Chapter Three
“It even smells nice. Like roses or something. Here, smell it, Frankie,” rasped a voice that Angel immediately recognized as Catherine’s, mostly due to its smoky, almost guttural timbre that men—and women—found extremely sexy.
And also, because Angel had worked with her for the last fifteen years.
She could identify her voice out of an entire choir of voices if she had to.
It was Friday morning and Angel was at the top of the stairwell that headed to the second floor of Fire Station Four.
To the left was the kitchen and living room.
She could hear laughter and the soft thump of footsteps and wondered how Catherine and Frankie could be so awake at eight in the morning.
Rubbing at her right eye, which hadn’t yet opened properly and was still half asleep, Angel swung herself lazily forward and straightened the bag that was falling down her shoulder.
In it were another two Tupperware containers of bread and butter pudding, one for Catherine and another one for Bruce.
She hadn’t planned on giving them any of it, but Aunt Mags had phoned last night, inquiring if Angel’s friends had enjoyed the pudding, and she couldn’t very well lie to her Aunt Mags.
She’d smell a rat and fly all the way back from Sydney to scold her in person.
Angel was halfway down the corridor when she heard Frankie singing, “Damn! It smells just like flowers. How do you think she even did that?”
“Magic. She looks like one of those Celtic goddesses, doesn’t she, with the red hair? She’s probably into spells and potions.”
Angel stopped. Were they talking about Samantha, the fire dancer?
The same Samantha who was responsible for setting fire to her backyard and whose face had jumped into her mind at the most inconvenient times last night, especially when she had tried desperately to fall asleep.
It was as though Samantha was waiting behind a curtain and whenever Angel closed her eyes, she would jump out and shout, ‘Surprise! I live in your memory bank now!’
Angel wasn’t sure what it was that was so intriguing about Samantha that she couldn’t stop thinking about her.
Maybe it was the bright red hair that reminded her of the fiery blazes she worked so hard to put out on the daily.
Or maybe it was her light brown eyes that resembled the teaspoon of honey she stirred into her lemon water every morning.
Or maybe it was the fact that she had been barefoot and danced in her backyard in the middle of a Thursday.
A Thursday. Angel couldn’t think of the last time she had done anything so free and uninhibited, if ever. Especially not on a Thursday.
“Yeah,” chuckled Frankie. “Can you imagine what her house must look like—”
“What are you guys doing?” asked Angel when she stepped into the small living room.
Catherine, who was sitting on the edge of the coffee table, and Frankie, who was lying flat on the sofa, both whipped their heads in her direction.
Clutched in Catherine’s hand was a letter. A letter on blush pink parchment paper. With a gleaming smile on her tanned face, she waved it through the air. “Your girlfriend sent a letter this morning.”
“My what?” Angel frowned. Before Catherine could wave the card through the air again, Angel snatched it out of her hand and walked away. The letter did smell like roses and the handwriting was soft and curly and rather adorable.
Dear Angel. Just want to say thank you a million times over for swooping in like a superhero and rescuing me yesterday.
You’re not just a firefighter, but a real guardian angel.
I hope you like shortbread. It’s my grandmother’s recipe, and she always believed it saved lives.
P.S., maybe we can grab a coffee sometime.
I owe you… With sincere appreciation, Samantha.
“Where’s the shortbread?” asked Angel, whose heart was beating just a little faster as she reread the card another time.
It wasn’t unusual for civilians to send cards and gifts after a rescue, but this one hit differently.
Not only was it personal, directed at Angel, but it also mentioned a coffee.
Was coffee code for something else? Was the red-headed fire setter interested in Angel?
Ignoring the heat rushing up to her neck, threatening to make Angel blush, she quickly scanned the room, hoping to see a box or a plastic Tupperware container full of shortbread. At least she could eat the embarrassment away.
“Look, Angel,” said Frankie as he looked guiltily down at his toes. “I ate the shortbread before I even knew it was for you. I just saw it on the table and—”
“You ate my shortbread?” interrupted Angel sharply, even though she wasn’t really fond of the biscuit.
It was too crumbly, but still. It was a gift.
A gift she didn’t really want, but for some reason couldn’t help defending.
Reaching out for Frankie’s foot, she was going to jerk his skinny frame off the sofa when Catherine stood up and blocked her path.
“It wasn’t just him. I had some too. Seriously, Angel, we had no idea it was from her. We only found the letter afterward. It was lying underneath the paper box.”
With a deep breath in, Angel sighed heavily, her exhale echoing through the room like a gust of wind.
Both flinched and looked as startled and unsettled as deer in headlights.
It was always a treat to scare the two of them.
Angel didn’t mind that they had eaten the shortbread, not at all, but watching them scramble was too much fun.
“Well, I guess your portion of Aunt Mags’ pudding is going straight to Bruce.
I’m sure he’ll appreciate it more than you, Cathy. ”
Catherine’s head whipped in Frankie’s direction.
“This is all your fault,” she retorted and tackled Frankie, who was just a second too late with his defense.
Launching herself at him again, Catherine drowned out his protests with a masterful pinch right under his arm.
It was a classic ambush of getting that sensitive part of flesh that left Frankie squirming and helpless.
Shaking her head at the display—although secretly enjoying it—Angel ignored the two of them and read the letter again.
P.S. Maybe we can grab a coffee sometime.
That was the absolute last thing Angel wanted. Not only did she not have time for any sort of romantic endeavors—considering that the invitation was, in fact, an invitation for a date—but Samantha seemed like she was the last person on this earth she’d date.
A bare-footed, fire-dancer sounded like the definition of trouble.
Angel had an inkling that Samantha was the type of person whose life was scattered and messy and all over the place.
She probably chased sunsets while forgetting to turn off the oven, and she probably used every single crockery and dish while she cooked dinner.
Angel, on the other hand, was all right angles and smooth surfaces without any clutter or mess or even color.
Surely, the combination would be frightening—
The alarm suddenly shrieked.
Just like every other time, it set everyone in the station off in a flurry of activity as firefighters hurried down the corridors, eager to get to their gear.
Even Catherine and Frankie, who were mid-tussle, were already up and headed to the door when Bruce’s voice boomed over the intercom, rattling off an address.
“Wait,” said Catherine, coming to a halt just outside of the doorway. “Isn’t that the same address we went to yesterday? Shortbread’s house.”
Angel’s stomach somersaulted, and she suddenly felt sick.
The only answer was that Samantha had started another fire, this one engulfing her house and possibly herself.
The thought was like a huge knot in her already fragile stomach.
If Samantha died, she’d feel guilty all week for not being grateful enough for the thank you card.
“Let’s go.”
By the time they arrived at the house, Angel’s worry began to ease. There were no flames. No towering black smoke coming from the roof of the house.
“Where’s the fire?” she asked, somewhat angrily, when the truck came to a screeching halt. “Where the hell is the fire?”
Yet, even with the absence of an actual fire, everyone still rushed out of the truck, just in case there was an actual emergency. That was their job, after all… to always be prepared.
The front door of the house flew open, and Samantha came running outside. She was dressed in all-white linen. She had on long flowy pants, and a cropped top that showed her soft but still defined stomach. And just like yesterday, she was barefoot, and her hair was a mane of wavy flames.
“My cat, Ginny!” she yelled and pointed to the sycamore tree. “She’s been up there since the fire yesterday and I’ve tried everything to get her out but she—”
As if called, the cat let out a loud, pitying sort of meow.
Everyone whipped their heads up to the sycamore tree.
It was an orange cat with a fluffy tail flicking back and forth, perched high up on a branch.
For a second, it looked like it was trying to shift its weight.
The branch creaked and everyone held their breath.
“Ma’am. You called the emergency services for a fire,” said Catherine coolly when the cat appeared stable enough and wasn’t at risk of losing one of its nine lives. At least not yet.
“Did I say fire?” Samantha blushed and tapped her full lip with her index finger. “I’m sure I said my cat was stuck in a tree because of the fire. Oh heavens. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to create such a stir.”
Angel stepped forward, exasperated. It appeared she only had one dial when it came to the fire loving stranger.
Incredibly frustrated. “Ma’am, you can’t just call emergency services whenever you feel like it.
It’s not only a waste of resources and time, but it can even be illegal to call fire rescue for something that doesn’t warrant an emergency. ”
“I… I didn’t know that,” stuttered Samantha sheepishly, her cheeks flushing red with embarrassment. If she went any redder, she’d look like a stop sign.
“Well, you do now. We’re here to respond to real emergencies, not a cat-in-a-tree situation,” added Angel, her annoyance simmering beneath the surface.
The only difference was that she felt Samantha’s embarrassment as if it was her own—something Angel had never experienced before, and she was feeling quite unsettled by it.
“I’ve seen how firefighters save cats in movies. I just thought—”
“This isn’t a movie, Samantha,” she said sharply. “We have real lives to save and actual fires to extinguish.” Angel was very aware of everyone staring at them. “You can’t just expect us to drop everything to save a cat.”
“I’m sorry.”
Samantha did look sorry. Her head was down, her shoulders drooped, and even her hair looked as if it had faded a few shades.
There was no reason for Angel to feel bad for Samantha. Calling the emergency services and not specifying the emergency had been irresponsible. Yet, at the same time, she wanted to hug her, to console her, to hold her tightly, and kiss her lightly on the forehead.
Another feeling that was both confusing and infuriating.
“It’s fine. Now can someone please get the ladder and get the cat out of the tree,” said Angel with a resigned sigh. What could she possibly do? It wasn’t like she could just leave the poor cat in the tree just to teach Samantha a lesson.
When Frankie ran back with a rescue ladder under his arm, Mitchell helping, they maneuvered the ladder until it was perched directly beneath the branch.
While Frankie held the ladder steady, Mitchell climbed up, his movements slow and deliberate so as not to scare Ginny.
Within a few angsty minutes, he guided the cat into his arms.
“Here you go, Ma’am,” said Mitchell once he was safely back on the ground, holding the cat tight against his chest. The poor animal looked scared out of its mind.
When Samantha took it gently, she pressed her lips to the top of its head.
There was a subtle shift in the cat’s demeanor.
Angel watched the cat relax at Samantha’s touch.
Magic lips, she thought and found herself wondering what they would feel like to kiss—
“Get out of your head,” she muttered to herself under her breath and walked away, eager to get back to the station. She needed to get as far away from Samantha’s house and her bedroom—and her probably unmade bed—as possible.
“Angel,” called Samantha from behind her. “I hope you don’t mind if I call you Angel, I—”
“What?” she snapped and spun around. The last thing she wanted was to be held up by the fire dancer. The quicker she could leave, the quicker she could forget all about Samantha and these new and very annoying feelings that made her feel uncomfortably warm.
Surprisingly, Samantha didn’t step back. She barely even flinched at Angel’s cold, snapping tone. “There’s a movie showing at the beach tonight. It’s one of those classic Adam Sandler movies. Do you maybe want to join me?”
“No,” said Angel curtly, and was just about to jog away when Samantha reached out and curled her fingers around her forearm. If it wasn’t for the jacket, Angel would’ve broken out into a million goosebumps at her touch. Thank goodness for the jacket.
“Oh, come on. Please,” begged Samantha. She clearly couldn’t recognize the unease plastered all over Angel’s face. Or maybe she did, and she was enjoying it. “I owe you and I’m not going to stop owing you until you let me say thank you.”
“Fine.” Angel had a feeling the only way out of it was to relent. Besides, a movie wouldn’t be too bad. She could stand up halfway and declare that she had a headache, and that she needed to leave. Easy peasy. “What time does it start?”
“Seven pm,” said Samantha cheerily. “I’ll pick you up—”
“I’ll meet you there.” There was no way Angel was going to let Samantha know where she lived. It would be too dangerous. For both of them.