Chapter 8
Dane
There were a thousand things right about a Sunday afternoon spent indoors with someone who made you feel so happy. And God, Chip made me happy.
At bowling, something clicked. Chip was counting the lane markers. I could tell when his lips moved slightly, just for a second, before he stopped and looked satisfied. I watched him do it and thought, well. There it is. I was in serious trouble.
He settled into my arms on the sofa, chattering away, dunking his cookies into his mug of milk.
The lights were muted. Soft music was playing on the stereo.
He filled me in on every detail of the game between cookies and tender kisses.
We turned in around two after a fast piddle run for Sable in my postage-stamp-sized yard.
Chip was in the guest room even though I was tempted to invite him into my bed.
I did not want to push him in any way. This whole crazy relationship was a delicate dance between desire and professionalism.
Jumping into sex—as wonderful as it would surely be as I found him so damn attractive—would muddy the already riled waters.
Slow and steady. I wanted him badly enough that it scared me a little.
But if this went wrong, if I pushed too fast, I’d never forgive myself.
Cold showers were going to be my norm for some time, I assumed. I wanted him with an intensity that sometimes made me feel ashamed. Wanting him was easy, but making sure I deserved him was harder.
Waking up on a brisk but clear Sunday knowing Chip was just across the hallway was a mishmash of sentiments.
Temptation warred with responsibility. Instead of creeping to his door to beg permission to come in and taste his lips, I took a frigid shower, which did little to cool my libido, before padding downstairs to start breakfast. I’d not been in the kitchen ten minutes when I heard the jingle of dog tags followed by the creak of the fourth step from the top.
I was whipping eggs to make an omelet fit for a king when Sable and her master arrived, both looking as if they’d just woken up.
Chip gave me a kiss on the cheek then went out with Sable to supervise her morning pee.
Once back inside, we ate, sipped coffee, and decided to crash on the sofa for the rest of the day to watch movies, hold hands, and kiss.
By noon, Sable was getting antsy and pacing at the front door with tiny little whines tossed in every few seconds.
“I think she has to poop,” Chip said as he rose from the sofa, my side cooling off instantly. He stretched. I got a tempting glimpse of skin on a pale back before his hoodie slid back down as his arms lowered.
“We could take a walk around Cobb’s Hill Park. It’s just a block over. The sun’s out, so it shouldn’t be too bitter. Oh, and there’s a tiny gourmet café near the park that serves some great brunches. We can stop and do lunch and then come back home to pick up on our Alien marathon.”
“Yes, sounds good. I’ve never seen the third and fourth ones with Sigourney Weaver. She’s quite a dynamic female lead. I think she should be cloned so humans can better fight the xenomorphs. She’s had practical experience. Why no one ever listens to her, I don’t grasp.”
I smiled slightly as I stood before rocking side to side to work out the kinks from sitting for hours. “Maybe someone will do that.” I’d not ruin the storyline of the fourth movie for him by blathering. “Let’s get our coats.”
Five minutes later, we were strolling down neatly shoveled sidewalks, Sable on her lead, and the January sun smiling down on us.
It was almost reaching freezing temperatures, so it was a nice day for Rochester for this time of year.
Sadly, it wouldn’t last, but for this Sunday, I’d drink in the blue skies and the charming company.
Cobb’s Hill Park was a large public space; at this time of year, the water was frozen, the sports fields were coated with snow, and the view of the city was still spectacular.
We walked past a large playground that was empty of little kids but was alive with tiny people and their parents in the summer.
Sable met a few dogs as we walked. Chip ran into a fan who asked for his autograph while checking me over to see if I was on the Copperheads.
He even asked. When I told him no, I was a firefighter, he went back to fussing over Chip.
After about an hour, we left the park. The Hibiscus Room was packed full when we arrived.
We were able to secure a tiny table by the window.
A few diners gave Sable an odd look until they saw her service dog vest. Once seated, with Sable on Chip’s damp shoes, we ordered our drinks as a slim waiter with bright blue hair and a bar in his eyebrow handed us menus.
His name tag read UTAH, just like the state.
Chip was examining the dining area intently as I opened the small menu. I followed his line of sight but saw nothing that would seem too upsetting.
“Are the lights bothering you?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No, they’re fine. The people are noisy, but it’s okay.”
“We can just order takeout and eat at home if this is too much for you.” I closed my menu. Chip shook his head firmly. “Okay, well, if you find it’s too noisy, just say so, and we’ll leave.”
“I like the color scheme.” I did too. Cool blues, soft grays, and off-whites permeated the café from the walls to the tablecloths to the glasses our ice waters arrived in.
“Are you ready to order?” Utah asked.
“Can we have a few more minutes?” I enquired and got a soft nod.
“I’ll bring a bowl of water for the dog.”
Utah disappeared through a stylish door into a rambunctious-sounding kitchen. The smells that escaped when the swinging doors opened and closed made my stomach rumble. Rich, warm, nutty aromas from the quiches baking in the kitchen to the smell of coffee brewing.
Chip read his menu closely, touching a few items with the tip of his finger before sitting back to grab my attention from my menu with a tap on the back of my hand. Green eyes locked with mine as I looked up.
“I’d like a spinach quiche with cheese along with the bright green salad.”
“Okay, cool. That sounds good. I’ll get that too, plus a side of their roasted rosemary potatoes. Oh, they have great baguettes here. Let’s get some of those too and some dates.”
“I like bread. Carbs are important for people who are physically active like you and me. That fan in the park. The one with the nose hair. Did he upset you when he acted like what you do isn’t as important as slapping a puck around a rink?”
Utah arrived with water and a doggie treat—a cookie which was probably made on site—then took our orders. After he left, Chip repeated his question.
“It’s fine. People tend to take service personnel like police, firefighters, and paramedics for granted until they need them.”
“Hmm, it’s not very polite. You save lives. Police save lives. Paramedics save lives. They should be more respectful.”
“It’s okay, truly. Lots of people are very thankful. Some even bring cupcakes to the station in thanks.” He blushed so deeply I had to stop myself from climbing over the table to kiss him. Slow and easy. I had to remember that.
“How did you know you wanted to be a firefighter?” He glanced from me to a woman walking by in a black suit with a yellow bow tie. “She’s fashionable.”
“She sure is.”
Once his attention was back on me, he asked again.
The man was nothing if not focused. “Right. Well, I grew up in a house with a parent who was a firefighter. My father was part of the same station I’m assigned to now.
He was one of those outgoing guys who all the fellows in the station loved.
And I say fellows because the department only allowed women to join the ranks in 1996, so his tenure was mostly spent with men.
A few women served with him, but not many.
We’re still working hard to bolster gender diversity in the ranks. ”
“Courtney is nice. She sent me a text saying she was making me socks to wear when I play hockey. I didn’t know how to tell her our socks are specially made to give us protection, hold our shin pads in place, and match our team colors.”
“She means well. Just tell her you’ll wear her socks under your official hockey socks.”
“But I won’t. That would be lying. I think I’ll tell her thank you for the socks and explain how they’re not what we need on the ice, but I’ll wear them when I walk Sable.”
“That works.”
“So, you became a firefighter because of your father?”
“Yeah, probably. It’s common for sons to follow fathers into a similar profession, so I more than likely just assumed I would do the same thing he did. Then, when he died in a fire, that kind of cemented the idea to do what Dad had done for years.”
“Was your father very old when he passed?” Chip asked, his hand going to Sable’s head even though it made him tip sideways slightly. I could only assume he was nervous about the subject, or perhaps the noisy café.
“He was forty-five. They’d been called out to a fire in an apartment complex that used to sit along the Genesee.
It’s gone now. The place was a loss, so the city bought it and tore the ruins down around 2010—about four years after the fire took my father.
They built a mini mall in its place. I have never shopped there. I can’t.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks.” I reached out to pat his hand as it lay on the table.
He sat up to place his hand over mine. “He went back in to pull a young, pregnant woman out of a fourth-floor apartment. He got her out, but then the floor went out from under him. Just like that, he was gone. Mom still gets cards from the woman Dad saved. She’s got a grandbaby on the way.
She named her son Lawrence after my father. ”
“Wow, he was a hero.”
“Yeah, he really was.”
“You are too.”
“Well, I’m not so sure about that. I grew up in a house where values of brotherhood and service were drummed into our heads.
After losing Dad, I wanted to continue the legacy of giving to the community, so I followed in his very big footsteps.
Devon went into law enforcement for the same reasons.
Mom says she has worn out at least two hundred sets of worry beads.
My aunt in Greece keeps her well supplied. ”
“So, you’re Greek?”
“A little.” I sat back to allow Utah to place our appetizers on the table.
Round hot plates of roasted asparagus, a dish of empanadas, yummy taters, and some bacon-wrapped dates.
“My mother is half Greek, half Dutch. My father was of Scottish and English descent. We’re a mixed bag of nationalities. ”
“That’s nice. Your mom is very friendly. As was the rabbi. Do you think we could do a dinner again with them both?”
God, this man. He was so earnest it was all I could do to keep my ass in my seat. The need to press my mouth to his was so strong.
“I’d like that.” I slid a date to his plate, then to mine.
“Chip, I think I need to say something here that might be upsetting or confusing.” He glanced up.
Shit. How did I even go about this without sounding like a putz?
“Okay, so sometimes when people are in traumatic situations like a car accident or a fire, they sometimes, not always, but sometimes develop a crush on the people who aid them in that situation.”
“Yes, I know. I’m not holding your hand and kissing you because of hero worship. I really like you.”
Okay. I was going to need a minute before I tried to swallow my date. My throat was locked up with emotion right now.
“That might have been the most incredible thing a man has ever said to me,” I whispered, leaving the date on my plate so I wouldn’t choke to death.
“I feel the same way when I’m with you. I’m also struggling to reconcile those fizzy, righteous feelings with the fact that if we start seriously dating, I could get in trouble at work.
There are no written rules about getting involved with someone you’ve assisted in an emergency, but it’s generally frowned upon.
For the reasons I already laid out.” I linked my fingers with his.
“As much as I don’t want to, we may have to keep us hidden for a few months.
Do you hate that? I do. I came out so I wouldn’t have to hide, and here I am asking you to do something that chafed me raw. I just… ”
He gave my hand a squeeze. “We’re good friends, Dane.
Very good friends. Maybe better than good friends.
I like holding hands, kissing, and eating out with you.
Dating is… complicated for me, not just because of how my brain works but because of hockey.
We travel a lot, and you have long shifts.
I think we can keep doing what we are because it’s loose and feels good.
For now. I have an appointment on Tuesday to have my knee reviewed, and I hope to get back on the ice.
Maybe when hockey season wraps, we can do more things like penetrative sex to see how that furthers the relationship.
I enjoy topping, but I’m willing to bottom if enough time is spent on prostate stimulation. ”
Someone made a grunting sound on my left. I glanced up to find Utah, face red as a cherry, holding our meals.
“This is exemplary service,” Chip said, the awkwardness of the moment lost on him as his meal was delicately placed before him. “Mm, it smells eggy!”
“Thank you,” I said after Utah served me my quiche.
“You’re welcome,” Utah replied, his cheeks still hot, and eased into the flow of servers hustling around the café.
I had to chuckle. Chip glanced up at me as he tried to open his napkin with one hand.
“What’s so funny?” he sniffed the air. “Did Sable fart? She does that a lot. I think it’s the bison meat in her dog food, or maybe the carrots. I’ll research it after we eat.”
“You do that.” I let my fingers rest in his for a moment then let go so he could eat, drink, and then read up on the percentage of toots per pound of bison meat reported to whoever would track such a thing. Whoever it was, Chip would ferret them out, I had no doubt.