Chapter 9
Patrick
Have you ever gotten the feeling that you aren't completely embarrassed yet,
but you glimpse tomorrow's embarrassment?
~ Tom Cruise
My phone pings.
Not an email. It’s a message.
Blaire: Hey, Patrick. Looking forward to dinner this week. Your mom said she got us reservations at Fork and Fiddle at six fifteen.
“She what?” I blurt.
“Who did what?” Dustin asks. “I knew you had a secret affair going on!”
“My mother,” I say with no further explanation.
“Yeah. Yeah. Your mother,” Dustin teases. “That wasn’t your mother you were hiding in your guest room.”
Cody laughs.
Greyson shoots me a quizzical look. I shake my head in silent assurance I’ve got no actual love life, real or imagined.
I step outside the bay to call my mom.
My mother. She’s the perfect match for my father. They fit one another.
Do I want what they have? Oddly, no. Mom is the type of woman who loves a strong man who leads her in all things. She’s smart and kind and has a sense of humor she lets out of the bag when she’s comfortable. But she never seems to make her own decisions.
The idea of a woman who capitulates to me at every turn doesn’t excite me. I like to be challenged. That’s one of the things I love about my job—the unpredictability and the constant need to think on my feet. I guess I want a woman with a little fire in her.
Saturday, after I left my meeting with my dad, I dutifully stopped by my childhood home.
Mom was waiting for me as Dad had said she would be.
And the “thing” she wanted to talk to me about was not a “thing” at all.
She and Dad had been to the club for lunch earlier in the week and bumped into Blaire’s mother and father.
They all decided it would be lovely if Blaire and I reconnected.
I thought arranged marriages were a thing of the past. Apparently, in our circles, we’re stuck in the late 1800s. Mom even went to the effort of basically asking Blaire out for me and choosing the restaurant—as if that’s not intrusive or weird.
Blaire seems fine with the whole situation.
I dial my mom.
“Hi, hunny,” she answers, sweetness in her tone.
“Let’s play truth or dare,” I say. “Only we’ll leave out the dare part. Did you actually make reservations for Blaire and me to go to dinner?”
“I did. I figured you’ve been too busy to set anything up, so I pitched in.”
“You … pitched in.”
“Are you upset, Patrick? I never would have done this if I thought it would upset you. I asked if you’d consider taking her out and you said yes.”
“Yes to me considering taking her out. Not yes to you puppeteering the date. Are you planning on joining us?”
Mom laughs. “Patrick. You know I won’t go on a date with you. I sincerely apologize for overstepping.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and blow out a breath. “It’s okay, Mom. But if it’s alright with you, I’ll take it from here.”
“I’d love that.”
She’d love it if I proposed marriage to Blaire after our first date.
Or maybe even before. On paper, Blaire’s the perfect match for me.
Her family lives in the same gated community as ours.
She actually did attend Vanderbilt and then she moved back here to establish herself as an interior designer.
I don’t know why Blaire came back to Waterford.
She definitely always struck me as the type who would move to New York or Los Angeles.
“Okay, well, I’m at work,” I say. “So, I’ll talk to you later.”
“Come for dinner one night. We never see you.”
“I’ll be at family dinner this week.”
“You can come anytime. We love you, Patrick.”
“I know. I love you too, Mom.”
“I am sorry,” she says. “I got a little overzealous. I’ll back off.”
“You’re fine. Don’t give it another thought.”
“Thank you, sweetheart.”
I hang up and text Blaire.
Patrick: Yes. Fork and Fiddle. Do you want me to pick you up or should we meet there?
Blaire: Since it’s a date, you can pick me up if that’s okay.
It’s not a date—not in the formal sense of the word. But there’s no good way to explain that to Blaire over a text. Hopefully we’ll just catch up with one another, and then she’ll see I’ve become a blue-collar worker. Then she’ll back off and find someone who golfs and enjoys a drink at the club.
I do golf. I don’t enjoy the club.
Patrick: Great. See you then.
I pocket my cell and stroll back into the bay.
"How's Mom?" Dustin asks, wagging his brows.
"She's fine," I say, brushing him off.
"I'm good with an age gap if the two people are genuinely in love," Dustin says.
"With his mom?" Cody asks, his head rearing back.
"No. Dude! It's not his mom! Catch up."
"It's my mom," I say, as if into an echo chamber since no one's listening to me.
"Not our business," Greyson says firmly.
"Totally beg to disagree," Dustin says. "You guys were all up in my business when Emberleigh and I started seeing one another."
"She's our donut supplier," Cody says. "Ergo, our business."
Our laughter fills the bay.
I'm about to pick up my clipboard to resume checks when the alarm sounds. Captain’s voice comes through the system: Alarm at Moss and Maple. Monitoring company said detector signaled them.
We drop everything. In under two minutes we’re in our turnouts and seated in the truck.
Our sirens split the morning air. Cars veer to the curb. We blow through red lights.
My only thoughts: the books! And Daisy! We have to get there before something happens to her. She’d sooner smother the flames with her bare hands than let one spark touch her shelves.
We pull up in front of Moss and Maple. I hop out of the engine. Greyson is saying something about going in with Dustin, but my mind isn’t focused on anything but Daisy.
A few customers are out on the lawn. Neighbors stand on porches or in the street. I track that much as I size up the situation.
No visible smoke.
I’m pulling on my SCBA and heading toward the building.
They can hose behind me. I have to get Daisy out of there.
This place.
The books.
Daisy.
“Patrick!” Greyson shouts into his lapel mic.
I stop. Turning to look at my crew, all in various levels of preparation.
“Get back to the engine. Now!” Greyson yells.
Greyson never yells. He’s stern enough when he’s using his naturally commanding indoor voice.
“Sorry! Daisy’s in there!” I yell into my mic.
“Patrick!” I run forward.
There’s no smoke.
I test the handle. Not hot.
Wrenching it open, I fly through the door and stop dead in the middle of the front room where Daisy is placing a book into a bag and thanking Jillian for stopping in as if it’s any other day.
My eyes narrow.
Jillian brushes past me, an amused grin on her face.
“Monitoring called. Alarm cancelled,” Greyson’s voice comes through more calmly.
The combined chuckles of my crew ring through my lapel mic.
“Can I help you?” Daisy asks with an amused grin on her face.
I rip off my mask, my cheeks hot from more than just the hood.
“I’m …” I stare at her. “Your alarm sounded. We’re here to follow up on the alarm.”
“It was a false alarm,” Daisy says.
She’s not hiding her amusement. Not even a little.
Her gaze narrows. “You thought the shop was on fire?”
“I did,” I confess.
“And you rushed in here …”
“To save you,” I admit.
My words hang in the air between us—pathetic, raw. My crew’s going to milk this one for months.
Daisy tilts her head. “To save me? Or to save my books?”
My throat works, but no words come.
“That’s what I thought,” she says.
Greyson’s voice comes through the mic. “Hey, rescue hero, while you’re in there, check the alarm system and the detectors.”
“Copy,” I say, wishing I had listened to Greyson sooner.
“I have to perform routine checks,” I tell Daisy.
“My system is fine,” she says. “And my smoke detectors just needed new batteries.”
She’s defensive, but there’s a softness underneath the bristle—a vulnerability. The alarm probably scared her ten times more than it scared me.
I’m the last person she wants to see in a situation like this. I snap into banter-mode. It’s our default.
“There never was a question about your system, Daisy,” I wink.
“Is that flirting? Are you … flirting with me?”
“If I ever were to flirt with you, you’d know it.”
“If you ever flirt with me, it’ll be the last thing you do,” she fires back. But there’s a little less bite to her words than usual.
“Do you have a stepladder in here?” I ask. “Or do you want me to get my little giant?”
“Your … ??”
“Ladder.”
She snickers. “I keep my little giant in the supply closet—there.”
I make my rounds through the shop, checking each detector.
“Where’s the panel?” I ask.
“In my office.”
I walk behind the counter, passing behind her on my way to her office, a small square room with a desk and a chair in it.
Daisy enters the room with me. We both sidestep at once—chest to chest. The room’s barely big enough for one of us, let alone with me in turnout gear. Her muttered, “And this is how I die,” cracks my composure. The guys lose it in my ear.
“Here, let me just …” Daisy tries to squeeze behind me.
I step forward. “Sorry … I thought you were passing in front.”
The cackle of my crew’s laughter continues through my mic.
“Shut it, gentlemen,” Daisy shouts.
Their laughter dims to a few snorts and constrained coughs.
“What’s he doing to you, Daisy?” Dustin’s voice comes through.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” she shouts back.
“No doubt about that,” Dustin replies.
“Stay put,” Daisy says. “Let me squeeze through here.”
I do as I’m told. She opens the cover to the alarm panel and I step next to her. She smells good—objectively speaking—cinnamon and cloves, fall and books.
Her arm brushes against mine and I shouldn’t feel it through the layers of my gear, but I do.
I focus on the panel. We finish up the checks and I give the “all clear” into the mic.
“You’re good to go,” I say, looking down at her.
“Thanks,” she says.
And then she bolts out of the office as if the bookshop actually is on fire and she’d rather take her chances with an uncontrolled flame than be stuck with me one more minute.