Chapter 13
Patrick
This is not a drill.
~ Unknown
Whose idea was this anyway?
Oh, yeah. Captain’s.
I’m standing next to someone’s dog—a Dalmatian puppy, as if that’s the only breed we’re fond of—wearing nothing but my station pants and boots.
September’s the month we host our chili cook-off, and I’m “Mr. September,” according to the photographer in charge of taking our pictures for this fundraising calendar. They’ve got props, apparently. I’m praying mine don’t include a frilly apron.
Dustin sidles up to me. “At least you didn’t call February.”
He snickers and I glance at Greyson, his face an impenetrable mask, wearing a pair of red station pants—from wherever they found those—and a strap-on pair of feathery wings.
“Shut it, Dustin,” Greyson grits out through his clenched jaw.
Dustin and I break into full hysterics.
“Hey, man,” Dustin says between bursts of laughter. “You were the one who demanded to be Mr. February.”
“Could you smile softly for a few of the photos?” the photographer’s assistant asks Greyson.
“Doubt it,” Cody ribs. “You get what you get with Cupid.”
Another round of laughter fills the bay.
A makeup artist approaches Greyson. “I just need to put some of this …” She stands about three feet away from Greyson and points at his chest while holding up a bottle of baby oil.
Greyson spears David a look and grumbles something about how he’d better appreciate the lengths we go to in order to support our community.
“Give me that,” Greyson growls at the makeup artist.
She steps back a good foot at least, but extends the bottle to him.
“Please,” he chokes out. “And thank you.”
“Can’t say he doesn’t have manners,” Dustin whispers from my left.
I grin a closed-mouthed smile. Greyson’s got a heart of gold. You just have to mine for it through all the craggy exterior.
“Don’t tell me we all have to oil up,” I practically moan to Dustin.
“Just pretend you’re at the beach,” he supplies easily.
I wish I were more roll-with-it like he is. Nothing seems to faze Dustin ever.
We’re not alone in our display of humiliation.
Townspeople have gathered in the doorways, some pretending they didn’t know what was going on and just happened upon a calendar shoot.
Others, toting lawn chairs and beverages, were bold enough to show up an hour before the scheduled start to grab a “good spot.”
I glance at the small crowd, and then I see the last person I want to see walking up the driveway with her friends. My neighbor—the woman who won’t let bygones be bygones—Daisy.
She catches sight of me and her eyes drift down from our connected gaze to my pecs and abs. I’m tempted to subtly flex, but if she caught me, I’d hear about it until my chest looked like a low-hanging raisin. Not that I plan to decay in any way, but it happens to the best of us.
When I try to catch her eyes in a like-what-you-see?
smirk, she’s turning to Winona, with purposeful avoidance.
I saw it, though. She did like what she saw.
And, while I’m not a superficial man, I can’t complain when my hard work makes a woman like Daisy incapable of withholding a show of appreciation.
Greyson finishes posing. If you want to call it that. He stood near the engine and did as he was told. He brushes by me and Dustin on his way to the showers. “Become a fireman, they said …” he mumbles in passing.
Dustin laughs. I shake my head.
“I kinda thought all stations did these,” Dustin says while the next fireman—a guy from the other crew—steps up to the set for his photo session.
“Firemen calendars?” I ask.
“Yeah. I thought it just went with the job.”
“Not here. You know small towns. Whatever you do sticks with you for life.”
“Well, if something’s going to stick with me for life, it may as well be the canonization of these guns.” He flexes and I chuckle.
“You know canonization means when someone is declared a saint?” I ask.
He flexes again. “Tell me these aren’t heavenly.”
I laugh lightly.
Cody shouts across the bay to Emberleigh, Dustin’s girlfriend, who is standing next to Daisy. “You really need to do something about this one.”
Emberleigh shouts back, “As if I could.”
A few more guys get their photos taken—Mr. June wearing a snorkel and fins and holding a glass of lemonade and Mr. July wrapping the American flag around his shoulders and holding a firework—but still shirtless, since that seems to be the theme.
“Drop and do fifty,” Dustin says quietly. “Pretty sure a certain bookshop owner will appreciate the show. You can thank me later.”
“Great. Because what I’ve always wanted was an audience,” I argue.
What I’m not saying? If there’s any way I’d impress Daisy, I’ll walk the road of humiliation to get there.
“And everyone’s hanging your pics in their house and shop for an entire month next year,” Dustin adds. “You do you, but I think a good pre-pic pump will be something you won’t regret.”
Against my better judgment, I drop and do fifty pushups.
“Attaboy,” Dustin says when I stand, dusting my hands from the grit on the concrete floor. “Looking practically edible.”
I feel myself blush. To think, this guy was our rookie less than a year ago.
Technically, he’s still the rookie—the last guy hired.
But he’s far outlasted that title by now, and he dishes out as much as he takes.
He’s also become one of my closest friends over the past year.
Not that I’ve told him about the podcast, but he’d probably be one of the first I’d tell if I were going to let that cat out of the bag.
The woman holding the puppy’s leash escorts me to the spot at the front of the engine. The makeup artist brings me the bottle of oil and I avoid eye contact with all the spectators—especially one in particular—while I spread it on my chest and over my abs as instructed.
I’m handed a red-and-white checked half-apron. Thankfully it’s not frilly. I tie that on and take the pot and oven mitts I’m handed.
“Okay, Patrick, can you put your foot up on the step thing there?” the photographer asks me. “And look into the camera like you’re inviting someone to come eat the chili you’re cooking … and that someone is not your mother.”
My eyes flick to Daisy. Why? She wouldn’t eat my chili unless she brought a bottle of arsenic to slip into my bowl. Still, she’s the one who comes to mind, so I roll with it, looking at the camera as if I’ve just made a killer batch of chili and I’m inviting her to come share it.
“Gorgeous!” the photographer shouts. “More of that. You’re a natural.”
I shut out all thoughts of the crowd watching and focus on getting the job done. This shoot is for a good cause. I’m doing my duty.
The photographer tells her assistant to take the pot, apron and oven mitts and to give me the dog, whose name is Spot. A dalmatian named Spot. I can’t even.
I sit on the step of the engine with Spot sitting in my lap. More clicks of the camera.
“Okay, stand and hold him in the crook of your arm.”
The pup wiggles, so I bend my head toward his until our noses are touching, and have a little heart-to-heart.
“Hey, Spot. It’s okay, buddy.”
I lift him overhead like I always did with my nieces when they were fussy. And then I bring him back to the crook of my arm. He settles in this time.
When I look toward the camera, the photographer is beaming. “That was gold. One more with you flexing your right arm and holding him in your left. Put him up near your chin a bit.”
“Flexing?” I ask as if I don’t know what that means.
“Yeah.” She flexes her bicep.
This is going to look cheesy. But I comply. And when I look away from the camera, Daisy’s eyes are on my upper arm. She may hate the man, but she likes the muscles. I don’t know why that makes me feel like a scorekeeper just chalked a hashmark in my column, but it totally does.
We wrap up the shoot with Cody as Mr. December. He’s wearing a Santa hat and holding the dalmatian who’s now wearing a pair of felt antlers.
After I shower, I check my phone. There’s a string of texts from my mom.
Mom: How was your evening with Blaire?
Mom: Text me when you’re finished with that calendar thing.
And then an hour later.
Mom: I was expecting to hear from you already. We’re having the Rutherfords for dinner. Would love to have you join us.
I stuff my phone in my pocket. I’ll answer her later. By “the Rutherfords,” I’m sure she means Blaire along with her parents. Gotta give it to Mom. She’s relentless in her own stealth way.
“Who was that, Patrick?” Dustin asks.
“No one,” I answer.
Cody teases, “Maybe Patrick does have a mystery woman after all.”
“Yeah, didn’t you have a date last weekend?” Dustin asks.
“I had a commitment,” I hedge.
Technically true—I was fulfilling the promise I made to my mom to take Blaire out.
“At Fork and Fiddle?” Dustin shoots back.
I forget how gossipy this town can be sometimes. Of course he knows I was at Fork and Fiddle.
“Could it be Daisy after that one-man rescue mission at her shop?” Cody teases.
"Nah. She's still allergic to our boy, Patrick," Greyson aptly observes.
"Could've fooled me the way she was counting his abs today ..." Cody retorts.
He noticed that too? I almost grin, but no way can I let them see how much the idea of her noticing gets to me.
“You guys need to get a life,” I retort.
“Why?” Dustin asks, looking around at the rest of my crew.
“Yeah, why?” Cody echoes.
“How ’bout you get a life, we’ll get the popcorn,” Greyson says.