like hanging out with Lola,” he says.

Of course he does. Have I been missing out on an untapped segment of Missoula’s eligible men, the secret society of nice guys, a.k.a. single dads?

“And I like watching her play softball, chase fireflies and butterflies, build snowmen, and hearing her gossip with her friends about boys at school when she doesn’t know I’m listening.”

I’m in over my head with this guy. One date and my heart already recognizes something that feels so different from anyone before him.

“And you enjoy riding your bike.” I smile.

After a beat, his brows pull together with a slow nod. “ Enjoy might be a strong word. Lola was in the car accident with her mom. She was injured pretty badly. Her face will carry the scars forever despite several surgeries. But she’s alive, and that’s all that matters. However, she equates all vehicles to death traps. She refuses to get into a car and doesn’t want me driving or riding in one, either, because, in her words, I’m all she has.”

Jesus, that’s heartbreaking.

“So you haven’t been in a car since the accident?” I ask, trying not to sound so shocked, but it is unbelievable.

There’s no way. How would he function?

Ozzy shakes his head, risking a glance at me as if to gauge my reaction. I’m not sure I have one, just lots of questions.

“No taxis or Ubers?”

Again, he shakes his head.

“Buses?”

“Nope.”

“Has she talked to anyone about her fear? Like a therapist? And just tell me to shut up. She’s not my child. I’m not a therapist. And I’m not judging you. I promise.”

Ozzy eyes me, which makes me squirm. I’ve overstepped.

“Judge me,” he says. “Out of ten, what would you give me? An eight for sure, right? I mean, I was a little late to the date, but I brought flowers. So ...”

I tap the rim of my wineglass on my lower lip. “You use humor as a coping mechanism.”

“Pfft.” He inspects his beer bottle like he’s reading it. “Everyone uses humor as a coping mechanism because it’s the best medicine. Right?”

I nod slowly.

He angles his body toward me and stretches an arm across the back of the sofa. “You can ask me whatever you want. Yes, Lola sees a therapist. The goal is to get her back in a car, but she’s young, and it’s hard to reason with her. I don’t want to force her to walk before she can crawl. And right now, we’re still learning to crawl.”

I think about his words—his life—even after he’s no longer speaking. “You’re a good father. A good person, Ozzy ...” I laugh. “I don’t know your last name.”

“Laster.”

“Ozzy Laster.” I nod. “Is Ozzy short for anything?”

“I’m named after my mom’s father, Oswald. Everyone called him Grandpa Waldo, but my parents didn’t want my nickname to be Waldo.”

“Well”—I pull my knee toward my chest and take another sip of wine—“it’s a great name.”

Ozzy belly laughs while tipping his head back. “Thank you. I don’t know if I agree, but you’re the first person to say it, so today is the first day I like my name.”

I start to speak, but the doorbell rings.

“Let me.” Ozzy stands and heads to the entry. “I assume it’s the pizza.” He opens the door. “Hey, Mike, thanks. Have a great evening.”

I finish the last of my wine while padding toward the kitchen to retrieve plates. “You know the delivery guy?”

Ozzy sets the box on the table and grabs his phone from the counter, probably tipping delivery-guy Mike . “People who don’t drive tend to be on a first-name basis with all the delivery drivers.”

“That makes sense. What about groceries? Do you have those delivered too?” I set the plates on the table.

He waits for me to sit before he does. Seriously, single dads are gold.

“It depends. If I need a lot, I have it delivered. If I need only a handful of things, I pick them up. And Brynn’s parents pick stuff up. Lola’s okay with them driving. Her fear is over losing me.”

I give him a sad smile and a slow nod before focusing on the pizza.

“Tell me, how did you end up living with two guys?” he asks. “Is it a financial situation or a kink?”

I pick a mushroom off my pizza and flick it at him.

“You’re such a child.” He laughs, peeling the mushroom off his neck.

“I’m not the child. I’m trying to have a serious conversation about your daughter.”

“And I’m trying to have a serious conversation about your living arrangements.” He takes a bite of pizza, but his smile still reaches his eyes, even while he’s chewing.

“Brandon, my brother, was friends with Fitz. He moved in when a room opened up. And when they built a she shed in the backyard, I moved into it. I’d been living with a friend who returned to Nebraska, so I chose to live here instead of looking for another roommate. When Brandon died, I eventually moved upstairs to his old room. It was hard at first, but now it’s a comforting space for me.”

“And when will your roommates be home? How long do I have to make my move?”

I laughed. “Will’s on shift until tomorrow morning, and Fitz is visiting his grandma in California until his fiancée, Jamie, returns, which should be soon. She’s a travel nurse. They met when she rented the she shed.”

Three knocks at the door pull our gazes in that direction. Ozzy gives me a questioning glance.

I shrug while sliding my chair back. “Probably someone selling something.”

When I reach the door and open it, my prematurely aging neighbor smiles through his full, dark beard. “Maren, what a pleasant surprise. How are you?” Reagan removes his straw cowboy hat and smooths his hand over his thick, messy, salt-and-pepper hair. His jeans and ratty T-shirt are as weathered as his loose, wrinkly skin.

“I’m well. What’s up?”

“You haven’t seen Kentucky and Slim by any chance, have you?”

My eyes narrow. “Uh, I’ve been to Kentucky. But I’m not sure what you mean by Slim.”

He chuckles. “You’re funny. I love your sense of humor.”

“Thanks, but I’m not trying to be funny.”

“Oh, Kentucky and Slim are two of my chickens.” He named his chickens after chicken restaurants. That’s a little messed up but kind of funny.

“Sorry, I haven’t. I take it they’re missing?”

He scratches his throat. “Yeah. But they must be close by. They don’t wander far from the roost. I need to find them before it gets dark. Ya never know what might get a hold of one of ’em. You don’t by any chance have a few extra minutes to help me look, do ya?”

“Actually, I’m in the middle of a—”

“We’d love to help,” Ozzy says, stepping next to me and opening the door a little wider. “I’m Ozzy.”

“A new roommate?” Reagan asks.

“A friend.” Ozzy shoves his feet into his black boots and ties them.

“I’m Reagan, and I’d really appreciate all the help I can get. Here.” He reaches into the pocket of his baggy jeans and holds out his fist. “Take a little crumble with you in case you find ’em.”

Ozzy opens his hand, accepting the chicken feed, while I slip on my white sneakers and step onto the porch.

“Here ya go, Maren.” Reagan punches his fist in my direction. I take the rest of the crumble. “Kentucky is a buff gold-and-orange mix, and Slim is chestnut. If you see one, hold out the feed to attract her. When she’s about done pecking the treat from your hand, pick her up by holding both wings snug to her body so she doesn’t flap, and then hug her close to you. Feel free to pet her. They love it when you pet ’em.”

“Where should we start looking?” Ozzy asks with a straight face while I curl my lips together to keep from laughing.

This isn’t happening.

“You go that way; I’ll head in the opposite direction,” Reagan says. “You might have to take a peek in some backyards. I wouldn’t go more than a few houses down. Like I said, they can’t be too far away.”

“Got it.” Ozzy returns a resolute nod.

When Reagan heads down the driveway, Ozzy winks. “I was hoping we’d get to look for chickens tonight.”

I snort. “Stop. I’m so sorry. You didn’t have to offer—”

“I did. This is my first chicken hunt. How could I say no?”

We turn right at the end of the driveway.

“Speaking of hunting, what if we find them dead?” I ask. “Several neighbors have hunting dogs. And nobody cares for Reagan’s rooster, which wakes us up so early. Someone might kill one of the hens just to send a message.”

“Let’s be positive.” He playfully nudges my arm.

I don’t look at him, but I smile.

We scour the block, sneaking between houses to peek into neighbors’ backyards. Just when we’re about to give up because the sun has set and there’s minimal illumination from the streetlights, I spy something out of the corner of my eye.

“There!” I point.

“Good job,” Ozzy whispers, stealthily approaching the two hens pecking in the grass.

They start to bolt in the opposite direction, but Ozzy makes a funny clicking sound and squats with his hand open, spilling feed onto the ground. Both chickens strut toward him, so I slowly crouch down and open my hand to them.

The buff one pecks at the feed, and I jump with a giggle as it tickles my hand.

Ozzy’s grin swells to the most handsome proportions. It feels tangible.

“The food’s almost gone. We’d better pick them up,” I say.

“You’re right.” Ozzy doesn’t hesitate. He’s the original chicken wrangler—hands pressed to Slim’s wings while tucking her close to him.

“Eek!” I squeal when I don’t get Kentucky’s wings pressed to her body the first time, and they flap in my face.

“Got it?” Ozzy asks.

After a quick adjustment, I nod. “Yeah.”

As we make our way back to Reagan’s, Ozzy says, “Don’t forget to pet Kentucky.” He strokes Slim’s back.

“I’m too afraid to loosen my hold. Poor Kentucky will just have to settle for an emotionless rescue. Besides, should we reward them for running away?”

“You’re a real hard-ass.” Ozzy laughs.

“I’m decisive and firm. That’s what my boss says about me.”

“Well, my boss says you’re a badass.”

I glance up at him. “Taylor said that?”

“He sure did.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from overflowing pride. It’s always gratifying to hear men compliment women in jobs that have been dominated by men forever.

“You found my little rascals! I was about to give up. Thank you so much.” Reagan opens the door to the pen.

“You’re welcome,” Ozzy says while we set them on the ground. “Maren spotted them. She’s got a great eye.”

I roll my great eyes. It was luck. “Good night,” I say to Reagan.

“I owe ya, neighbor.”

“You don’t,” I say while pivoting and leading Ozzy back to my house.

“I wondered what dating would be like after all these years,” Ozzy says. “It’s a lot different than I remember.”

I giggle, kicking off my sneakers and heading to the kitchen to wash my hands while he follows me. “Our pizza is cold.”

“Who cares? I’d eat anything. Wrangling chickens works up an appetite.”

I pass him the dish towel, and his hand touches mine. For a few seconds we stand idle, both holding the towel, skin on skin. It’s simple and innocent, yet electrifying. Attraction is addictive. It’s a slow dance to a favorite chorus, one note—one heartbeat—at a time.

Before my blush hits the boiling point, I turn and sit at the table.

He joins me. “I have to leave soon,” he says before eating his pizza.

I glance at my watch. It’s nine fifteen.

“I said I’d be home by ten.” He corkscrews his lips.

“Well, your clothes should be dry.”

He nods. “We should do this again.”

“Minus the chickens?”

“If being with you involves chickens, then I’ll deal with chickens.”

Tipping my chin to hide my smile, I murmur, “For someone who hasn’t been on a date in years, you’re pretty good at it.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.” I lift my gaze. “It’s effortless. You say all the right things, not because you’re trying. It’s just”—I shrug—“kind people say nice things, and you’re a genuinely kind person, Ozzy Laster.”

He adjusts in his chair, an uncomfortable squirm. “Whatever you think I’m saying that’s so right and effortless, it’s dumb luck.” When his eyes meet mine, we hold each other’s gaze for a few seconds of silence.

“Well.” I break it first, picking at the toppings on my half-eaten slice of pizza. “Luck is on your side.”

“And yours.”

I laugh. “How do you figure?”

“I had your back in the men’s room.”

I flick a black olive at him, and he jerks to the side so it lands on the floor behind him. “I thought we weren’t ever going to talk about it again.”

“You’re the only one talking about it.” He slides out of his chair and picks the olive off the floor. “I just mentioned it. There’s a difference. Anyhow, I have to go. Thank your roommate for loaning me clothes.” Ozzy disappears into the laundry room.

Minutes later, he emerges in dry clothes, except for his wet jacket, which is still on the porch. I get a good look at his shirt for the first time and laugh.

“You fix things. Good to know. I hope you fix them well, since my life sort of depends on it.”

He steps onto the porch with me right behind him. “Your safety is my number one priority. It was before we ever met. And now that I’ve met you, I’m going to drive every other mechanic crazy with my constant need to check and recheck everyone’s work. In return, you have to prioritize your safety too. You have to do your part.” He finishes tying his boots and scrunches his nose while threading his arms through his wet coat.

To keep from touching him, because I fear I wouldn’t be able to stop, I busy my hands with his zipper, working it up his torso like dressing a child. “Thanks for the flowers.” Our proximity hits me when I meet his gaze, stealing my breath. I let go of his zipper and take a step back.

“They’re just flowers.” He shrugs. “I didn’t buy them. I just picked them.”

Biting my lower lip, I shake my head. “You just picked them,” I whisper with a soft chuckle.

“Maren?”

“Hmm?”

He flicks his gaze over my shoulder. “If I weren’t riding off into the proverbial sunset on a bicycle, I’d kiss you. But my life is complicated, so I have to take it slow.”

More slow dancing.

“That’s my line when I fly off into the literal sunset. Slow works for me,” I say.

Ozzy shakes his head. “And you thought I was the one saying all the right things.” His lips twitch. “Good night.”

“Night.”

When he passes me, the back of his hand slowly grazes mine.

“Now you’re just teasing me.” I glance over my shoulder just as he peeks over his and winks.

I’m a goner. Single dads who say all the right things, pick the perfect number of wildflowers, and have the perfect hand brush before riding off into the sunset on a bicycle are officially my new favorite drug.