Chapter 6
LYDIA
My eyes are gritty as I catalogue more of my father's old collection of fire department memorabilia.
So many old pieces of equipment, tucked away in back rooms of the rambling house.
Interesting and strange, some even dangerous looking as I work through them.
I could easily injure myself if I'm not paying attention.
Which is exactly what happens when a very unexpected loud knock lands against the front door.
My finger slips, catching on a rough edge of brass, and I instantly suck in a quick breath to fight down the pain.
A bright spot of red appears on my skin, and I immediately stick the sore spot in my mouth.
Another loud knock forces me to get awkwardly to my feet and make my way through the house to the front door.
Which I open with my uninjured hand, still sucking on the tip of my injured finger.
To find broad-shouldered Brand on the porch, glowering at me, with a bag of food from the diner and a drink carrier of insulated coffee cups.
"Why is your finger in your mouth?"
The strange question knocks me out of the reverie that landed over me when I saw him standing there.
"Hurt it on a piece of brass." My hand drops to my side, curling into a fist so he can't see the blood.
"So your first thought was to stick it into your mouth? That's not sanitary."
I shrug, telling him the honest truth. "It was aching. Sucking on it makes it ache less."
He goes tense, hazel eyes going darker, and it's only then that I realize what I've said. How it might actually sound outside my head.
"Why are you on my porch?" I need to deflect the attention from the unintentional innuendo to something much safer. "And why do you have food?"
He grunts and lifts the drinks in what is probably meant to be a gesture of nonchalance. "Thought I'd be nice and bring you breakfast."
"You want to be nice to me?" I stare at him in disbelief.
Brand sighs, those big shoulders moving in a way that's very distracting. "We need to talk, Lydia."
I narrow my eyes, suspicious. "Why now?"
"Because it's important." He looks toward the street, like he expects someone's spying on us, and honestly, in this town, someone probably is. "Can I come in?"
I make him wait a few more seconds, then nod and step back to allow him access. He brushes by me, heat pouring from his large frame, and I follow his woodsy scent into the kitchen.
"You've been here before," I say, not missing the sure way he navigated the old house.
"Corbin and I spent some time together." He sets the food and drinks down on the table, then crosses to the sink. "Come here."
My feet follow his orders easily and when I'm beside him, he reaches out for my injured hand.
I let him take it and he turns on the tap, running it under the water as it grows warmer.
He washes away the smears of blood, carefully cleaning it off until he can examine the cut.
His jaw is tight when he wraps it in a fresh paper towel.
"Hold this tight." He grates out the words, voice low and gravelly. Then he makes his way to the cabinet, two doors left of the sink, and pulls out the first aid kit. Like he knew exactly where it would be. "You do this kind of thing often?"
He asks like he actually expects me to answer. Like he wants to know.
"Make myself bleed on an antique piece of brass? Not really."
He grunts, and it sounds suspiciously like an almost laugh. He opens the kit, takes out the bandages and a tube of antibiotic ointment. Gesturing for me to sit down at the table, he pulls a chair out, then sits in the one beside me, pulling it close so he can bandage me up.
"It's not that big a deal, Brand," I say, but he shakes his head.
His dark, wavy hair drops onto his forehead with the movement, and I feel the strangest urge to push it away for him.
He gently peels the paper towel free and applies the cool gel to the cut.
His sure fingers make quick work of ripping open a bandage and he wraps it tight, securing it in place with a heavy press.
"You hurting yourself is a big deal, Lydia. Your dad wouldn't be happy if he knew this happened because you were going through his old stuff."
"Well, he's not here. And somebody has to do it."
He leans back, arms crossing over his chest. The move just emphasizes everything about him. Makes the fabric of his shirt stretch tight, makes me notice the flecks of red in his beard as the sun lances in through the window. And it also makes me acutely aware of how close we are right now.
Brand looks like he's going to say something, then shakes his head and pulls the drinks closer. He frees one insulated cup, setting it in front of me, and then takes his own. I chance a sip of the drink and close my eyes as the delicious brew lands on my tongue. Exactly the way I like it.
The scent of cinnamon hits me and when I look down at the table, a fresh, hot cinnamon roll is in front of me, alongside eggs and bacon. Brand has the same food in front of him and I appreciate the thoughtfulness even as I wonder at it.
"Eat something, then we'll talk." Brand's deep voice still sounds gruff, but at least he sounds less grumpy.
"How did you know the way I like my coffee?"
He looks at me, eyebrow arched, and I take a dutiful bite of scrambled eggs with the plastic fork he brought along. He nods in approval, swallowing his own mouthful, then gives a surprising confession. "Johnny at the diner doctored it up when I told him I was bringing it to you."
"Young Johnny or Old Johnny?" He chuckles, giving a shake of his head, and I indulge in a small laugh. "Never mind. Both of them know the mix I like all too well."
"They told me they've had to fancy things up to keep the tourists coming in."
I sneak a glance at his face, not missing the way he frowns at the idea. "Be fair, Brand. They bring in a lot of money for this place. You can't blame people for wanting to build their business when they can."
"I don't blame anyone." He shakes his head, then pins me with his intense eyes. "It's just that I came here to get away from the crush of people. And it still found its way here."
"Temporarily." I remind him of that fact, rewarded when he gives me an acknowledging tip of his chin.
He then looks pointedly at my plate, and I take a bite.
It's delicious. Johnny's may not be all shiny and new, but their food is good, and the cinnamon rolls are sinful. In the very best way, of course.
We eat quietly, but the atmosphere isn't tense like I would've expected. Instead, it's... nice. Almost friendly. And earlier, even when he was frowning, he'd still been kind to me. Gentle.
The memory of the way his touch had made my stomach flip comes to life and goose bumps erupt over my skin. Because I wouldn't mind feeling his fingers on me again.
"Promise me you’ll stop going through that old equipment," he starts, wiping his mouth with one of the napkins Johnny's had included with the food. When I don't respond, he raises an eyebrow. "Unless you're wearing protective gloves. So you don't cut yourself."
I make him wait, taking another sip of my delicious coffee, and feel a little thrill of victory when he scowls at me.
Setting the cup down, I wave his irritation away.
"Fine. I agree. But it still has to get catalogued for the museum.
He worked so hard to get it established, to honor the legacy of the volunteer fire departments in this area.
There's a lot to go through and I can't just dump it all at their door.
Most of the people who agreed to work there are volunteers, too. "
"Some of the retired volunteers can help with it. Give them a call. They'll rally."
I give him an astonished look, and he smirks. "I have good ideas from time to time. You don't have to act so surprised."
"I didn't think you cared about what I was trying to do here."
He coughs, as if I've made him choke on his breakfast. "It's not that I don't care. And as to what you're trying to accomplish, that's what we need to discuss."
"You have something against museums?" I know I'm deflecting and by the way he tips his head to the side when he focuses on me, he knows it as well.
"I have something against you doing things that will really get you hurt."
Hurt and anger surge forward, and I'm no longer hungry. I drop my fork to the table, standing up, and pushing the chair back. "Well, it's been great talking to you, as always, but I've got things to do, and I'm sure you have children you want to growl at. Have a lovely day."
Brand doesn't get up, doesn't even pause as he takes a drink of his own coffee. "This isn't about you, Lydia."
I lift my hands up, the itch of frustration pushing me to move. I can't just stand here and do nothing.
"Then what is it about? You've made it clear you won't help me, so why are you here?"
He swallows, and I hate the way my eyes lock on the motion of his throat. My imagination comes to life, filling my mind with how exactly it would feel to kiss his throat. To feel the rough stubble against my lips. To feel his hands on me once more.
"I'm here because I made a promise to your father. And he didn't want you doing this."