Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
RACHEL
I study the tank top I have on in the mirror, twisting every which way to ensure there are no rogue stains on it. I’ve been caught before wearing a shirt out, only to realize too late I have something like chocolate or raspberry smeared all over a hard to see spot.
Not that this is a big deal, I remind myself. Nick and I are going to audition a high school band for a fundraiser. It’s not exactly romantic.
But after that slip of a kiss yesterday… No, that was acting. Barely anything.
But the way he looked in my eyes later as he kissed my knuckles…
No, no. Acting . That’s all it was.
So why was I completely off my game at the bakery today? Sydney caught me more than once standing with a measuring cup in hand, lost in thought. Over-mixing batter. Forgetting about what I had in the oven.
It was all so unlike me, she didn’t even tease me for it. She genuinely suggested I should go to the doctor.
I startle as my phone buzzes and the doorbell rings at the same time, and I chide myself for getting too wrapped up in my thoughts again.
I check my phone, but it’s only a text from Mom, asking me to research cappuccino-infused eclairs to sell at the bakery.
It’s a taste of Rome in every bite , she says, even though eclairs are French.
She’s probably already forgotten about the ricotta cannolis.
I ignore her for now, heading to the front door.
Nick is there, still in his Aurora Fire Department shirt. He must be on the clock for this outing.
“You ready?” he asks, and I nod, shutting and locking the door behind me.
When I turn, his gaze cuts to the video doorbell and back to me. He leans in and presses a kiss to my cheek. “I missed you.”
I stare at him, tangled in a cacophony of confusion for a moment before my brain connects the dots. The camera in the doorbell. Right.
“I—I missed you, too.” I stumble over the words, even though they’re not a lie. I did miss him. Thought about him all day.
He takes my hand in his as he leads us down the porch steps and toward his truck, the same as we did last night. But this time I’m prepared. I swipe my thumb over his inner palm, reveling in the roughness, and he looks over at me, a question in his gaze.
I look straight ahead, as if I did nothing. What am I doing? He’s holding my hand for the camera, not because of anything else.
Even so, after he situates me in the passenger side and rounds the front of the truck, I hold my hand to my cheek for the briefest moment, swearing I can feel the imprint of his lips there.
When we’re on the road, I bring up the topic of advertising for the fundraiser, so I don’t start rambling about hand holding and cheek kisses and other stupid things that mean nothing.
I tell him I’ll make a flyer now that we have a date and he agrees to take it around to places like the library and community center to put on their bulletin boards. He also has contacts at the schools and local churches that may be willing to help spread the word, too.
Of course I’ll put a stack of flyers out at work as well, especially since I’ll list Aurora Bakery as a community partner . I can’t imagine Sydney or Hailey will have a problem with it.
Nick stops at a secluded cul de sac on the far side of town, and it’s fairly obvious which house we’ll be going to, since there’s only one with the garage open and a gaggle of teenagers spilling out from inside.
We exchange a glance but say nothing as we make our way there.
“They’re here,” an excited whisper sounds from ahead, and the crowd of about ten teens parts to reveal the actual band—a boy with shaggy hair on drums, a girl with a rainbow pixie cut on bass, and another boy who must be the fire chief’s nephew based on facial similarities with a microphone clutched in one hand and a guitar in the other.
I’m not sure who the other teens are. Maybe friends here to support the band?
“Oh, no way. You’re the firefighter,” a kid from the group says to Nick, awe all over his face.
“Um, yeah?” Nick responds, almost in a questioning way.
The boy stuffs his hands in his hoodie pocket, as if he isn’t sure what to do with them. “That was so cool what you did last week, pulling that guy out of the wreck over on Second Street.”
Nick shifts, appearing taken aback, and shrugs. “Just doing my job.”
The boy scoffs and shakes his head, the awe looking more like hero worship now.
“Dude, that car was on fire . Me and Brody were across the street.” He motions to the boy with the microphone and guitar.
“We thought for sure it was going to explode. And you went right in and pulled him out. It was badass.”
Hold up. Nick pulled someone out of a burning car? I mean, yes, logically I know he’s a firefighter. But that sounds dangerous. Why have I never really considered that before?
Nick chuckles, as if it isn’t a big deal, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I had my gear on. It’s not like I went in unprotected.
” He’s clearly uncomfortable with the praise as he glances around at the teens, all of them looking back at him with varying degrees of admiration. “But, thanks. I appreciate it.”
Something compels me to reach for his hand and squeeze it, to let him know I’m here with him, and he looks at me gratefully, as if he isn’t sure what to do with the recognition he’s receiving.
“How about we hear some music?” I ask the band, attempting to redirect the conversation.
There are a few cheers from the group, and thankfully it works as the three teenagers take their positions, fiddling with their instruments and an amp set up in the corner of the garage.
My hand is still in Nick’s and though it’s past time to let go of it… I don’t. His fingers are a quiet, steady weight wrapped around mine, his palm warm and rough. Solid and grounding, the way he is.
I absently trace over the ridge of a scar on his knuckle, and his fingers flex in response. Neither of us says anything, neither acknowledging we’re still holding hands, that there’s no reason to keep doing this.
And as the teens press in closer to form a mini-concert audience, he tugs me into his side, the scent of cedar and clean soap enveloping me.
I inhale deeply, uncaring at the moment if he notices, looking up at him out of the corner of my eye.
His strong jaw is right there, so close I could reach up on tiptoes if I wanted to kiss it.
“Do you ever grow out a beard?” I ask him, saying the first thing that comes to mind.
He looks down at me, amused. “I can’t.”
“You can’t grow a beard?”
His smile grows. “I mean I can’t for work. We have to stay clean shaven so we can get a good seal on the masks we wear.”
I must look confused because he continues, “Self contained breathing apparatus. They’re respirators we use when we go into a hazard zone. If the seal’s not right, it could let in smoke or toxins.”
“Right. That’s important.”
His free hand comes up to brush his upper lip. “I could do a mustache, though.”
I can’t help making a face. “I don’t like mustaches on guys. It doesn’t look right without a beard. Unless you’re Tom Selleck.”
He grins. “No mustache it is, then.”
I realize what I said. “Oh, I didn’t mean—”
“What you think is important to me,” he admits quietly.
My heart flutters in my chest, but I don’t have a chance to respond because the fire chief’s nephew, Brody, is announcing that the band is going to blow our minds into the microphone.
The responding cheers from the other teens jar me enough that I let go of Nick’s hand, immediately mourning its loss.
It’s for the best, though. It was weird we were even holding hands to begin with, right?
The music begins and I can’t quite place the song until the lyrics start up.
“ Just a small town girl, livin’ in a lonely world ,” Brody croons, surprising me with how good his voice sounds in comparison to his gangly appearance.
“Is that Journey?” I ask, a little confused. “How old do they think we are?”
Nick shrugs, nodding to the beat. “I don’t know, but they’re not bad.”
Around us, the teens are getting into it, some singing along, others dancing to the music. Their energy is infectious, and Nick sways playfully to the rhythm, grinning at me.
“I didn’t peg you for a dancer,” I tell him, unable to keep my own smile off my face.
“What can I say? I’m full of surprises.” He grabs my hand and twirls me in place as the chorus starts up, and I find myself getting caught up in the spirit of the crowd, singing along, too.
It’s not a perfect performance by any means.
The drummer breaks a drumstick mid-song and scrambles to find another.
The amp cuts out briefly and all three band members freeze until it resumes.
My favorite, though, is when Brody gets really into it and tries a dramatic spin move that has him tripping, the lyrics garbled until he gets hold of himself.
However, for the low, low price of free, we can’t ask for much more. Besides, if they attracted this many friends to come out and watch them practice, how many more will show up for the actual event?
The last notes of the song vibrate in the air, and I push back the wisps of hair that have escaped my ponytail, breathless, my heart pounding from both dancing and the occasional brush of Nick’s arm against mine.
“All right, something a little slower now,” Brody drawls into the microphone, going for a cocky confidence he almost manages to pull off.
The opening chords of “I Don’t Want To Miss A Thing” by Aerosmith drifts through the air, the high energy of the last song melting into something softer. The shift in tempo is instant, and I’m conscious of Nick standing beside me.
His smiles fades, becoming more unreadable, his gaze on me. “Dance with me?” he asks, his voice lower, rougher than usual, as he holds out a hand in my direction.