Chapter 6
The wail of sirens cuts through the afternoon air as I refill the coffee dispensers behind the counter at Brennen’s Brew. Through the large front windows, I watch the fire engines pull away from the station across the street, their red and white lights flashing as they disappear down Main Street.
My hands pause on the coffee pot. Where are they going? Is it serious?
“Don’t you worry, dear,” says Mrs. Carmichael from her usual table by the window, following my gaze.
She’s one of Mom’s book club friends, a plump woman with silver hair who knows everyone’s business in town.
“Luke Harrison runs a tight ship over there. Ever since he became Fire Chief, our emergency services have been more organized than they’ve ever been. ”
I pour coffee into the dispenser, trying to look casual. “I wasn’t worried.”
“Of course not,” Mrs. Carmichael says with a knowing smile. “But I can see why you’d be curious. That boy has turned into quite the catch.” She sighs dramatically. “Such a pity he refuses to date anyone seriously.”
My hand stills on the coffee pot. “What do you mean?”
Mrs. Carmichael leans forward, clearly delighted to have an audience for gossip.
“Oh, he dates here and there, but never goes past the second date. It’s a real shame because he’s had so many women chasing after him.
” She takes a sip of her coffee. “I even tried to set him up with my daughter Rebecca when she moved back from Boston, but he turned her down flat. Polite about it, but firm as concrete.”
“What does he do with his time then?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light.
“Work, mostly. And those two dogs of his. Spends every free moment either at the station or hiking around his property with those dogs of his.” She shakes her head. “A man like that should have a family by now.”
Mom appears from the kitchen carrying a tray of fresh apple turnovers, her timing suspiciously perfect. “Almost sounds like he has a broken heart,” she says casually, setting the pastries in the display case.
I glare at her. She pretends not to notice.
“What about Brittany?” I ask, unable to stop myself.
Mrs. Carmichael lets out a sharp laugh. “Oh honey, Brittany’s been chasing Luke for years and he won’t so much as look in her direction. Poor girl keeps trying, but it’s like watching someone throw themselves at a brick wall.”
Confusion swirls through me. “He’s never... they didn’t get together after I left?”
“Not that I remember. She’s certainly tried hard enough, but Luke treats her like he would any other acquaintance. Polite but distant.” Mrs. Carmichael shakes her head. “Makes you wonder what happened to make him so gun-shy about relationships.”
But that evening, eight years ago, I had walked into—
I cut the thought off before it can fully form, my hands tightening around the coffee pot.
The fire engines return about an hour later, their sirens silent but their presence unmistakable. Through the window, I watch the trucks pull into the station bay, my eyes searching automatically for a familiar figure.
Luke climbs down from the lead truck, his uniform dirty and his helmet tucked under his arm. Even from across the street, I can see he’s moving carefully, favoring his left arm.
“Is he hurt?” The words slip out before I can stop them.
Mrs. Carmichael follows my gaze and squints through the window. “Hard to tell from here. Probably just tired. These calls take a lot out of them.”
I find myself watching more closely than I should, tension knotting in my shoulders. He’s definitely favoring that arm.
The bell above the door chimes, and Sam walks in carrying a large cardboard box marked Interior Fall Decorations.
“Delivery for one coffee shop in desperate need of seasonal flair,” he announces, setting the box on the counter with a theatrical grunt. “Mom wants the inside to match the outside decorations you hung the other day.”
Mom claps her hands together. “Perfect timing! Hazel, would you mind helping Sam with these? We could use some autumn touches on the tables and around the seating area.”
I look between Sam and the box, then glance toward the window where Luke has disappeared into the fire station. “What if Luke comes by for our meeting?”
“Then he’ll find you being productive,” Sam says, already pulling cinnamon-scented candles and small cornucopias from the box. “Besides, we should get these up before the afternoon rush.”
Sam starts arranging mini pumpkins and pinecones along the windowsills while I work on placing autumn-themed table runners on each table. The warm oranges and golds immediately make the space feel cozier.
“So,” he says conversationally as we work, “how was your walk this morning?”
“Fine.”
“Just fine? Because I heard you were seen on my best friend’s property around ten-thirty, returning his escaped dog.”
I nearly drop the candles I’m arranging. “How did you—”
“Luke texted me. Said Max had broken free and you brought him home.” Sam arranges pinecones around a small scarecrow centerpiece, his tone carefully neutral. “Funny how Max has never broken free before.”
“Dogs get loose sometimes.”
“Uh-huh.” Sam moves to the next table. “And I suppose it was just coincidence that he ran straight to Elm Street where you happened to be walking.”
I start placing battery-operated candles that look to have real flames around the seating area. “What’s your point, Sam?”
“No point. Just thinking that Max is a very smart dog.” He grins at me. “Almost like he knew exactly what he was doing.”
Before I can respond, Sam checks his watch and frowns. “Damn, I need to get back to the shop. Mrs. Peterson is picking up her car at four.” He looks around at the half-decorated coffee shop. “You can finish this, right?”
“I suppose, but some of these boxes look heavy—”
The bell chimes again, and Luke walks in, still in his firefighter uniform but cleaned up from the call. His left sleeve is rolled up slightly, revealing a red mark on his forearm.
“Perfect timing!” Sam announces with obvious glee. “Luke, my sister needs someone with actual muscle to help move these decorations around. I volunteer you for heavy lifting duty.”
Luke raises an eyebrow. “Do I get a say in this?”
“Nope,” Sam says cheerfully, already heading for the door. “Consider it community service.” He pauses at the threshold and gives me a wicked grin. “Oh, and Hazel? I left your death trap parked outside. Try not to die in a fiery crash on your way home.”
“Sam!” I protest, but he’s already gone, leaving me alone with Luke and a half-decorated coffee shop.
Luke looks between me and the remaining boxes of decorations. “Death trap?”
“My car. Sam thinks it’s going to spontaneously combust.”
“Now, sweetheart. Sam said that wasn’t likely, just imminent mechanical failure leading…” My dad says, trailing off and giving a wink on the way back to the kitchen.
“Ah.” Luke’s lips twitch in what might be a smile. “And here I thought he was talking about something dangerous.”
Despite my nervousness about being alone with him, I can’t help but smile back. “Very funny.”
Luke moves closer, and I catch the scent of smoke and something clean—soap, maybe, or shampoo. “So, what exactly am I volunteering for?”
I gesture at the remaining boxes. “Interior decorations. Table centerpieces, wall hangings, that sort of thing.” I pause, noticing the way he’s holding his left arm. “Are you okay? You look like you’re hurt.”
He glances down at his arm, then back at me. “Just a small burn from the call.” He winces slightly as he shifts his weight. “Nothing serious.”
“Should you be lifting heavy things?”
“It’s fine, Hazel.” But there’s something in his voice—not quite pain, but careful awareness of the injury. He reaches for one of the heavier boxes with his right arm, then stops with a sharp intake of breath.
I study his face, looking for signs of discomfort. “Are you sure? Because if you’re hurt—”
“I’m sure.” He tries to reach for the box again and winces more obviously this time.
“Wait.” The word comes out sharper than I intended. “Let me see.”
“See what?”
“Your arm. The burn.”
Luke goes very still. “It’s nothing.”
“Then you won’t mind showing me.”
For a moment, we just stare at each other. Then, slowly, Luke rolls up his sleeve further, revealing an angry red mark about three inches long on his forearm.
My breath catches. It’s not huge, but it looks painful, the skin raised and irritated. “Luke, that’s not nothing.”
“It’ll heal.”
“Have you put anything on it? Cleaned it properly?”
“I will.”
“You will?” I cross my arms. “When?”
He shrugs with his good shoulder, then winces again. “When I get home.”
“That’s not good enough.” I’m already moving toward the back of the coffee shop. “Mom keeps a first aid kit in the kitchen. We’re going to clean that properly.”
“Hazel—”
“Sit down. Outside. The light’s better out there.”
Something in my tone must convince him, because he goes outside to the small patio area in front of the coffee shop. When I return with the first aid kit, he’s settled into one of the outdoor chairs, his injured arm resting carefully on the table.
“This is unnecessary,” he says as I pull up a chair beside him.
“Humor me.” I open the kit and pull out antiseptic wipes and burn gel. “Give me your arm.”
He extends his injured arm reluctantly, and I have to bite back a gasp when I see the burn up close. The skin is red and blistered in places, clearly painful despite his stoic act.
“This happened during the call?” I ask, gently cleaning around the edges of the burn.
“Piece of debris fell from the ceiling at Miller’s Orchard.” His voice is tight, and he sucks in a breath when I touch a particularly tender spot. “Caught my arm just above the glove.”
“Why didn’t you treat it properly at the scene?”
“We were busy.” He winces again as I apply antiseptic. “And it didn’t seem that bad at the time.”