Love in Sleepy Hollow (Heroes of Sleepy Hollow Story Collection)

Chapter 1

DAVE

Coming back to Utica is bittersweet.

There were good times while I lived here.

Nights out with my new friends, playing pool and sharing pitchers of beer while we cheered on the Syracuse basketball team.

Grilling out on the back patio of my tiny apartment, drinking Utica Club and catching a Yankees game.

Day trips to Glimmerglass State Park and the Adirondacks to go hiking and take in the scenery.

When I first came here, I was excited to take the first official step into my adult life. I arrived filled with fantasies of making the city my home, proving myself at work, and truly making a difference.

I even entertained hopes of finding a real relationship, despite the dismal example my parents set for me.

Back in those early days, over a decade ago, I was young and hopeful.

And for a while, it seemed like I’d found everything I’d dreamed of.

Then everything came crashing down.

The people I trusted more than anyone in the world betrayed me.

My job became something I dreaded, instead of something I took pride in.

So I slunk back home to Sleepy Hollow under the auspices of taking care of my ailing father. But deep down, I knew the truth. It was just too painful to stay here anymore.

It’s the height of irony. Me. A firefighter tasked with running into burning buildings, risking my life to save those in danger, not afraid of literally holding someone’s life in my hands. But when it came to heartbreak and betrayal, I was a coward.

When my buddies at the station asked if I’d mind going to the annual Fire and Rescue Conference in Utica, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hesitant.

Over the last six years, I’ve built a comfortable life in Sleepy Hollow, a small town just north of New York City, and I wasn’t overly eager to leave.

Especially to come to the site of such bad memories.

But it made sense for me to go. First, most of my friends are coupled up, either with kids, expecting, or still enjoying the honeymoon stage of their relationship.

As one of the lone single guys at Station 4, I could leave for the three-day conference and no one would really miss me.

Not my dad, who passed away four years ago.

Not my nonexistent girlfriend. Not even a dog, though that’s something I’ve been thinking more and more about over the past year.

Plus, as the town Fire Marshall, it’s my job to stay on top of these things—networking with other fire departments across the state, talking with vendors about the best fire response equipment, and hearing speakers discuss recent advances in arson investigation.

So here I am. In Utica. Again.

It felt eerily familiar coming here, driving west along I-90 past the exits for Herkimer and Little Falls and Cooperstown. I couldn’t help remembering the first time I made the trip, so full of youthful enthusiasm it makes my heart twinge just to think about it.

Once I got to the hotel, it wasn’t so bad.

With hundreds of firefighters and first responders in attendance and a packed schedule, there wasn’t time to get nostalgic.

But now that the conference is winding down, all the sessions over with just a final closing breakfast tomorrow morning, I’m not quite sure what to do with myself.

The last time I went to something like this, it was up in Albany, almost three years ago. Back then, my attitude was much different. In the evening, I was happy to hit the hotel bar with the other firefighters, enjoying the attention of the female guests flocking around us.

It’s kind of funny; the appeal of firefighters—or any first responder, really. As a group, there are some good-looking ones, but most of us are pretty normal. But as my friend, Ari, explained, “I think it’s the uniform that really does it. Police officers, firefighters, military…”

Then her gaze grew distant and her cheeks went pink, and I just knew she was thinking about her husband, Cash, who happens to work at the station with me.

“The uniform is pretty sexy,” she added.

“If you wanted to do the Sleepy Hollow calendar in your uniform, Dave, I bet you’d have tons of women after you. ”

Back at the conference in Albany, I embraced my firefighter status. Not to seek a relationship, but for a mutually-agreed-upon one night thing. That’s all I wanted. No commitment. No ties. And no chance of ending up broken-hearted again.

Now? Sitting at the hotel bar doesn’t seem as appealing.

Maybe it’s because I’ve seen what my friends have, and anything less feels kind of… empty.

I don’t want to hook up with a random woman for the night only to navigate the awkward after point, when we have to talk about phone numbers and texting even though we both know full well it’s not going anywhere.

It’s not that I’m looking for what my friends have, exactly.

But if I happened to find the right person—not in a hotel bar during a firefighter conference—I might consider it.

Maybe.

But that’s not happening tonight.

Tonight, I’m partaking in one of the things I used to love about Utica. Tomato pie at Carlo’s Pizzeria.

My friends back in Sleepy Hollow don’t get it. When I tried explaining the concept to my buddy, Ian, he looked at me like I’d abruptly sprouted a second head. “No cheese?” he asked, “and no toppings? No pepperoni? What’s the point? Why not just have pizza instead?”

I like pizza, don’t get me wrong. But tomato pie is something special. And tomato pie at Carlo’s? Incredible.

It’s close to closing, now that it’s just past nine, which means I’m one of the only people left in the restaurant. So there’s no one to pass judgment on the veritable buffet of Utica classics on the worn and scratched table in front of me.

Not just an entire tomato pie—I’ll put what I don’t finish in the hotel fridge—but an order of chicken riggies, a plate of beans and greens, and two pusties for dessert.

Will I most likely regret my gluttony in the morning? Yes.

Do I care? No. Enjoying some of my favorite foods is more than worth it.

As I’m eating, I let my gaze wander around the small restaurant, taking in the checkered green tablecloths, the wood-paneled walls, and the painted landscapes of the Italian countryside set in gaudy gold frames.

The chef slash owner is busy in the open kitchen, humming loudly to himself as he readies the place for closing.

Across the dining room is a wrinkled and gray-haired man reading the newspaper while he drinks a seemingly never ending cup of coffee.

And the lone waitress is sitting at a booth in the corner, rolling silverware while she casts an occasional glance at her only two customers.

Then the tiny bell above the front door jingles, signaling a third person about to join the mix.

Though it’s not the most polite thing to do, I can’t resist taking a quick peek. Staying aware of my surroundings is just too ingrained in me to ignore any possible threat, even in the most innocent of places.

As I look over, I’m not sure who I’m expecting to see. Maybe a friend joining the seventy-something man across the room, or the boyfriend coming to wait for the waitress. Or someone fresh from one of the bars down the street, cutting out early in favor of finding something to eat.

But she’s none of those things.

And once I get my first look, it’s nearly impossible to look away.

She’s curvy in all the right places, with flaring hips and generous breasts tapering to a narrow waist. Auburn hair falls in a long curtain down her back; the overhead lights picking up hints of copper and mahogany.

And in profile, her face—heart-shaped, with full lips and dark eyes framed with impossibly long lashes—is one of the most stunning I’ve seen.

In faded jeans and an untucked black polo shirt, she’s dressed much more casually than the women I saw lingering outside the bars on my way here. But somehow, she looks ten times sexier than any of them.

As she walks inside, she scans the restaurant; her gaze inevitably landing on me.

Our eyes meet.

Even across the room, there’s a weird sort of jolt.

Then, two more things happen in short sequence.

First, I belatedly realize I’ve been staring at her. Ogling, really. And I’m busted.

Second, and more importantly, I spot the bruise on her cheek.

Everything in me springs to attention. My muscles tense. Alarm bells sound in my head.

This isn’t an oops, I bumped into something bruise.

It’s large. Fresh. Deep red and already swelling. Covering her entire cheekbone.

It’s a someone hit her bruise.

My jaw clenches so hard pain slivers through my teeth and down my neck.

I’ve responded to too many domestic violence cases not to recognize what happened.

Someone hit her.

Instinct demands I spring to my feet and rush over to offer my assistance. Ask who hurt her. Find out where else she’s injured. Do anything to make sure she’s safe.

But.

If she’s in trouble, which she no doubt is, she might be frightened if a strange man approaches her.

So I need to consider another option. Starting with not freaking her out by blatantly staring at her.

Dropping my gaze back to my plate, I inspect my tomato pie with the intensity of a surgeon while trying to forcibly unclench my jaw. I take long, slow breaths to ease the anger bubbling up inside me.

Violence against women is one thing I won’t tolerate. Ever. And if this woman is in danger, if she’s come here to find safety, how can I not offer to help?

As I pick at my food with my fork, I keep stealing quick glances at her, assessing.

The waitress heads over to the woman’s table, taking her order without even looking at her. There’s no shared glance between them, perhaps a silent request for help, or even the slightest expression of concern.

Once the red-haired woman gets her drink—water, it looks like—she takes a long sip of it before sagging back against her chair. A beat later, she pulls out her phone and taps away at it for a few seconds before slipping it back into her purse.