Chapter 9
“Good scald tonight, Ed. The habaneros…” Dylan gave the lieutenant, Nate’s dad, a fist bump as he cleared the older man’s bowl from the table in the fire station kitchen. “My mouth is on fire, man.”
“My chili’s not for the weak of heart,” Ed Rottinghaus said.
“He doesn’t do mild,” Nate told Dylan. “He serves the Thanksgiving bird with jalapenos and hot sauce. You gonna join us this year?”
“I just might.”
Nate and Dylan shared the cleanup duties tonight since Ed had cooked and most of the other guys on duty had just been called out on a medical. The TV in the corner of the room was on, and Ed turned the sound up on the local news. “Hey, look,” he said.
“Officials now believe the cause of the fire to be arson. The office building was a total loss, but the property owner says he plans to rebuild as soon as possible. Investigators have asked anyone who has information regarding the fire to call the hotline at the number on the screen…”
There was no new information in the segment, but Nate had turned off the faucet and set aside the dirty chili pot as soon as it had started. “Hope they catch the bastard,” he muttered to himself.
“How’s Sophie doing?” Dylan asked. “Have you talked to her?”
“She was released yesterday. She’s doing pretty well, all things considered.”
Nate heard his dad’s chair scrape the floor and knew his old man was now gaping at him, probably with a toothpick sticking out of his mouth. “Son, is there something you aren’t telling me? Who’s Sophie?”
“Sophie Alexander.”
“She’s the hottie he carried out of the fire,” Dylan said with a knowing grin.
Ed stood and took the empty bread plate to the counter, setting it down next to Nate, who’d resumed washing the large stainless pot. He could feel his dad’s gaze fixed on him.
“What?” Nate said, going for innocent because he didn’t know what else to do.
“You seem to know an awful lot about this ‘hottie.’”
Nate was a grown man, and there was no reason to hide that he’d visited Sophie. More than once. No reason other than avoiding the shit he knew his old man would flip his way.
“I drove her home from the hospital. No big deal.”
“You sure that’s wise?”
That elicited a laugh from Nate. “Driving her home? I think it worked out okay for everyone.”
“Seems above and beyond the call of duty,” Ed said.
“And?” Nate said, finally glancing toward his dad, who did, indeed, have a toothpick hanging out.
“Where were you last night?” his dad asked.
Nate met his gaze directly. “At her condo.”
Dylan let out a whoop, and Nate thought about punching him to shut him up. Then he realized how out of proportion that reaction was to the situation and shook it off.
“I made her dinner,” he said. “That’s all. Hell, you were still awake when I got home, old man.”
“You made her dinner? Shit,” Dylan said, and Nate’s dad stared at his son as if he’d just announced he was having a sex change operation.
“I can’t remember the last time you cooked a woman dinner,” Ed said, turning his back to the counter and leaning against it, arms crossed. “Oh, hold on a sec. I remember. Never.”
“Told you she’s hot,” Dylan said.
“How do you know what she looks like?” Nate asked.
“She was in the newspaper, man.”
Nate hadn’t thought to check it out, but he would.
“Gotta be careful, son. You’ll want to make sure she’s not a groupie.”
Nate scoffed. “She tried to ditch me when I came to pick her up, Dad.”
His dad let out a belly laugh, and of course, Dylan couldn’t shut the hell up either. Nate blew them off.
“She sounds like exactly what you need then.” Ed nodded, as if he were an expert on anything having to do with women. Of course he’d think he was, since, for the first time since Nate’s mom had left, the lieutenant was seeing someone. Seeing an awful lot of her.
“Rotten House!” Rafe Sanchez’s voice came from out in the hallway. “Better get out here!”
Nate rinsed off the clean pot and handed it to Dylan to put away. He dried his hands with a paper towel, beaned it at Dylan’s head, then went out to see what Rafe was hollering about.
“What the hell do you want, San—”
Sophie was standing in the hall where it intersected with the public entryway.
Nate stopped. Looked around for Rafe as if he could explain, but the medic had vanished.
“Wha— Sophie.” He walked toward her, unable to keep the smile off his face. “You’re not who I expected to see.” Behind him, he heard his father and his blockhead friend craning their necks out of the kitchen. “Go away,” he called over his shoulder.
“Sorry to disappoint,” Sophie said, looking shy. Nervous. Enticing.
“You’re much better-looking than Rafe, trust me.” He stopped a foot away and resisted the urge to touch her.
Her cheeks had spots of pink in them today, and her eyes looked more alive.
The thin layer of coral-colored gloss she’d put on didn’t hurt either.
In fact, it made him get caught up looking at her lips for too long.
Her voice still had a sexy hint of roughness to it, and he wondered what she’d sound like when she was fully recovered.
He selfishly hoped she didn’t lose all of the rasp.
“I brought homemade salted caramel brownies for everyone. To say thank you.”
He glanced down at the plastic-wrapped oval platter stacked three high with chocolate squares. “Smart, gorgeous, and she bakes, folks. Come with me.”
“I don’t, actually.”
“Don’t?”
“Bake. I can run a handheld mixer like nobody’s business — if you turn a blind eye to the splatters of chocolate all over the kitchen — but the baking cred goes to my business assistant and friend, Iona. She’s your goddess.”
“You get at least fifty percent credit for mixing — and delivering.” He led her into the kitchen against his better judgment because the two stooges were still hovering, trying to decide what they were more interested in checking out, Sophie or the brownies.
“This is Sophie Alexander,” Nate said, setting the plate in the center of the table, which was tradition whenever someone brought in something to share.
“Sophie, that’s Dylan Long” — he pointed to the shorter, younger man who’d practically rushed the table — “and this is my dad, Lieutenant Ed Rottinghaus.”
Sophie seemed to freeze when she realized she’d walked into meeting his father, but she covered it almost instantly.
“Nice to meet you both. Lieutenant.” He stood, and she shook his hand and looked all business.
Then she offered her hand to Dylan, who already held a brownie in his left one. “Dylan.”
After shaking her hand, Dylan took a bite and groaned as if the dessert was as good as sex. “Amazing.”
“I wanted to thank the department for saving my life. These seem a little inadequate…”
“Best thank you for these guys is food,” Nate’s dad said, helping himself to one before settling back down in the captain’s chair at the head of the long table.
Nate looked from his dad to Dylan, who also settled into a chair. Both of them stuffed chocolate into their mouths and stared at the TV screen, which was now tuned to Wheel of Fortune. Neither of them got the idea that maybe they should scram and give him some privacy with Sophie.
“How about a tour? Or a walk?” Or anything to get away from his father and Tweedledee.
“Oh. Sure.”
He reached out his arm toward her and pressed his hand to the small of her back, finally giving in to the urge to touch her.
Maybe Sophie would become a nun or something. That had to be easier than asking a good-looking, funny, dripping-with-muscles firefighter out on a date. How had she let Iona convince her it would work out?
Champagne was from the devil.
She wasn’t sure about pedicures either, although, underneath her boots and a layer of socks, her fire-engine-red toenails did look good.
Nate showed her the common areas of the station and the sleeping quarters and gave her a quick glance at the offices, and then they headed out to the apparatus floor, as he called it.
In her mind, it was the garage. They walked across two vast, empty bays to the truck on the far side.
She’d tried to pay close attention to everything Nate had said on the tour, but she got sidetracked easily, by things like his hands, the length of his fingers as he pointed to something, the way his navy blue uniform pants that were supposed to be utilitarian and boring hugged his butt just enough to give her thoughts — non-PG thoughts…
“This here is the hose we pull out for car fires,” Nate said at the front of the truck. “It’s hooked up and ready to go. Fast.”
He led her around to the driver’s side, beyond the cab, and opened compartments.
Explained what everything was. The smooth timbre of his voice lulled her and made it hard to concentrate on what he was saying.
As she stared at him in his white SAIFD T-shirt, uniform pants, and boots, remembering the feel of his short, coarse hair in her fingers when they’d kissed, any confidence she’d built up to ask him out faltered.
Maybe she could just make a quick escape and call the brownie delivery good.
“These gauges control all the hoses … the pressure … the… You don’t really care about all this, do you?”
“I…” Sophie jerked her gaze to his. “I do. But I was…” So busted. “Trying to work up the nerve to ask you out.” It came out in a rush, an ungraceful, uncool rush, but it was out there now.
Nate’s look of concern morphed into a half grin, and he stepped closer to her — a lot closer than a tour guide would stand.
“Yeah?” He rested one hand on the side of the truck, his hazel eyes piercing hers, and it seemed like he was interested.
Sophie swallowed. “If I did, what would you say?”
“Well, that depends…”
“On?”
“What’d you have in mind?”
Her plans suddenly seemed lamer than ever. Business, Sophie. Imagine this is for work. “Dinner at Raul’s,” she said, banking on the knowledge that it was one of his favorites, based on their conversation last night.
“Hmm…” He peered down at her, and she fidgeted.
Her pretend-it’s-business scheme was flawed.
She rarely asked business associates out in person — it was usually planned via email or a phone call.
And she never stood this close — close enough that she could smell his soap and the salty, spicy maleness that was his scent — when talking to a business associate.
Nate laughed quietly. “I’m torn.”
Between yes and no? Sophie tried not to let her panic show on her face.
“I’m torn between watching you try to hide how nervous you are and telling you I was going to ask you out too.”
Her shoulders relaxed, and she breathed out. “Cruel.”
“Maybe a little. Guys shouldn’t have to do all the sweating.”
“Maybe not, but I’m glad they do most of it.”
Nate brushed her hair behind her shoulder, then ran his fingers over her cheek, making her heart skip a few beats. “A guy would be crazy to say no to you.”
She stifled the urge to turn her head just enough to press her lips to his fingers. “Is that a yes?”
“As long as it’s more than just dinner. I’d hate for you to go through all this pain and torment just for an hour-and-a-half date. There should be something afterwards.”
She could think of a few somethings afterwards, but she didn’t have the nerve to say so, even as a joke.
His fingers trailed back into her hair, onto her neck, giving her shivers and making her think of being alone with him and his hands and the rest of him.
Her body responded with an ache between her legs.
Clearing her throat, she reined her thoughts in. “I came up with dinner, so you get to figure out what’s after that. Whatever you want, as long it’s doctor approved.”
“Doctor approved. So no marathon running. No boxing. No contact sports. I think I can work around those.”
She endeavored not to think too hard about contact sports with him. “Friday?” she asked.
“It’s a date.”
A date had been her objective from the start, so why, as they forgot about the rest of the truck tour and walked back toward the main door, did she feel suddenly sick with nerves?