Chapter 3 #2
I like the sound of my last name coming from Captain—even if it’s technically my husband’s last name. I kept it for simplicity—for Mia. Hearing it here, around the table with both crews, makes my status feel official.
Greyson’s eyes land on mine. He’s almost smiling. There’s this microscopic crease at the corners of his eyes. It’s not even a grin, but somehow I know he’s amused.
Our captains dismiss us and the alternating crew leaves.
Shawn approaches me. “Sorry for that wisecrack.”
“It’s fine. I actually appreciate that you felt comfortable enough to make a joke around me.”
He looks around at Patrick, Dustin and Greyson.
Greyson is staring at us and he doesn’t even attempt to pretend to look away.
He just keeps his eye on us like he’s being paid by Central Intelligence for surveillance duty.
I stare right back. First one to break loses, right?
Ah, forget it. I shift my eyes back to Shawn.
There’s no way I’d ever out-stare Greyson.
“They’ll come around,” Shawn assures me. “Just show them what you’re made of.”
“And what makes you so sure I’m made of anything?” I ask him.
“You’re a female firefighter.”
My smile bursts free as Shawn raises a fist for a bump.
“Stop flirting with our rookie!” Dustin shouts.
“I’m not flirting,” Shawn says. “I’m giving her intel so she can survive here with you Neanderthals.” He leans in closer to me. “I’m really not flirting. I just started dating a woman who works at the library last month. But that’s between you and me.”
I smile at him. “I’m happy for you.”
“Thanks,” he says. “Go get ’em, Rookie.”
Seems to be the theme of the day.
Shawn is the last of the alternating crew to leave.
“Whose turn is it to cook breakfast?” Dustin asks as soon as it’s only our crew left in the main room.
“I think it’s yours,” Patrick says.
“I’ll cook,” I offer.
The men exchange glances. They don’t even make an attempt to be subtle.
Dustin breaks through the awkward beat of silence, “Let’s get to it, then.”
He walks into the kitchen area and I follow behind him.
“What’s your specialty?” he asks.
“I can cook whatever you like.”
“Really? That’s awesome. No way we’re letting you go to Crew B.” He chuckles and I smile. “Let’s make eggs and pancakes then,” he suggests, grinning down at me. “And make about twice what you think you need. I promise we’ll eat it all.”
“Please don’t let him cook the pancakes,” Patrick says.
“Or the eggs,” Greyson adds in a deadpan.
I can’t tell if he’s serious or trying to be funny. His face reveals nothing.
“Why don’t you pour the juice?” I suggest to Dustin.
Greyson, Patrick and Cody all laugh.
My chest fills with an unexpected warmth.
I turn my back to the crew and start digging through cupboards and the refrigerator, familiarizing myself with the kitchen.
Cooking settles me—the warmth of the stovetop, the rhythm of stirring ingredients together, the steam that hisses when I flick a drop of water on the griddle to check if it’s ready.
I make a double batch of batter and pour it in circles on the griddle.
Then I fill another pan with a package of breakfast sausage and scramble a dozen eggs, adding a few more at the last minute.
I cook them in a large skillet, sprinkling in some seasoning, salt and pepper I found in another cupboard.
While I cook, the guys talk about what they did on their days off.
Well, Patrick and Dustin talk. Greyson’s pretty quiet, but he’s listening—observing more than interacting.
Every so often when I look over at them, I find him staring at me.
He never looks away like most men would.
He just stares at me a few moments longer and then slowly returns his attention to Dustin and Patrick.
When everything’s ready, I announce, “Breakfast is served.” Then I stand back while the guys shuffle through the kitchen, grabbing plates and loading them full of food. Dustin was right. There’s nothing left in any of the pans when we sit to eat.
We take seats around the table and eat in relative quiet with the exception of the sounds of silverware scraping plates and hums of appreciation. Mom always said a man’s silence at the table is his greatest form of complimenting the chef.
“Dang,” Dustin says, scooting his chair back and downing the last gulp of his juice. “You put me to shame with that meal. Thanks, Rookie.”
“Doesn’t take much to put your cooking to shame,” Patrick teases.
“I didn’t see you turning it down anytime I cooked,” Dustin retorts.
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Patrick says. Then he adds, “Hallie, you cooked. We’ll clean up.”
“Equipment checks in ten,” Cody says, clearing his plate to the sink and walking toward his office. “You good?” he asks me before he closes the door.
“Yes. I’m fine.”
We move from breakfast into equipment checks and I make myself useful inventorying the engine with Patrick.
As soon as everything is inventoried and restocked, Cody says, “Let’s go check that burn area off Smokehouse Road.”
“And you hang back,” Dustin says. “We’ve got Hallie now.”
Cody smiles at me. “Yes. We’ve got Hallie.”
My heart rate picks up and my mouth goes dry.
This is it. My first official call. It’s not an emergency—I know that.
Still, everything narrows into a crisp focus as we climb into our turnout pants, grab our jackets and climb into the engine.
I’m in the jump seat behind the driver, Patrick.
Greyson’s in the officer’s seat next to Patrick. And Dustin’s next to me.
“First call,” Dustin says into the headset. I nod and grin a smile that’s far more confident than I feel.
I turn to watch the scenery as we drive through downtown, out a neighborhood street and onto the roads leading to the ranches outside town.
We arrive on scene and Patrick parks the engine. I hang back, waiting for instruction. I always know where to stand—where my hands should fall—how to interact with the people around me. Why do my arms feel like I just bought them on discount at a surplus store—and they came without instructions?
“Grab a tool,” Dustin says, tipping his chin toward the engine. “We’ll just push around burned spots, looking for smoke or any sign of smolder.”
He puts his hand to his chin and cocks an eyebrow. Then he looks at me and purses his lips just slightly. “Not this smolder. It never goes out.”
I laugh harder than I should. And it does the trick. I walk to the truck and grab a hoe, following behind Dustin and mirroring his actions, only in spots he hasn’t touched.
When I look up, Greyson’s eyeing me again. He nods and goes back to work.
We clear the area without any need for further spray-down.
“Looks good,” Greyson announces. “Let’s load up.”
We all climb into the engine. I pivot to take in the scenery—typical Tennessee fields, spring-ripe with new growth. Barns and farmland line the rural road and then we’re rolling into town.
This call was nothing—routine and basic. But it was something to me. The question remains whether I’ll hold my own when more serious calls come through.