Chapter 5
Chapter Five
K atie’s Jazzercize class had made her sweat, but seeing Frank again made her hot.
This was not something she was proud of—and it should never have happened in the first place. He wasn’t her type.
Firefighter? No thank you.
Mr. Muscles? Not her thing.
A cocky attitude that made her want to forget she knew better? Gag her with a spoon.
Her type was professorial Harrison Ford in Raiders of the Lost Ark, not a redheaded, hulking Conan the Barbarian.
And yet, here she was, with mouth dry and brain blank, staring at the last man in Waterbury who should be giving her all of the best kind of bad ideas.
“I brought cookies,” she said, holding out the Tupperware container filled with her mom’s oatmeal raisin cookies.
Wow, Madigan. Way to really show that man that he has zero impact on your brain’s ability to function.
Yeah, well your brain can suck it because your eyes have to process seeing Frank in a tight T-shirt (because he’s so jacked up there’s no other kind for him) and it’s doing things to you.
Am I having an argument with myself over Frank fucking Hartigan?
Yep.
I am so very, very screwed.
“For my dad,” she said, her cheeks burning with the heat of a thousand suns as Frank stood there doing that grin thing at her. “I brought cookies. For my dad. My mom asked me to drop them off. For him. My dad.”
“Are they chocolate chip?” the guy standing next to Frank asked.
“Sugar?” another offered in question.
Benny O’Rourke, The Creep’s sycophant best friend took a few steps closer to her—as if she wanted to be anywhere even kind of close to him—and asked, “Brown butter?”
She was just gathering up enough brain cells to first take a solid step away from Benny, and second disclose they were oatmeal raisin, when a stiff wind blew in from behind, sending a smattering of orange-colored leaves into the open bay door. That was immediately followed by the unmistakable sound of high heels clicking on the pavement, which cut though the static in her ears with an oh-God-really sense of dread.
“Imagine seeing you here, Katherine,” Sandy O’Shay said, before snapping her gum loud enough that the pigeons on the firehouse lawn scattered. “Those cookies will just go perfect with the tray of ziti I brought as a little thanks for these hardworking fellas who saved my life.”
Katie barely bit back a groan, but couldn’t stop the eye roll. As her mom always told her, “Katie if your mouth doesn’t say it, your face sure will.” Her mom wasn’t wrong. Still, it was hard not to react when Sandy had been milking her so-called brush with death for the past three months.
“It was a trash fire on the street, Sandy,” Katie said, unable to stop the words from coming out.
The other woman held her aluminum-foiled-covered Pyrex dish tighter to her chest and looked off into the middle distance. “But it was so close to my house that some days it’s like I can still feel the flames.”
“The dumpster was at the end of the alley,” Katie said, knowing she should just ignore the other woman. But Sandy had been a bully since their days at St. Bernadette’s School for Girls, and what little give-a-shit Katie once possessed was now just a memory.
Sandy jerked her focus to Katie, giving her a tight smile. “Aren’t you just a font of factoids today?”
“Ladies,” Benny said, rocking back on his heels with a smug look on his freckled face as if they were both there to specifically see his scrawny ass. “There are enough stomachs for all of it.”
“And my special bacon-stuffed twice-baked potatoes, too?” a woman asked.
Katie and Sandy turned in unison as Carla Esposito walked up with a foil-covered platter.
Carla was famous in the neighborhood for her twice baked potatoes. No school, church or civic fundraiser was complete without them—and they always disappeared fast. Sorta like Carla’s shitty ex-husband who’d emptied their bank account six months ago and split for parts unknown. What was it with Waterbury men? The town was full of jerks. Which is why Katie was single and planned on staying that way.
“There’s always room for your potatoes,” one of the guys said with the kind of enthusiasm Katie’s now growling stomach agreed with.
They were all about to head inside, the men all focused on the food (except Frank) and the women all staring at the firefighters (except Katie) when a car backfired. They all jolted in surprise and turned toward the street in time to see Brittany Gershon pull into a parking spot in front of the firehouse. A puff of smoke from the El Camino’s tailpipe hung in the air before a breeze blew it away. Bittany got out of the car, tucked her spiral-permed blonde hair behind one ear, gave them a jaunty wave, and went straight to the back of her El Camino.
“Hope I’m not too late for your dinner,” Brittany called before she hauled a Crock-Pot wrapped in an orange and maroon bath towel and duct tape out of the car’s truck bed. She made her way over to what was now a crowd of women and firefighters in front of the open bay doors. “I made a big batch of beef stew. Just what you need on a crisp fall evening.”
They walked together into the firehouse as some sort of sixteen-legged, awkward mass of hungry (in more ways than one) humanity before stopping next to the shiny red fire truck. No one seemed sure what to do next.
That’s when the door to the captain’s office opened and Katie’s dad walked out. He took one look at the group, raised his bushy white eyebrows, and snorted as if he knew something all of the rest of them were clueless about.
“Well, aren’t we the lucky ones,” Ed said as he rubbed his hands together on the short walk from his office to the group. “Did you have a meeting to figure out what to bring?”
“No,” the women all said at once—Sandy with a little more ‘tude than the rest of them.
“Actually,” Katie said, holding out the Tupperware she’d gotten off the counter at her parents’ house. “Mom sent me with the cookies for you.”
“Thanks Pumpkin,” he said with a grin. “You sticking around for this feast?”
The glare Sandy sent her way almost made her want to say yes. Then she made the mistake of glancing at Frank, who was still doing the grin thing. Her formerly stable stomach did a wobble and a wave. She wasn’t a chicken. No one with the last name Madigan in Waterbury could be—it just wasn’t how the baker’s dozen of them were made. But she was already stepping back toward escape before the first word came out of her mouth. “No,” she said without pausing her retreat. “I have plans.”
Her dad waggled his eyebrows at her. “Hot date, eh?”
Not even close. But she didn’t have plans either, so in for a penny, in for a pound of lies.
“Well before you go,” he said, landing a hand on her shoulder and steering her away from freedom and toward his office, “I have a favor to ask.”
The rest of the group—including Frank, who she did not look over to watch, she just had a neck twitch—made their way from the bay to the kitchen where the rest of the crew let out a few whistles of appreciation at the edible bounty they’d been surprised with.
Katie sat the Tupperware on her dad’s disaster of a desk (how did one person make such a mess?) and sat down in his guest chair. “So what are you up to?”
Whatever it was, it had to be good with the way his eyes were sparkling. Holy hell, her brothers all got the same look when they were about to pull off one of their infamous pranks.
He shut the office door with a firm click, looked around as if there was a chance they weren’t alone, and then clapped with excitement. “Fitzy’s retiring, and I was voluntold to make it a night the crotchety old goat would never forget.”
As if her dad wouldn’t have jumped at the opportunity to send one of his best friend’s off in style. “You say that like you don’t love the guy.”
“Don’t say that too loud,” he groused with a wink. “You’ll ruin my reputation.”
Katie rolled her eyes at her dad. As if everyone in Waterbury didn’t already know he was a total softy.
“So you want my help with planning?” she asked. “You got it.”
“Thanks Pumpkin, you’re the best.” Her dad settled down behind his desk. “I’ll let Hartigan know he’ll be working with you on this.”
Katie’s stomach bypassed her toes and went straight through the soles of her tennis shoes. “Why would he be involved?”
“Because one of the benefits of having underlings is you get to voluntell people to do things,” her dad said with a shrug.
Nope. Not a chance. She’d go out to the drive-in with Benny O’Rourke before she’d work on a project with Frank Hartigan. Her sanity, her temper, and her panties would be safer that way.
“I’m sure he can handle it on his own,” she said as she stood, trying to back toward the door without looking like she was.
“Hartigan?” Her dad scoffed. “I can trust the man at a fire, but for party-planning he needs help.” He looked her right in the eye, and there wasn’t even a hint of a glint of a sparkle in his baby blues. “Your help.”
Katie stopped in her wimpy, sneaking away tracks. “Dad.”
“Look, he’s a good kid and he needs a win to get on the promotion board’s radar.”
Which was not her problem. It wasn’t. Life wasn’t fair. Why should she put any of her days-of-the-week panties in jeopardy for Frank’s promotional chances? There was only one answer. She shouldn’t.
Letting out a quick breath, she straightened her shoulders. Then she shot her dad the ‘who-me’ face that always worked for Connie, so it should work for Katie since they had pretty much the exact same face.
“I’m sure he’ll do a marvelous job without help from me, and the badge brigade will discover his genius in due time,” she said, using her dad’s nickname for an administrative process that he said was thirty-percent proving a person’s skill and seventy-percent ass kissing.
Her dad leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his cookie-built belly. “You’re probably right. You usually are, and I understand if you’d rather not help.” He let out an ‘I-get-it’ sigh. “I mean, a single woman like you around a guy like Hartigan? With his reputation when it comes to women? Who wants it?” He grimaced and shook his head. “Not me. I love you too much to see you get yourself involved with him, even if it’s just to plan a retirement party.”
Oh no. She knew this game. It worked on her brothers. Sometimes it worked on Connie. It was not gonna work on her, no matter how fake-understanding her dad looked right now.
“I wouldn’t,” she said, giving herself a mental high five for not taking the bait.
“Of course not,” her dad said.
She glared at the Tupperware container on his desk. “I brought the cookies for you because mom asked me to, not for him.”
“Exactly,” he said as he popped open the lid and took out a cookie.
She crossed her arms. “I am not someone who falls for guys like him.”
“Never thought you’d be any other way.” He pointed a half-eaten cookie at her. “My Katie Madigan is too smart for that kind of foolishness.”
He was good. Their mom used to tell all of the Madigan kids about what a catch their dad had been back in the day, and how he could charm a nun into a goodnight kiss. It was at times like this, when her resolve started to shake, that Katie believed it.
“Nice try, Dad, but I’m not gonna do it,” she said, wishing she sounded more sure of herself than she did. “Hartigan can plan Fitzy’s retirement by himself.”
Her dad popped the rest of the cookie into his mouth and had the audacity to look bashful. “Can’t blame an old man for wanting to win a bet.”
“What bet?” The question was out of her mouth before she could stop it.
Straightening up in his chair, her dad leaned forward. He pressed his forearms against the top of his desk and said in a near whisper, “Fitzy bet me you wouldn’t work with Hartigan. I said of course you would, because that man couldn’t intimidate you, or cause you a second of thinking about ‘what if.’”
Her gut clenched. “He doesn’t.”
“I know.” He nodded enthusiastically before relaxing back against his chair. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll just let your mother know that our anniversary dinner will be delayed for a few paychecks.”
And there it was. Kill shot loaded. “Dad.”
“Pumpkin, it’s not a big deal.” He held up his hands in a placating manner and gave her an indulgent smile. “When you’ve been married as long as your mother and I have, you’ll understand that sometimes you have to put aside your own wants—like going to that fancy restaurant your mother’s had her heart set on paid for by my winnings—for your children.”
Kill shot fired.
Direct hit.
All of Katie’s breath left her lungs in one big whoosh. She’d been set up. She should never have answered her phone when her mom called. She should never have agreed to bring her dad the cookies. She should never have walked into his office when he said he needed a favor. None of that had happened without forethought and planning by both her parents. Oh yes, her mom’s fingerprints were all over this. They were as plentiful as the raisins in each oatmeal cookie. They’d set her up, together.
“You’re evil, you know that?” she asked with a surrendering sigh.
“Only when it’s for your own good,” her dad replied, with the cheer of a parent who knew he’d won.
“And how is working with Frank Hartigan for my own good?”
“Because.” He winked at her. “Your mother and I want grandchildren before we’re too old to play with them.”
Brain poisoned by the unwelcome idea of adorable, redheaded babies—at least seven of them—all of her thoughts scattered. The only thing going on between her ears was the sound of static. She went momentarily silent, but then pulled herself together as quickly as a woman who most definitely did not want at least seven mischievous redheaded kids could and stared down her dad.
“If you want grandchildren, go be pushy with any of the your dozen other children.”
“Oh I will,” he said, without even a hint of shame. “Doubt not, Pumpkin, that I will.”
Good. Great. Perfect. Let the rest of her siblings feel her pain. Maybe their parents would get lucky with one of the others, but they sure wouldn’t with her. No way.
“I’ll plan the party with Frank,” she said, steeling her resolve. “But you aren’t getting any grandchildren out of it—not a single one.”
Her dad grabbed another cookie. “Whatever you say, Pumpkin.”
She did say it. Swore it. Vowed it. Nothing was going to happen between her and Frank Hartigan. Not even a single, measly, little kiss.