Chapter 11
chapter
eleven
I made it exactly three blocks before I had to pull into the Shell on Maple Street. Not because I needed gas — my tank was three-quarters full — but because my hands were shaking too badly to trust myself on the road.
I pulled up to pump three and just... sat there.
The taste of tres leches lingered on my tongue, sweet and rich and somehow perfect.
My lips still tingled from that second kiss.
The way Jimmy had looked at me when I'd turned back, like I was giving him everything he'd ever wanted just by wanting him back.
God, that kiss.
When was the last time someone had cooked for me? Really cooked, not just thrown together a sandwich or picked up takeout? When was the last time someone had been nervous about whether I'd like something they'd made?
When was the last time someone had wanted to impress me instead of change me?
A sharp honk from behind made me jump. I looked up to find an irritated-looking guy in a Suburban gesturing at the pump.
How long had I been sitting here? The pump wasn't even in my hand — I'd just pulled up and zoned out completely, lost in the memory of Jimmy's hands shaking as he served dessert, the panic in his eyes over the tres leches, the way he'd said "I really, really wanted to impress you. "
I waved apologetically at Suburban Guy and fumbled for my phone, my cheeks burning. Jesus, Delgado, get it together. You're a fire lieutenant who runs into burning buildings, and one kiss from a sweet nurse has you forgetting how gas stations work.
But my fingers were already typing:
I sat in my truck for five minutes trying to remember how to drive. Pretty sure that's your fault.
I stared at the message for a second — was it too much? Too forward? — then hit send before I could overthink it. Then, because Suburban Guy was looking increasingly murderous, I actually got out and went through the motions of pumping gas I didn't need.
My phone buzzed:
Jimmy
Fair is fair. I think my brain is STILL short-circuiting. Thank you for tonight.
Then another:
Jimmy
And I hope the tres leches didn't give you nightmares about cultural insensitivity.
I found myself grinning at my phone like an idiot as the gas pump clicked off.
Only nightmares about how good it was. I might have to demand the recipe.
Jimmy
Trade secret. But I might be convinced to make it again sometime.
I'd like that.
The three little dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again. I realized I was holding my breath.
Jimmy
Good. Because I'd really like to see you again. Soon.
Me too.
I put my phone away and finally drove home, but my mind kept drifting as I navigated the familiar streets. A text from my mother popped up at a red light:
Carmen
Hope you're having a good day off, mija. Call me this week?
The message brought back her voice from our last conversation: You need to find someone nice, Izzy. Someone who can take care of you for once.
Take care of me. Like I was some fragile thing that needed protecting.
But Jimmy... Jimmy hadn't tried to protect me from anything. He'd just seen me — really seen me — and decided I was worth the effort. Worth impressing.
I started the truck and pulled into traffic, my mind drifting to the last time someone had tried to "take care" of me.
THREE YEARS AGO
"You're never here anymore," Derek had said, his voice tight with accusation as I walked through my apartment door at 7 a.m. after a particularly brutal 48-hour shift. "I feel like I'm dating a ghost."
I'd been too tired to fight, too wrung out from two days of back-to-back calls to do anything but shower and collapse into bed. But Derek had other plans.
"We need to talk about this, Izzy. About us. About your priorities."
"My priorities?" I'd turned from the bathroom doorway, still in my smoky duty uniform. "Derek, I just spent two days pulling people out of burning buildings. I'm exhausted."
"And that's the problem." He'd been sitting on my couch like he owned the place, arms crossed, jaw set in that stubborn line I'd once found attractive. "This job is consuming you. You're becoming someone I don't recognize."
The irony was that the job had made me exactly who I was supposed to be.
Confident, capable, strong. But Derek had fallen for the off-duty version of me — the one who wore sundresses to barbecues and laughed at his jokes about women drivers.
He'd loved the idea of dating a firefighter until he realized what that actually meant.
"You knew what I did when we started dating," I'd said, leaning against the doorframe because I was too tired to stand without support.
"I thought it was temporary. A phase." Derek had stood up, started pacing around my living room like a caged animal. "But you're talking about taking the Lieutenant's exam, Izzy. You want to make this your whole life."
"It is my whole life."
"And where does that leave me? Leave us?"
I'd stared at him, this man I'd been dating for eight months, and realized he'd never understood me at all.
He'd wanted the firefighter fantasy — the calendar girl in turnouts — not the reality of someone who came home smelling like smoke and chemicals, who got called out in the middle of dinner, who had nightmares about the people she couldn't save.
"I don't know," I'd said honestly.
"Well, I do." Derek had grabbed his jacket from the back of my chair, his movements sharp with anger. "You need to choose, Izzy. The job or me. Because I'm not going to sit around waiting for you to decide I'm worth coming home to."
The ultimatum had hung in the air between us like smoke from a structure fire — toxic and impossible to ignore.
"Then I guess you have your answer," I'd said quietly.
He'd looked shocked, like he'd expected me to fold. To choose him over the career I'd built, the crew that depended on me, the calling that had saved me after my father died. Like he'd expected me to choose being comfortable over being myself.
"You'll regret this," he'd said on his way to the door. "You can't marry the job, Izzy. It'll never love you back."
I pulled into my apartment complex, Derek's words still echoing in my head. You can't marry the job. It'll never love you back.
Maybe not. But it had never asked me to be smaller, either. It had never demanded I choose between who I was and who someone else wanted me to be.
And before Derek, there had been Marcus — the personal trainer who'd loved my "athletic build" until he realized I was stronger than him.
Who'd made increasingly pointed comments about how I should "soften up" my look, grow my hair longer, wear more makeup.
Who'd sulked when I could deadlift more weight than him and stopped inviting me to his gym.
Before Marcus, there had been Ryan — the construction foreman who'd been impressed by my "tough chick" persona until I'd gotten promoted to full firefighter and started making more money than him. Suddenly, I was "too ambitious," "too focused on work," "not feminine enough."
All of them had wanted the idea of a strong woman — right up until they had to live with the reality of one.
But tonight... tonight had been different.
I climbed the stairs to my apartment, Jimmy's voice replaying in my head: I really, really wanted to impress you.
Not change me. Not fix me. Not make me smaller or softer or more convenient.
Impress me.
He'd spent hours cooking, had worried about every detail, had been nervous about whether I'd like it. He'd been flustered and adorable when I questioned the tres leches, but not defensive. Not angry. Just... honest about his intentions.
And when I'd kissed him, he hadn't tried to take control or turn it into something more aggressive. He'd just kissed me back like he couldn't quite believe it was happening.
I unlocked my apartment and stepped inside, the familiar silence greeting me. But for the first time in years, it didn't feel lonely. It felt... peaceful. Like maybe I wouldn't be filling it with just my own company much longer.
I headed for the shower, still tasting tres leches and possibility. For the first time in three years, I wasn't thinking about Derek's ultimatum or Marcus's insecurities or Ryan's wounded pride.
I was thinking about Jimmy's hands shaking as he served dessert, about the way he'd looked at me like I was something precious, about how he'd cooked for me — really cooked — just because he wanted to make me happy.
Maybe Carmen was wrong. Maybe I didn't need someone to take care of me.
Maybe I just needed someone who wanted to.
And maybe … I’d found him.