Chapter 10
TEN
brODIE
It’s been four days since Savannah patched up my eye and walked out, me reeling in her wake. Four hellish days.
I did my best to remain busy over the weekend. Gym. More gym. Early-morning runs. Late-night walks. Exhaustive research into the history of the Vancity fire department. But none of my efforts to remain occupied really worked because, most of all, I was distracted.
Words like depth and heart swirling infinitely around my head, and the heat of Savannah’s body imprinted against mine.
Yeah. Really fucking distracted.
Head down, I walk the handful of blocks from my apartment to Hall Eight, experiencing the same involuntary cringe I suffer every time I allow myself to relive the highlight reel of our whole med room encounter. And I raise the same question I’ve asked myself a million times—what was I thinking?
It’s a question that has only one answer: Thinking wasn’t on the agenda.
It begins to rain. A morning drizzle. Even the weather isn’t reaching its full potential.
Shoving my hands in my pockets, I up my pace in the hope it will help me outrun the emotions holding my balls in a vice.
I’m allowing myself to get too wrapped up in feelings.
Doubting myself, as ever. It’s time to roll up my sleeves, screw on my reporter head, and gain some objectivity.
Savannah agreeing to work with me has provided the perfect in.
I can write something great. For me and my career.
The experiences of a brand-new probie on the force, who also happens to be a young woman in a world still overly dominated by men.
It’s the perfect hook, even if it leads me straight to the story Kendall doesn’t want me writing.
That’s all I should be focusing on. Not depth and definitely not fucking heart.
Striding through my agitation, I reach the picturesque red brick of the fire hall in record time and barrel straight in to find Linda at her desk.
She grins at me like I’m her long-lost son. “Brodie! Is it rematch time?”
I cringe all over again. My war wounds have faded well thanks to Savannah’s care with the antiseptic, but the fact I allowed adult me to lay hands on Brock like I was still teenager me is ground-swallowingly humiliating.
“I really am so sorry about last week, Linda. We should have at least taken it outside.”
“Never. It’s the most excitement I’ve had in years.
” She chuckles as she dips a cookie into her tea.
“You must be here to start work on your feature. Let me be the first to thank you. We’re so lucky to have you in our corner fighting the good fight for the ladder alongside your battles with your brother.
” Another beaming smile. “Everyone’s upstairs in the rec room.
Second floor, end of the corridor. Follow the smell of bacon. ”
I give a stiff nod and exit the office, guilt needling at me for even thinking about screwing on my reporter head and going for the scandal. But before I can dig into what that means, the apparatus bays stop me dead still in my tracks.
There must have been a callout when I was here last week because the place was empty. Now, a support SUV is tucked into one bay, and in the next, a gleaming red ladder truck. Ladder Eight. My breath catches.
Checking to be sure no one’s around, I duck through the side door, my chest growing unreasonably tight as I find myself pressing my hand to the truck’s shiny silver grille.
When we were young, Dad regularly took me, Brad, and Brock with him to work. The four of us were closer then. Even me and Dad. All us kids united in admiration for Dad’s job. Completely buying into the dream of following in his footsteps.
Things were also more relaxed in the workplace then. We’d play dress-up, acting out scenarios, jumping in and out of the trucks as we pretended to race to an emergency. It was all fun and games as we waited for the alarm to sound for real, changing the energy like a knife slicing it in two.
The first time I witnessed a callout it floored me.
The clash of urgency mixed with total control.
Everyone committed. My dad at the helm, pristine in his uniform.
It was a precision machine and, like my brothers, I wanted in.
For a while, it was all I wanted. Until I discovered something else I wanted more.
Which is just another excuse I now use to justify the way he treats me.
Maybe if I’d never shown an interest in firefighting, I wouldn’t be such a catastrophic disappointment. And there wouldn’t be such never-ending fallout from me choosing to—
“Whatcha doing down here?”
I jump at the sound of Savannah’s voice from behind the truck.
“Nothing.” I drop my hand, my heart thumping like I’ve been caught with my fingers in the candy jar.
“It’s impressive, right?”
I squeeze my eyes closed, shutting down the memories bubbling just under the surface. “Yeah. I’ve not been this close to one in a long time. Not since I was a kid.”
“With your dad?” She rounds the truck.
I look up in her direction and freeze.
Holy shit.
It’s only been four days but I swear she’s even more beautiful. Maybe helped by this being the first time I’ve actually seen her in uniform.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like she’s dressed as some sexy trick-or-treat firefighter.
Nothing close. It’s a very ordinary regulation uniform.
Slim-fit navy tee embossed with Eight’s logo.
Navy pants that look a little too big for her, to be honest. And she’s completely makeup-free, her sunshine hair pulled into a low ponytail.
It’s formal. Plain. And oh my god, hot as hell.
I struggle to remember what she asked me. Because she asked a question, right? That’s why she’s staring at me so expectantly.
I clear my throat. “Sorry, what was that?”
“I asked if you used to hang out in the fire hall with your dad.”
“Oh, yeah.” I shrug, trying to keep my gestures as casual as possible while inside I’m still somersaulting from looking at her. “For a while I even wanted to be a firefighter just like him. But then I discovered something else I wanted to do more and everything changed.”
She blinks up at me like this is news to her. Guess it is. She wasn’t the only one who kept quiet about the big stuff when we were together in college.
Truth is, I’ve never spoken about this with anyone. It’s only now I’m a little older, and maybe wiser, that I’ve been able to admit to myself how I’m the Holt failure who also originally wanted in on the family career of choice.
Her hand twitches at her side. “But you were young when you discovered writing. I remember you telling me about that.”
“Yeah. Right back in grade nine.” I share a small smile. “All blame can be leveled at Mr. Sahil, the substitute teacher who assigned my class a project to make a newspaper. Think he was just looking for something to keep us quiet. I fell in love.”
She holds my gaze for a moment, something softer flickering in her eyes before she looks away. The movement frees some of her hair from its bind. “Hungry?”
It takes every inch of my willpower to not reach over and wrap the loose strands around my finger. And brush my hand over her cheek. And pull her into—
I clear my throat. “What’s on the menu?” Please say you. All of you.
So much for not letting my emotions hold me by the balls.
It has to be the blast-from-the-past environment making my head run away. Don’t let it be seeing Savannah in uniform. If it is, I’ll be a blabbering wreck unable to string a sentence together by the end of the day, let alone the next two weeks.
“Bacon and eggs. Breakfast of champions.” She turns on the heels of her steel-capped boots and makes for the stairs. “Come and meet the guys.”
I take a breath and follow her.
Like on Friday, she takes the stairs two at a time.
And even in her too-big uniform pants, her ass is as distracting as it was then.
I clutch at my laptop bag and keep my eyes lowered, psyching myself up for what’s next.
I’m meeting the guys. I need to be prepared for not fitting in.
And questions. All the questions. And the full cocktail of testosterone, macho digs, and flexing. Basically Brock on steroids.
She steps into a large open space and I hover on the threshold, still trying to screw my reporter head firmly in place.
One corner of the room is dominated by cabinets and large-scale kitchen appliances. Central to the space is a long dining table with benches running down either side. To the far end is a collection of mismatched easy chairs, with a flat-screen television and foosball table that’s seen better days.
I remain in the doorway.
Alongside Savannah and Brock, there are six other guys in the room, one of whom is serving up breakfast.
A hand lands heavily on my back and I turn to find Kendall. “Good to see you back here, Brodie. You picked the best part of the day to start your time with us.” He’s bright and breezy, as if the last time he saw me he wasn’t yelling and slamming his door.
He steps into the room before delivering a piercing whistle. A hush descends as everyone looks our way.
“Folks, this is Brodie. He’s the journalist from the Herald who’s writing a feature about East and Ladder Eight.
Make him feel welcome. He’s not a novice.
His dad recently retired as battalion chief out in Burnaby and Springer here is his brother.
Okay, let’s have a good day, people. Choke, set Brodie up with breakfast.” He strolls to the kitchen and picks up a plate of food before parking himself at the head of the table.
There’s a hum of movement as various guys nod in my direction.