Chapter 6
MIKE
“Come and get it!” I shout, leaning my head out of the kitchen. A moment later, a half dozen guys and gals barrel into the room, lining up to eat my latest lunch creation.
I’m still not sure how it happened, and I certainly didn’t plan it, but being the firehouse’s resident cook has brought me more joy than I expected.
It started out small a couple years ago, just a simple casserole dish that I threw a few extra ingredients in, trying to clean out the pantry. I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing, and I was just praying I didn’t kill anyone. But to my surprise everyone loved it, and I started getting requests.
That one dish turned into ten more, and before I knew it, I was cooking every night, sometimes on my off days. It felt good to be needed for once in my life, knowing that there were people who depended on me.
After I fix myself a plate, I squeeze in next to RJ and dig in. For once, there’s not a word spoken at the table, no good-natured ribbing of the rookies, no jokes about riding the pole. Just utter silence as the entire table shovels food in their mouths like it’s their last meal on Earth.
“Damn, that was good. What did you put in it this time?” Hardy asks, pushing his empty plate away from him as he leans back in his chair. “I’m gonna have to put in an extra session in the gym, and I don’t even care.”
Blaze raises his hand. “I made the mystery basket for him tonight. I don’t even know what all I threw in there. I let my nephew pick.”
“Fucking delicious,” Rudy adds, letting out a giant burp.
Monica surprises us, letting out a long belch as she pats her stomach.
Someone else burps in response, and the table quickly erupts into grins as we all try to one up each other.
“Ladies, gents, and assorted degenerates, tonight’s meal was a tasty chicken and sausage jambalaya that included tinned black beans, a Mexican rice packet that I doctored, a little juice from a tin of mandarin oranges, and venison kielbasa courtesy of the random cupboard shite Blaze’s nephew threw in. ”
It sounds disgusting, but it turned out to be pretty good.
“What’s your nephew’s name? Flame?” Rudy asks.
Monica laughs. “Do you have a niece named Ember?”
“You know my name isn’t actually Blaze, right? It’s important that you know that.”
“Then you shouldn’t have burned so much food your rookie year, Blaze.” Rudy elbows Blaze in the side as he shovels another bite in his mouth.
“I’m glad it turned out okay.” I look down at my plate, suddenly a little self-conscious. I’m not an expert chef, I just enjoy doing it, so I know I still have a lot to learn. “I read somewhere that I was supposed to tenderize the meat, but I’m not sure that mattered for this recipe.”
“I’ll tenderize your meat,” Rudy says, and we all break out into laughter.
“If you go anywhere near my meat, I’ll throat-punch you,” Blaze says.
I laugh. “No one wants to touch your meat, you feckin’ arsehole.”
The conversation moves from food to teasing as it often does with this group, and I smile to myself. If I’m not spending time with my folks, this is where I feel most at home.
My parents and I emigrated from Ireland when I was sixteen. I was the only child born to Aidan and Ciara O’Connor, and I was determined to carry on the family name after my Ma wasn’t able to conceive again after me.
But growing up with parents who had the ultimate love story added a lot of pressure on me to get it right.
I’m not going to settle down and marry just anyone.
I want to find the right woman. And while I’ve enjoyed the company of a lot of lassies in my day, not everyone has the patience to put up with my goofball ways.
“Can’t you take anything seriously?”
“You’d be the perfect guy if you weren’t so obnoxious.”
“You’re hot, but that’s about all you have to offer.”
I try not to let my exes’ words get to me, but it’s a punch to the gut every time I think I’ve found a good woman, only to let my true self out and find out that they only like the way I look.
Ma would constantly ask me when I was going to give her grandkids.
And I felt like I was disappointing her every time I couldn’t give her an answer.
I got so desperate at one point I donated to a sperm bank, thinking that if I couldn’t find the right person to have a kid with, at least someone might want to have my kids. It was stupid, I know.
I want nothing more in the world than to have a family. A little brood running around that look like me, share my name, and could carry on the O’Connor legacy. It would make my Ma happy. It would make me happy.
But years of unsuccessful relationships have discouraged me. So, I spend hours in the gym as a distraction, and I’ve poured myself into work, determined to be the best, most dependable guy on the crew. And for the last few years, this cooking thing has become my latest obsession.
“Hey, are we out of coffee?” Rudy yells, pulling me out of my thoughts. I look around and realize I’m the last one at the table.
“There should be more in the cupboard,” I say, rounding up all the discarded dishes at the table and depositing them in the sink.
“I can’t find any,” Rudy calls back, waving his hand up and down at the empty shelf where the coffee should be.
“Whose turn was it to stock the coffee?” Blaze asks.
“It was the rookie’s turn,” Hardy says. We all look at RJ, who throws up his hands in apology.
“I got it, I’m off shift anyway,” I say, pulling on my jacket. None of these guys can leave because they’re on duty.
“What would we do without you?” Hardy says quietly, before addressing the group. “We can always depend on Mike. Be more like Mike, you lazy fucking assholes.”
“Yes, sir,” a few guys reply, the rookies more enthusiastically than the others.
It’s about a fifteen-minute walk to Chestnut Mountain Roasters. I should drive, but I want to burn off a little of that meal and some of my anxious energy.
When I approach the door to the coffee shop, I notice the back of a familiar head of blonde hair. I couldn’t help but chuckle at the way she ran out of the market the other night. I was hoping to see her again.
Her delectably plump arse is against the door, pushing it open, hands full of coffees, so I pull it open for her.
All that force she was using to lean into the door propels her backward, and she falls arse-first toward the concrete.
“Oh shit!” she cries.
I catch her under the arms, but it jostles the cup holder in her hands, spilling coffee all over her.
“Fuck you, Lady Luck,” she mumbles, and I can’t stop my escaping chuckle.
My laughter causes her to look up at me. “You!”
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this.” I wink at her as I set her on her feet.
Her entire face turns a shade of red I’ve only seen on one of our firetrucks, and I can’t help but wonder if I could turn her entire body that color either with my words or my hands.
“I’m soaking wet,” she moans.
I’d like to see you soaking wet for me.
Her eyes shoot up to mine as her mouth falls open. “What?”
Oh shit, did I say that out loud?
“Let me help you clean up.” That’s right, just move right past it. Don’t make it any more awkward than it needs to be.
“No, it’s fine. I don’t need your help. I can take care of myself, I always do,” she huffs as she drops her purse, all the contents spilling out. “Fuck.”
“Here, lemme help.” I bend down and start scooping things into her purse, but she snatches it from me, grabs the empty cups, and stands. “Let me at least replace your coffees.”
“It’s fine. I should cut back anyway.”
“Surely those weren’t all for you?”
Ire flashes in her eyes. “What if they were? I’m an overworked teacher and a single mom to two little boys. I mainline coffee like it’s my job.”
I lift my hands in surrender as I flash her my killer smile. “That’s fair.”
“No. You don’t get to be charming too,” she blurts, and then her eyes go big, like she can’t believe she just said that.
“So let me see if I’m understanding. You think I’m hot, you’re mad for my accent, and find me charming, eh?” I say, laying the Irish lilt on extra thick.
“I didn’t say you were hot,” she scoffs.
“No, you just admitted you fancy my calendar spread.” I’m not sure why I’m still teasing her, but the thrill of it excites me more than anything has in quite a while.
She opens her mouth to respond, and I wait desperately for her to speak, hoping she’ll prick me with her words. “It doesn’t matter; you clearly can’t follow through with your promises. I need to go,” she says. Disappointment pokes me.
“Your coffee?” I call out, but she’s already walking away quickly, still clutching the empty cups and holder as her round, perfect arse sways behind her. I can’t follow through with my promises? What is she on about? Fuck, how did I screw this up already?
I stand there like a fool watching her for several minutes. What is it about this woman that draws me in so much? Something rustles at my feet. I bend down to pick up a folded piece of paper on the ground and read it.
“Holy feckin’ Christ,” I say in a whisper. She would die if she knew she dropped this, and I look up the street, but she’s already disappeared.
I need to think carefully about how I play this. If I don’t handle it just right, I might scare her away—but if I can pull this off, I can show her how committed I am to following through, and we may just have the best time of our lives.
Pocketing the paper, I head into the coffee shop so I can complete my initial task. But my mind is filled with dirty thoughts as I think about all the things I want to do to the naughty single mom.