Chapter 19
Daisy
Thinking of you is a poison I drink often.
~ Atticus
My smile falters as Vanessa, a woman clearly determined on snagging herself a fireman husband, approaches the three firefighters at the judges’ table.
She won’t rest until one of them slips a ring on her finger—and she doesn’t care which one.
At this rate, I half expect her to douse her own kitchen in gasoline just to get carried over the threshold.
“Patrick,” Vanessa coos. “I thought of you while I was making my chili.”
Her brows lift and drop in one seductive motion, her eyes widen. It’s ridiculous, really. Yet even I have to admit the pull of her practiced seduction—sexy, alluring—and she has every man at the table, plus a few passing by, under her spell.
“I thought you were thinking of me,” Cody says to Vanessa. He’s obviously calling her bluff, not flirting.
“Mmmm.” Vanessa touches her lipstick-red lips with her finger. “I think of you all the time, Cody. It was Patrick’s turn.”
She turns her attention to Patrick and makes eye contact with him. True to form, he doesn’t back down. His gaze is as intense as ever, but this time, it’s focused on the man-hunter in four-inch heels.
“I used a family recipe,” Vanessa says in an overly-breathy voice. “I hope you like it. I love cooking for a man.” She reaches across the table with the finger that touched her lips and runs her pointer along Patrick’s knuckles.
So bold. If I said half the things she says, I’d have to pack up and relocate from sheer mortification—which I may have to do anyway if Patrick’s family has their way.
My fingers twitch with the urge to stake a claim on Patrick’s bicep. Possessive. Irrational. Preposterous. I don’t want him. But I certainly don’t want him falling for Vanessa’s indiscriminate wiles.
“Have you seen Blaire?” I ask Patrick, flattening my palm on my lap and ordering it to remain in place.
“Not since our date,” he says—punctuating his claim with a wink, slow and deliberate, like he knows exactly what kind of chaos he’s stirring.
The way he says our date sounds like he and I were on a date. When I glance at Vanessa, she’s practically turning green.
“Enjoy the chili,” she says with a huff. And then she adds, “Try not to choke,” before she stomps off.
“Sorry to ruin your chances,” I mutter to Patrick.
“I owe you one,” he says, staring straight ahead instead of meeting my gaze.
More than one, I think to myself. I don’t have to say it. He knows.
The first cup of chili arrives in front of us. Cincinnati style—tastes like fall, nutmeg and cinnamon threading through the spice. I jot notes. The second cup, classic ground beef, hits hotter. I quickly pour and down half a glass of milk, gulp after gulp to quench the mild fire on my tongue.
“Can’t take the heat?” Patrick teases.
But then he grabs our shared carton and pours his own cup.
“Look who’s talking,” I jab back.
We both bypass the straws sitting next to us and tip our glasses to drain every drop.
I look over and Patrick’s sporting a milk moustache. It’s adorable. Unfortunately. I close my eyes, blotting out the reminder that the man who ruined my life is also the boy I once admired.
The next chili is a beef, bean and corn variety, milder than the last. The following one’s smokey and packs a good amount of heat. I’ve only taken two bites and I’m already grabbing for the milk, pouring a full glass and downing it in three swallows.
“Whew!” I say, not even caring if Patrick teases me.
I look over at him and his eyes are watering.
“Come on, Mister Tough Guy!” Declan bellows.
“Man up!” Shawn, another firefighter, piles on.
The redness crawling up Patrick’s neck? That’s not from the chili. That’s embarrassment—and I’m torn between wanting to defend him and loving watching him squirm.
“You can run into burning buildings but you’re melting over mildly spicy chili!” someone shouts.
We’re handed the final cup of chili. I lift the carton of milk to test how much is in there.
It doesn’t seem like a lot. They saved the spiciest for last. I know a Texas-style chili con carne when I smell it, not to mention when that first bite hits my tongue.
The heat rushes through my mouth, down my throat and straight out my eye sockets.
Next to me, Patrick’s in tears, hiccuping and grabbing for the milk carton.
Awww nah. He’s not taking the last of the milk. Not when I have a five-alarm fire burning through the upper half of my body!
Patrick’s trying to save face. I’m trying to save my own life.
I need milk—now!
I reach for the carton at the same time Patrick does. Of course. Typical O’Connell—always overstepping, competing—winning. Our hands collide. The carton wobbles. Straws shoot in ten directions like coiled plastic snakes out of a gag gift.
The chili must have given me superpowers. I snatch the carton from Patrick’s reach and drain the rest of the milk into my cup before Patrick has a chance to get a drop for himself.
Patrick’s hand closes over mine. He jams his straw into my cup.
I snatch up a wayward straw, keeping a death grip on the cup of milk.
Patrick leans so close his breath fans across my cheeks—a shudder runs straight through me.
His eyes lock on mine and he mutters, “Fine, Lady and the Tramp it is.” Then he hiccups.
I tug the cup toward myself, but he’s gripping it for dear life. I can’t back down. Both our heads move toward the center.
“Fine!” I say, nose running, mouth burning, tongue numb.
Suddenly his eyes are inches from mine. Fierce.
Stubborn. And stupidly handsome. My lips tingle from being this close to his, which is absurd.
It’s the chili, obviously—this heat crawling down my throat, setting off every nerve ending.
I’m not thinking about Patrick’s mouth. Not that pouty full bottom lip—at all.
Not even when the crowd erupts into whoops and catcalls as if Patrick and I are about to kiss in the middle of the town square.
I suck in milk like my life depends on it, which, for the record, I’m pretty sure it does. If anyone thinks the hammering of my heart has anything to do with Patrick O’Connell, they’re absolutely, one-hundred percent delusional.