Chapter 23
“You’re here early,” the sheriff remarked jovially, opening the door next to the front desk and letting me through. I’d have swiped myself in, but my hands were full.
“I stopped by Daisy’s,” I announced, setting down the pastry box. “You might want to grab the bear claw before Jackson gets in.”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
The unwieldy pink box had made it too much for me to carry in the lemon bars I’d brought to share later. For the past three days, I’d been baking up a storm.
“What’s got you in so early?”
I wasn’t about to tell him how badly I’d needed to get out of the house. I couldn’t even do my gardening without my mind replaying all I’d seen. Buck through his window with his chin-up bar; Buck washing his car shirtless; Buck under my sink fixing my drain, looking like sin.
That last one was my own thirsty fault. The words had come out, unbidden—me asking Buck to come over and do a job I could’ve done myself. I counted it as a moment of weakness—a momentary lapse in judgment from my sound decision to keep things platonic.
But could I think about him in any capacity without remembering that kiss? It recalled things I hadn’t done in a very long time. The idea of doing those things with Buck prompted me to imagine how good he likely was at said things, a sheer guarantee based on what the man could do with his tongue.
“Just want to keep on top of my paperwork!” My voice was too perky for eight a.m.
“Anything time sensitive?” the sheriff pressed.
“Not at all. Why? Do you have something?” My perky was turning downright eager.
“I was hoping you’d help with a photography job. My buddy’s in a pinch. It’ll double as community service.”
“Any day is a good day to do a good deed.” I plucked up a sour cream donut. “Where do you need me to go?”
“The fire department. Their calendar photographer called in sick. The job starts at ten.”
“The firehouse?” My brain stuttered the moment I heard the word. Panic crept into my voice. “As in, Green Valley Fire?”
The chief looked at me like I’d just bumped my head.
“Yes. The Green Valley Fire Department.” He spoke slowly. “I saw Grizz out fishing this morning. They’re in a real bind. They’ve staged the whole shoot and lined up an army of volunteers.”
Everyone in town knew about the firefighter calendar. I bought one every year. It was a charity fundraiser that benefited a dalmatian rescue.
“I don’t know,” I backpedaled. “Crime scene photography and portrait photography are different. In most of the shots I take, the subjects are dead.”
“Didn’t you shoot the Jenkins’s ceremony when they renewed their vows?”
I feigned embarrassment at not having recalled the occasion, then considered claiming that none of my equipment was charged. But I knew deep down there was no way out. So I put on my big-girl boots and acquiesced.
Ninety minutes later, I pulled into the side parking lot of the Green Valley Fire Department and had a final whiff of the smelling salts I’d made, incorporating lavender buds, crushed rosemary, and leaves from my camphor tree. No sooner did I step out of the car than I was marched up to by a middle-aged woman with a clipboard and a pencil over her ear.
“Oh, thank God. I’m Crystal, the showrunner. It’s starting to get chaotic in there.”
She waved me toward the main building and continued to talk, not letting me get a word in.
“I’m still a few volunteers short, what with all the people who didn’t follow directions. I need someone to go around with the call sheets—to tell everyone where they need to be, by when.”
“Oh, no. That’s not what I’m here for. I’m here to?—”
“I’m sorry,” she cut me off in a firm voice. “I can’t put you on oil duty. Oil duty is full.”
“Oil duty?”
I was too curious about what that might be to try to tell her again that I wasn’t a volunteer.
“The oil station,” she repeated with a bit of impatience. “It’s where they go to get greased up. It’s not safe for them to hold the axes and such if their hands are slick. And someone’s got to get their back.”
When the woman gestured for me to walk faster, I set the record straight.
“I’m not here for oil duty. I’m the photographer.” I hooked a thumb over my shoulder and pointed behind me. “My equipment’s in my car.”
She stopped walking so abruptly that I might have bumped into her.
“The photographer?” Her face brightened and she didn’t skip a beat. “Even better. They’ve been expecting you. Sierra Betts is your point person. She’ll give you the lay of the land.”
Inside, people seemed to be getting ready. Firefighters were milling around in full turnout gear. Some appeared to have soot on their faces, as if they’d been assaulted by plumes of smoke. But something else was different—something I’d never seen. The firefighters were outnumbered by women three to one.
As we entered the garage bay, Sierra came in to view, a woman who I knew only by sight. Living in a small town, you didn’t have to know somebody to know about them. Sierra was one of a handful of people I was routinely mistaken for.
“Yeah. You and I look nothing alike.” Sierra stretched out her hand in greeting and gave me a wide, straight-toothed smile. Her brown hair—much darker than mine—was swept up in a flattering bun. The style accentuated her face, showing off tawny skin that was smooth and flawless. I wondered what kind of products she used.
“As I might have expected.” I shook her hand and smiled back. “Good to meet you, Sierra.”
“It’s nice to meet you, too, Loretta.” We both laughed.
Crystal’s radio crackled, and she threw us an apologetic smile before dashing off. Things really did seem chaotic.
The open floor where two trucks normally would have resided resembled a movie set. There were prop tables and clothing racks, makeup chairs and vanities, assistants with walkie-talkies, and tables full of food. A few firefighters in full dress relaxed in director’s chairs. People bustled between the indoor areas and scenes that were being built out front, back in the parking lot, and even on the far end by the stairs.
“This is pandemonium,” I observed. “I expected something more chill.”
Sierra threw me a matter-of-fact look.
“Chill left the building two years ago when Donner Bakery started catering the event. The women who came by to drop off pastries started telling their friends. All of a sudden, a dozen local small businesses stepped up to lend their support.”
Looking around, there was no denying that what Sierra said was true. The coffee and pastries from Daisy’s Nut House and Donner Bakery were easily recognizable. The Glam Squad, the town’s best wedding makeup artists, were manning the portable vanities and the ladies of the Fresh Cuts Salon were doing hair.
“So where do they need me first?” It was time to get down to business.
Sierra reached into her back pocket and produced a slip of paper. “Here’s a list of who’s going when. My boyfriend, Forrest, is Mr. January. You’ll shoot him against a green screen. Next is February, and right down the line. Chief McClure is December, him being the oldest. Each month has a different concept and a different location. Lieutenant Buck Rogers is May. He’ll go last because of the dogs.”
“The dogs?”
The mere mention of Buck got my heart racing and made me look around, as if talking about him could make him suddenly appear.
“The rescue organization brought over dalmatians. Buck’s getting to know them now. We’ll shoot everyone else first, then him.”
The notion that Buck was somewhere else filled me with relief. Being otherwise occupied meant he couldn’t be a distraction. I sent up a silent prayer asking the Lord to give me the strength to get through the day without jumping that man.
Ten minutes later, I’d gotten my bags from the car and set up in the station. Someone had thought to arrange for a three-tiered trolley that could hold my camera equipment and be rolled from one location to the next.
“Hey there, Loretta.”
I was put at ease upon the arrival of my first subject, Federal Fire Marshal Forrest Winters. When my self-esteem had been at its lowest, Forrest had been kind. Unlike the yellow turnout gear worn by Green Valley Fire, Forrest’s was the green used by those who worked for the National Park Service. His jacket was unbuttoned and a serious-looking axe rested on his shoulder. Come to think of it, it was rare to see Forrest without one.
“Where’s Sierra? She was just here,” I observed.
“She went to find the fake snow. Doesn’t want anyone else putting it on me but her.”
The way he looked proud as he said it made me smirk.
“I suppose she did your oil?”
Forrest looked down at himself. “If you ask me, I didn’t strictly need it, but I didn’t mind her putting it on.”
“Can I do your makeup?” Our conversation was interrupted by a woman who couldn’t have been older than twenty. She wore a fitted black shirt with a deep V. Around her waist was a pocketed belt that held brushes and creams. She popped her chest out in a way that was entirely unnecessary.
“Thanks, but I prefer to go au naturel. I got my hair cut, my beard groomed, and I exfoliated last night. I even did one of those teeth whitening strips. And my girlfriend told me I’m pretty.”
Said girlfriend chose that minute to sidle back up to Forrest, who tucked her right under his arm. Her smile at him was adoring, but the eyes she cut at the makeup artist threw shade.
“January and February are taken,” she said sweetly. “Go powder March’s nose.”
Photographing Forrest turned out to be fun under Sierra’s direction. She understood the anatomy of a good shot. She also knew how to rein him in when he was overthinking his axe placement and his poses. Next, I perched on the second floor to shoot Jed Lawson, Mr. February, who stood on the extended ladder of a truck with a bouquet of roses in his outstretched hand. When he came down off of the ladder, he handed the roses to his girlfriend, Lola, and hooked her into his elbow for a sweeping kiss.
Sebastian Kirkwood was a shirtless Mr. March, who wore a green shamrock garter around his thick right bicep and drank a green beer. Mr. April had a hose over his shoulder and posed in front of the truck with an open panel that had meters and gauges exposed. “Volunteers” had been looking on with interest as I traveled around the station making every shot according to the written plan.
Whispers of appreciation had tittered in my ear for every shot, but a chorus of awwwws came with Mr. June, the one from that night at the bar, with the salt-and-pepper hair. He was shirtless and posed with his daughter, who wore the tiniest turnout gear I’d ever seen. I got a shot of her beaming as she laughed up at her dad when he placed a small hat on her head—the perfect shot for Father’s Day.
Mr. July was Captain Grizz Grady, who flew with the Independence Day theme. I shot him on the sidewalk, cracking a hydrant that had been painted red, white, and blue. August was a group shot that involved six guys, all with garden hoses, pouring water on themselves outside against the brick wall, looking almost as hot and bothered as the women standing around getting their fill.
Mr. September was Chase Greenleaf, a former Green Valley firefighter. He had a blue-and-purple ribbon draped around himself for suicide prevention month. Silence was observed while I shot him as a sign of respect. Mr. October had a jack-o’-lantern at his feet and held a lollipop up to pouty lips. Mr. November roasted a turkey over a barrel fire. By the time Chief McClure showed up with tinsel and mistletoe, I could barely focus on my task, too aware that Buck was next.
My final set returned us to my original location, the place where I’d shot Forrest two hours before. A textured gray backdrop had been laid down and the snow had been cleared away. A fence had been erected in a wide semicircle that ended where the drop cloth formed a back wall. Inside were eight dalmatian puppies.
Fresh choruses of awwww filled the room as the arriving crowd took in the puppies. A handler stood outside the fenced-in area and managed the brood with a combination of squeaky plush toys and treats.
I busied myself with test shots just to have something to do. Quite unnecessarily, I made minor adjustments to my reflectors.
“Help me with my oil?”
Buck’s voice pierced through my nerves, calm and deep as ever and just for me; private, somehow, despite the crowded room. My gaze swung to him as if magnetized by his presence. But something was different. His baby blues seemed darker, his face more contoured. With the short beard he’d started to grow, his face was transformed.
Hot damn.
For once, I was thankful that Buck had rendered me speechless. Or else, I might have said that bit out loud. Even without a beard, Buck was sexier than any man had the right to be. But with a beard I didn’t stand a chance.
“My hands...I can’t let them get greasy,” he explained when I didn’t answer. “And the truth is, you’d be doing me a real favor.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Don’t look, but there’s a volunteer—a makeup artist, I think—who keeps saying she’ll do anything, and I mean anything, to help me.”
I scoffed and hoped I pulled off sounding scandalized. “What disgusting objectification.”
“I’ll hold your camera.” He plucked it from my hands and passed me a tiny bottle of baby oil. The only thing that made this less awkward was the fact that half of our audience was watching the dogs. I was quickly distracted from self-consciousness by the quandary of how to go about my task.
Focus, Loretta. It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.
I poured a small amount of oil into one hand, then rubbed both of them together to keep them from trembling. But, the moment my palms touched his shoulder blades, so strong and so wide, I couldn’t let go of other thoughts.
I couldn’t help comparing the Buck I touched now with the one I’d imagined touching as I’d watched him through his window. His skin was warm and even smoother than it looked. Beneath the soft was muscle so hard, I got to feel for myself how well all the chin-ups had paid off.
“This your first time getting greased up?” I asked when my fantasies got too wild. Maybe chatter would keep me grounded. Buck turned his head until I could see just one of his eyes.
“Not the first time I’ve been greased up. But the first time I’ve liked it.”
I was grateful that he couldn’t see my face as his mouth curled into a slow smile. I was getting worse at seeming impervious. But I couldn’t get lost in his heat or his smell or the feel of his skin beneath me. I had to do a job.
“Do you think I should’ve shaven?” he asked in that just-for-me voice as my hands continued to move over his skin. “I’m a bit self-conscious. The beard is a new look.” He craned his neck toward me again, his face in profile as he continued chatting me up. “What do you think? Would you ever date a man with a beard?”
Admit defeat. You’ve lost, some voice inside me said.
“Only a sophisticated one.” I was nearly breathless. My heart palpitated so badly, I was sure my pulse could be felt through my hands. For someone who had sweet-talked dozens of men as a PI, flirting with Buck turned me into a rank amateur. The man tied my tongue into knots.
“The dogs are ready!” someone called, reminding me once again that we weren’t alone.
“I think I need a wet wipe.” I said it even as my hands took one final voyage over his shoulders before regretting having to stop. Buck produced one and waited as I cleaned my hands.
“Will you give me a few?” he asked before handing me back my camera.
“A few of the shots? What, for your Tinder profile?”
“I don’t have a Tinder profile.” One corner of his mouth lifted in a smile. “I just want to remember the day when all your attention was focused on me.”
He gave me a little wink, then turned to take his place on the set, pulling up his suspenders as he walked. My gaze was only one of dozens following his form.
“Damn.” Sierra fell in next to me, speaking in a tone that told me she’d heard the whole exchange. “Forrest didn’t tell me he was into you like that.”
“Buck told Forrest he was interested?” My voice dropped down to an alarmed whisper.
Sierra let out a quiet chuckle.
“Buck just told the whole damned town.”