Chapter 4 #2
“Come in,” I said while trying to figure out why my pulse had spiked.
He stepped inside, and Sable adjusted with him.
Morgan paused their movie, then Courtney closed the door and gave me a look that I was going to hear about this for the rest of my natural life.
I cleared a space on the kitchen island.
Chip set the box down with both hands, with the crutch propped under his armpit.
He opened it, and even Tim shut up for a second because the box held a small piece of art.
Twelve cupcakes, in a four-by-three grid, each one a different flavor, each one with a tiny, printed label tucked into a paper flag on a toothpick.
“There’s one for each person on the rig that day,” Chip said.
“Plus, the paramedics. Plus, three extras because I didn’t want to leave anyone out if shifts had changed.
I researched preferences where I could. The rest are guesses based on demographic statistics about flavor preference, which I understand is not ideal, but it was my best available data. ”
Chip’s finger hovered over the first cupcake. I had to hold still not to reach out and steady his hand.
“This one is for Captain Wright. It’s bourbon pecan because I researched and his wife mentioned in a community board interview last year that he likes pecan pie at Thanksgiving and is the only person in the family who does.
Bourbon was the closest commercial flavor profile I could find.
I called four bakeries before I found one that does bourbon pecan. ”
“Jesus Christ, kid,” Morgan said, which, from Morgan, was a standing ovation.
“This one is for Lieutenant Wells.” His finger moved.
“Vanilla bean with a sea salt caramel center. You make soap, and several of your reviews on Etsy mention vanilla as your most consistent base note, so I extrapolated that you preferred vanilla to chocolate. The sea salt is because two of your soaps include it as an exfoliant; that suggested familiarity and approval. I am open to being wrong about that.”
Morgan’s mouth twitched. He didn’t let it become a smile because Morgan didn’t let things become smiles in front of an audience. “You’re not wrong.”
“This one is for Pearce.” Finger to the third. “Lemon ricotta with a blueberry compote. Your social media shows a recurring interest in cozy mysteries with food themes, particularly the Hannah Swensen series, in which lemon and blueberry feature heavily. I made a probability assumption.”
Courtney made a noise I had never heard her make before. It was small. It was the noise a person makes when a stranger has correctly identified something private about them and put it on a cake.
“Chip,” I said. “Buddy. You looked Court up online?”
“I looked all of you up online. I had a week and a half.” He said it without apology.
“I’m trying to be precise.” He moved on.
“This one is for Pegg. Plain chocolate with chocolate frosting. I was unable to find any public information about your preferences, so I selected the most statistically common cupcake flavor in the United States. There is no offense intended in the lack of customization.”
Tim opened his mouth, and I watched him do the math on whether to be a dick about it in front of the man on the crutch, and Morgan, Courtney, and me. He chose silence. It was the smartest thing Tim Pegg had done all month.
“This one,” Chip said, his finger stopped, and he didn’t look at me.
“Is for you.” The kitchen went quiet. “It’s dark chocolate with a chili and cinnamon ganache.
Mexican hot chocolate, essentially. I chose it because, on the day of the fire, I could smell that you’d been cooking before the call, and the only spice profile I could identify on your turnout coat through the smoke was cumin, garlic, and a chili pepper I think was jalapeno.
It suggested chili, which suggested you cook for people, which suggested that flavor would be more interesting to you than something sweeter.
The cinnamon is because I like cinnamon.
I included one element that was just for me…
” He frowned. “That’s probably a thing I shouldn’t have done. I can take it back.”
“Don’t you fucking dare,” I said before I could think about it, and Courtney coughed into her fist. Tim made an amused sound.
Morgan looked at the ceiling. Chip looked at me.
Direct. The green of his eyes was a thing I hadn’t seen properly in the smoke, and it turned out the color was the deep one, the one with gold inside it where the light hit.
“Okay,” he said. Quiet. “Okay.”
“What about the other ones?” I asked because I had to say something, and the air in the room had become hard to breathe in.
“The remaining seven are general assortment. Carrot. Red velvet. Lemon poppy. Hummingbird, which is a Southern flavor. My brother’s wife is from Atlanta and likes it.
Two are funfetti because funfetti is a controlled variable, everyone likes funfetti, and one is buttercream on chocolate because the bakery had one left and I felt sorry for it. ”
“You felt sorry for a cupcake,” Courtney said.
“Yes.”
“Chip.” I put my hand on the edge of the box, not on his hand, but close. Closer than I needed to. “This is the nicest goddamn thing anyone has done for this station in the eight years I’ve been here. Thank you.”
He looked down at where my hand was. He didn’t move his.
“You’re welcome,” he said. “I wanted to thank you in person.”
“Sit down before you fall down,” I said. “Coffee?”
“Yes, please. Decaf if you have it. My anxiety levels are already elevated, and I’m trying to be intentional today.”
“I have decaf.”
Turned out Chip was a fan of chili dogs minus the onions.
I did my best to keep myself from being a total putz, but the longer the man stayed, the more inclined I was to extend an offer I probably shouldn’t have.
While there were no set rules in our station about falling in like with a person you recently aided, it was a thin line to walk.
After a traumatic event, someone could transfer feelings of gratitude to the person who helped them.
It happens a lot with police, paramedics, and firefighters.
This could seriously complicate a relationship and pull me into a discussion about conduct and professionalism.
We’d not only discussed this possible scenario in training classes, but I’d seen it happen in real life.
A few years ago, a firefighter from a different station saved a woman from a house fire.
They started dating. Things were great until they weren’t.
It was a big, ugly breakup that ended with him resigning and going out west to fight on wildfire lines.
Every firefighter in the city knew and gossiped about it for weeks.
So here I sat, eager to invite Chip to dinner with my mother and the rabbi, but hedging about doing so; damn it, I mean, it was just a meal.
With my mom and a religious man. I wasn’t asking him to go out on a date or anything.
I just wanted to get to know him better.
Maybe see those green eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiled or gazed at me.
Shit. Yeah, this was a dicey situation for sure.
“I wanted to give you some tickets to one of our games. To thank you. All of you. And your captain too. I’m not just fixating on you, Rourke, because you have pretty eyes.”
Shit. Shit. Shit. Okay, this was…
Courtney must have sensed me wavering. Maybe it was my ears turning red that tipped her off. Who knows. Women have a sixth sense about interpersonal things, it seemed.
“We’d love to come to a game! I love hockey!” she stated with volume.
Before I could say anything, the others were all about going to a hockey game.
“Okay, one game, then that has to be it, okay, Chip?” Morgan thankfully said, saving me from a tight spot. “We’re not allowed to take gifts over a hundred dollars.”
“These are free to the players. We get a limited number for family and friends, so there is no dollar amount. But I understand about the gift policy.”
“Food is always welcome,” Tim spoke up as he stuffed another cupcake into his mouth.
Chip’s gaze met mine over the empty plates and discarded cupcake wrappers.
I felt a familiar lurch in my chest. The pull of attraction was going to have to have the brakes put to it to allow some time to pass before I could act on this tether of attraction sparking to life between Chip and me.
Surely one hockey game with friends wasn’t crossing any ethical lines despite the winky winks Courtney was giving me on the sly.
There would be no winky-wink things taking place with Chip. Even if he did have eyes the color of a Canadian pine forest…