Chapter 13
As it turned out, Chloe was shit at practicing what she preached.
In the four days that had passed since she and Tyler had told Esme about the fire at the forensics lab, she’d worked five shifts at the bakery, taken care of over a dozen less-than-a-week-to-go details for Ryan and Addison’s bachelor/ette party, and made a trio of appearances at the yoga studio up the street from her apartment, where the classes she’d taken had done jack shit for her screaming lack of patience.
Esme had begun to thaw a little, though, their daily check-ins lasting a few minutes more each time, and while the waiting was driving Chloe batshit crazy, her anxiety was receding along with Esme’s attitude.
Helps to have a drop-dead serious, drop-dead sexy firefighter as your wingman, came her inner voice, stopping her short halfway across her kitchen floorboards.
Okay, so she’d had her doubts about Tyler tag-teaming the news about the fire last week.
But where she had momentarily struggled to get Esme to see reason, he’d been the high lord of patience and calm, deftly keeping Esme from spiraling, then giving her the scary facts about the fire in a way that hadn’t been condescending or, worse, coated in sugar.
Then, rather than hogging control of the conversation, he’d simply opened the door for Chloe to explain exactly what was happening with the case, so she couldn’t even be mad about the assist. Esme had lowered her guard enough to listen.
Tyler had delivered the facts. Chloe had reassured Esme she’d be there to keep her safe no matter what.
It had been damn near perfect. He had been damn near perfect.
And now, just as she checked in with Esme, Tyler checked in with her on the daily. No babying. No bubble wrap. Just a quick status check that only lasted for a handful of texts and yet still managed to be her favorite part of any given day.
That she hadn’t learned her lesson and wanted to kiss him again, now more than ever? Yeah, that took her thoughts from nice and easy to hot and heavy in about two seconds flat.
Moving to the desk between her kitchen and living space, Chloe grabbed the box of favors for Ryan and Addison’s party, determined to distract herself from her increasingly dirty thoughts of Tyler.
Of course, he’d been perfect for the job when they’d gone to talk to Esme.
He was practically a walking, talking Calm app.
Meanwhile, every time she got within a ten-foot radius of him, she turned into a great, big pile of goo.
She really, really needed to fix this re-virginization problem. Fast.
Her cell phone vibrated with an incoming text, thankfully saving her from the thought.
Or not.
Tyler: Just confirmed final party RSVPs from everyone at S17. All yeses, including Kellan and Isabella w/ both kids.
Chloe: Considering how close you all are, that’s not entirely shocking.
Tyler: Could also be the open bar.
Chloe laughed, flopping down to her couch and texting a shrug emoji.
Chloe: You have a valid point.
Tyler: Speaking of the party, you’re not working on those favors by yourself, are you?
She looked at the box at her feet, along with the other four just like it, and dodged like a pro.
Chloe: Would I do that?
Her phone rang in her hand less than five seconds later. “Hate to call you out, Ferguson,” Tyler said in lieu of hello, “but you and I both know the answer to that question is one hundred percent yes.”
“Ouch,” she muttered, then caved because she had no game face and he knew the truth, anyway. “Fine. I’m working on the party favors. But they’re the last thing on the list, and anyway, it keeps me busy.”
“Okay. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“What?” Chloe asked through her heartbeat.
Tyler—no great surprise—was entirely calm in his reply. “You shouldn’t be busy alone. Plus, the Burrito Hut is probably still available. Better not to risk it, don’t you think?”
“You’re going to bug me until I say yes, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely,” he promised. “And now it’s nine minutes.”
She gusted out a laugh. “You are maddening.”
“Did you want to talk the whole way? Because I’ve got”—he paused—“eight minutes and fifty seconds to kill. Your call.”
“Very funny. Buzz me when you get here,” Chloe said, hanging up.
She shot a gaze around her apartment, mentally tabulating the time it would take to get both it and her presentable, then quickly giving up.
She settled for trading in her sloppy bun for a tidier version, swiping on some lip gloss, and shepherding the dirty dishes from her sink to the dishwasher.
True to his word, Tyler rang the security buzzer ten minutes later, and two minutes after that, he was on her doorstep.
Smoothing a hand over her mostly clean tank top, she unlocked the door and swung it open.
“Hey,” he said, one corner of a smile on his mouth as he met her eyes.
His blond hair looked both styled and tousled at the same time, his shoulders and biceps duking it out for which could look more biteable beneath his soft white T-shirt.
His jeans hung just right on the frame of his hips, the worn denim hinting at the muscles underneath, and all thoughts vacated her brain, save one.
Thirst trap, thy name is firefighter.
“Hi,” she managed, the sight of what he held in his hands releasing her from her sudden jangle of nerves. “Seriously?”
Tyler arched a brow, passing over the package of cinnamon rolls and the bottle of juice. “Tell me you ate dinner, and I’ll happily take them back.”
Chloe opened the juice and took a long swig, so she didn’t have to answer. “You know you didn’t have to come help me with these party favors.”
“Yup,” he said, and funny, he wasn’t deterred.
“Suit yourself. Can I get you anything? I’d hate to drink alone.”
She tipped her juice at him, and he grinned. “Water would be great. I’m on shift tomorrow.”
“You got it.”
Chloe headed for the kitchen, still aware of Tyler as he scanned the open floor plan of her apartment.
From the corner of her eye, she watched him take in the light blue walls, the multi-colored throw pillows on the couch and both chairs, and the bookshelves she’d overstuffed with cookbooks and romance novels.
She’d needed a safe space to heal after everything that had happened with Myles Bishop, so she’d taken a lot of care in turning the new-to-her-at-the-time apartment into a sanctuary of sorts.
The place wasn’t fancy or huge, but with her collection of vintage bakeware and milk glass mixing bowls on the kitchen shelves, the cream-colored French oak floors, and the plush, patterned area rug she’d never regretted splurging on, to Chloe, it felt cozy and safe, like home.
“Last time I was in this place, it was full of moving boxes,” he said, gesturing around the space.
She popped the fridge open to grab a bottle of water and laughed. “God, I almost forgot Ryan roped you into that.” She’d been so raw in those first few weeks after being stalked, most of it had been a blur.
“It was no big deal.” Tyler tipped one shoulder up, then pointed to her favorite comfy chair by the window. “Except for that thing. That was a pain in the ass.”
“Do not speak ill of my chair. It may be ugly and weigh a metric ton, but it’s beyond comfortable. Plus, Gary lives under there, and you don’t want him on your bad side.”
Tyler’s brows moved downward. “You have a cranky man named Gary living under your chair?”
“Nope. I have a cranky cat named Gary living under my chair.”
“I didn’t know you had a cat,” Tyler said, taking a step toward the chair, not taking another one when Gary hissed. “Check that. I didn’t know you had the world’s angriest cat.”
Chloe nodded. “In fact, I have the world’s angriest, oldest, one-eyed cat. The vet’s best guess is that he’s seventeen, give or take. But he’d been at the shelter for years and he needed a home. I needed a grumpy attack cat. He’s really not so bad, once he gets used to you.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
Returning to the living room, she handed over the water, parking herself cross-legged in front of the couch and in between boxes. Tyler shifted to the floorboards beside her, his gaze traveling over the boxes before landing on her.
“Okay, what’ve we got?”
Chloe grinned her excitement, pulling one of the favors she’d already put together out of the box beside her with a flourish. “Hangover kits, of course.”
He laughed. “Hangover kits.”
“Open bar, remember?” She shook the four by six-inch cellophane bag at him. “With all those beer and wine flights, not to mention the champagne we’ll have coming out the wazoo, I thought these would at least be functional.”
She tossed the kit to Tyler, who broke the seal with a finger to take a look at the contents. “Powdered electrolytes, breath mints, packages of Saltine crackers—nice—acetaminophen, sanitizing wipes, Band-Aids…Chloe, this is fucking brilliant.”
A flush stole across her cheeks, but she shrugged. “I can’t take too much credit. I got the idea online. I know not everyone attending the party drinks, but the stuff inside is pretty universal. Oh! And check out the best part.”
She rummaged through the padded mailer on her coffee table to pull out the stickers she’d had custom printed to go on the bags.
Tyler’s laugh bordered on a snort as he read, “But did you die? God, that’s such an Addison thing to say. Ryan, too, come to think of it.”
“Right?” Chloe waggled her brows and nudged his knee with hers.
“Anyway, I got through assembling about half of the kits, but the rest of the bags need to be stuffed and sealed, then they all need to be stickered. I got stickers for the opposite side of the bags with Addison and Ryan’s names, plus the date of the party, too. ”
“Stuffed, sealed, and stickered. Got it,” Tyler said.