Chapter 7 Mira
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Mira
I pressed the brown contact back. Both eyes matched again, back to being ordinary.
My reflection stared back at me with freshly darkened hair. I’d insisted on the dye when they took me shopping. The disguise was pointless now. Hudson had found me anyway.
“Mira?” Solomon’s voice came through the door. “You’ve been in there for twenty minutes.”
“Almost done.”
A pause and then, “You know you don’t have to do that anymore, right?”
My hand stilled on the bathroom counter. “Do what?”
“Hide.” His voice was closer now, just on the other side of the door. “You have us now.”
My chest did something complicated. A squeeze, a flutter. The stupid, traitorous hope that maybe he meant it.
“The bookshop girl can’t just disappear from this town,” I said. “People saw me. They know what I look like. If I suddenly show up looking completely different, there’ll be questions.”
Silence.
I waited for him to argue. To push or tell me I was being ridiculous. But he didn’t.
“Take your time,” he finally said, and I heard his footsteps retreat down the hall.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.
When I came downstairs, Solomon was in the kitchen with his coffee. He glanced up, and an emotion flashed across his face.
“You did your hair,” he said. His eyes tracked the dark strands, and his jaw tightened.
“And here I thought you were the observant one.”
“I noticed your natural color.” His pale eyes held mine. “It suited you.”
Heat crept up my neck. I didn’t know what to do with his compliments and that look. Intense and focused, with all of the stillness directed right at my face.
I cleared my throat and changed the topic. “I want to make lunch today. For you guys. At the firehouse.”
Solomon set down his coffee. “We have food here.”
“I know. I want to cook for you. All of you.” I crossed my arms. “You’ve been feeding me and housing me and buying me clothes. I haven’t contributed anything. I owe you.”
“You don’t owe us anything.”
“I owe you everything.” The words came out harder than I intended. “And I don’t... I’m not good at owing people. So let me do this. Please.”
He studied me for a long moment. I fought the urge to fidget under his attention, hyper-aware of my own heartbeat and the way my skin prickled when he looked at me for too long.
“Okay,” he finally said.
“Okay?”
“You can cook. I’ll take you to the firehouse.” He paused. “And don’t worry about what you think you owe us. You can take your time paying us back. No rush, no debt.”
No debt. As if the clothes weren’t already a debt. Or everything else they’d bought me without blinking, adding up in my head as a receipt I couldn’t afford.
Yesterday, Solomon suddenly steered the cart through the women’s section. “You need things that fit,” he’d said dismissively.
I’d grabbed practical things. Nothing that would draw attention. But there’d been a dress. Soft blue, simple cut, nothing fancy. I’d stopped in front of it, my fingers brushing the fabric.
“You should get it,” Solomon had said.
I pulled my hand back and shook my head. Then grabbed another black sweater instead.
“I’ll pay you back,” I said now. “Every cent. Once I figure out what I’m doing with my life.”
Solomon just nodded and finished his coffee.
The pasta bake came together quickly. While it baked, Solomon moved around the kitchen, and I found myself tracking him unconsciously.
He’d come downstairs in a fitted black t-shirt that did absolutely criminal things to his shoulders. The fabric stretched across his chest when he reached for a coffee mug, and I caught myself staring at the way his biceps flexed.
Firefighter arms. The kind of arms that hauled people out of burning buildings. Carried unconscious victims down ladders. Swung axes through doors.
The kind of arms that could pin a woman against a wall without breaking a sweat.
I looked away before he caught me.
The way Solomon moved was actually odd. It was too quiet. When he’d reached past me for a dish towel earlier, I hadn’t heard him coming. I’d jumped. He’d apologized, but there’d been an unexplainable glint in his eyes.
What kind of person moved that silently?
I filed it away with all the other strange things I’d noticed since moving in. The way Percy had heard a car horn from three blocks away. The way Lucian’s eyes sometimes caught the light wrong, flashing gold instead of gray.
The way all three of them moved with a coordination that felt almost supernatural.
I was probably imagining things. Maybe it was the stress lately.
But still. I had a feeling something was off about these men. I don’t think it’s dangerous… just that unusual thing I couldn’t quite name.
“Ready?” Solomon asked.
I pulled the casserole from the oven. “Ready.”
The drive to the firehouse was quiet. Solomon didn’t seem to mind silence, which I appreciated. Although I had a separate problem.
His hands on the steering wheel. Long fingers, the kind of grip that suggested he’d held things far more dangerous than leather. His thumb shifted against the wheel. And I couldn’t tell if he knew I was staring or if Solomon just moved through the world unhurried.
Either way, my thighs pressed together and I turned to stare out the window.
The bookshop had been my fresh start but now it was a pile of ash and police tape.
What was I supposed to do in the meantime? Keep living in their cabin? Keep pretending I wasn’t developing wildly inappropriate feelings for three men who had zero business being that attractive?
“You’re thinking too loud,” Solomon said.
I startled. “What?”
“Your thoughts.” He glanced at me sideways. “They’re loud.”
“Well, genius. You’re wrong because you can’t hear thoughts except if you’re a mind reader.”
“You and I both know it’s a figure of speech.” He sighs. “Whatever’s eating at you, it can wait until Hudson’s dealt with.”
Hudson. I hate hearing his name.
“It’s not just Hudson,” I said quietly. “It’s everything. What comes next. What I’m supposed to do when this is all over.”
“You rebuild.”
“With what? My savings are gone. I don’t have anyone.” I picked at a thread on my sleeve. “I just have this gaping hole where my entire life used to be.”
Solomon was quiet for a moment. “I told you. You have us.”
It took me a moment to reply and I avert my eyes to the road. “For now.”
“For as long as you want.” His hands tightened on the steering wheel. “You’re not a burden, Mira. You’re not a project. And you’re not going anywhere.”
My throat went tight. I blinked against the sudden burning behind my eyes and continued staring out the window so he wouldn’t see.
We drove the rest of the way in comfortable silence.
The firehouse was busy when we walked in. Half a dozen firefighters milled around the common area, some still in their navy uniforms, others in workout gear that showed off arms and shoulders. I tried not to stare yet just failed miserably.
“Hey, it’s Solomon!” One of the guys called out. “And... wait...”
He squinted at me. I stood there holding my casserole dish, suddenly aware of how different I looked. Dark hair tucked behind my ears. Brown contacts dulling my mismatched eyes. Plain clothes that helped me blend into any background.
“Do I know you?” he asked.
“The bookshop girl,” someone else supplied. “The one whose place burned down.”
“Oh!” The first guy snapped his fingers. “Right, right. I forgot.”
Of course, in this look, I am forgettable. The exact opposite of how they’d looked at me when I last visited.
Back then, they’d noticed me. Now I was just... background noise.
This was how I wanted it anyway. It was for the best.
Before I could respond, a laugh cut through the room. High and musical. The kind of laugh designed to make men’s heads turn.
And turn they did.
A woman stood near the kitchen area, surrounded by a cluster of firefighters. Blonde hair in perfect waves, a dress that hugged every curve, and a smile that promised trouble.
She was holding a tray of cookies.
“Percy’s going to love these,” she was saying. “His favorite. I remembered from last time.”
One of the firefighters nudged another. “Cateline’s really going all out, huh?”
Laughter. Cateline joined in, tossing her hair over one shoulder.
Then the back door swung open, and Percy walked in from the garage bay, wiping his hands on a rag. His uniform shirt was untucked, sleeves shoved up past his elbows, and there was a smear of grease across his jaw that had no right looking that good.
His eyes swept the room, landed on me, and his entire face transformed.
“Mira!” He crossed the space between us, grin spreading wide. “You came! Is that the pasta bake? Please tell me that’s the pasta bake.”
He didn’t hesitate. Just pulled me into a half-hug, his chin brushing the top of my head. He smelled of motor oil and soap and a warmth underneath that made me want to burrow closer.
“You remembered,” I managed, trying to ignore the way my heart was hammering.
“Are you kidding? You mentioned it last night and I’ve been thinking about it all morning.” He released me but stayed close, hand lingering on my lower back. “Sol, why didn’t you tell me she was here?”
Solomon shrugged. “You were busy.”
“I was changing a tire. That’s-” Percy cut himself off, looking back at me with focused attention that made my skin flush. “Never mind. I’m starving.”
“I’ll plate it up.” I lifted the dish. “Where’s the kitchen?”
Percy pointed me down the hallway, already turning as a firefighter called him over. Solomon settled into a chair.
The firehouse kitchen was all steel countertops and duty rosters. I set my dish down and pulled open cabinets for plates.
“So you’re the bookshop girl.”
Cateline stood in the doorway, cookie tray in hand, eyes running me head to toe. She took her time with it. My dark hair, the plain clothes. The lack of anything worth pausing on.
“Huh.” She set her tray down. “I thought you’d be prettier.”
“And I thought you’d have manners. Guess we’re both disappointed.”