by Kathryn Shay
Francey zipped her machine a little higher. She wasn’t even breathing hard. “I know all those guys pretty well. Except for Joey, they’re nice men. And Joey’s problem is that he associates you with me. Since I got married, he’s been even more hostile.”
“I don’t know how to act there, France. I tried showing them up in the confined-space exercise, and that backfired.” She filled Francey in on her performance. “I didn’t tell them I already did it.”
Francey gave a low whistle. “I’ll bet they were mad. Anybody make it through on the first time?”
“Superman did.” At Francey’s questioning look, Chelsea shrugged. “Jake.”
“Of course. He’s so cool, he would.”
An image of her lieutenant in a sweaty T-shirt assaulted her. He’d looked pretty yummy.
Chelsea shook off the memory. She picked up her gray and pink Weight Room warmup jacket and got to her feet. “Well, I’m done. I’m going home and curl up with my cats. If you need anything, Spike will be here till closing.”
“Chels?”
“Yeah?”
“Cut them some slack. Maybe you’ll sleep better.”
She shot Francey a weak smile and headed for the locker room. God, she had to start sleeping better. In two days she’d have all of group three at Quint Twelve as company for the night.
JAKE LOOKED FORWARD to the first night shift with Chelsea Whitmore on board about as much as he’d relished getting third degree burns on his back. Since she’d shown up the guys on her second day here, things had been tense. They’d known, of course, what she was doing. And they didn’t like it one bit. Hell, neither did he.
“Ah, I miss that Scarlatta scowl.”
Jake was surprised to see Dylan coming through the door to the kitchen. “What’re you doing here? You’re on furlough for a few more days.”
Dylan nodded. “I just brought in the weekly trivia game questions.” He tossed a sheet of printed paper on the table. “Read ’em and weep.”
Jake fingered the sheet absently. “Beth looked great the other night. And the baby…” He paused. “I envy you, buddy.”
Dylan studied him a moment. “Wanna talk?”
“No, why?”
“No reason. Stop over tomorrow if you feel like it. Beth and the baby nap in the afternoon, and I get to clean the house.”
“Maybe.”
Dylan sniffed. “What smells so good?”
“It’s probably tofu.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Whitmore’s cooking.”
“I see. Is—”
A light knock sounded on the door. Jake glanced over to see a tiny, white-haired lady carrying a huge plate of cookies.
Dylan grinned. “Mrs. Lowe. How are ya, darlin’?”
Sharp, knowing eyes narrowed on him. “Don’t get fresh, young man.” She turned to Jake. “Haven’t you taught him any manners yet?”
“I’m tryin’, Mrs. Lowe.” He sniffed with marked exaggeration. “Are those my favorite pizzelles I smell?”
“Of course they are.” She moved into the room and set the plate on the table.
Like a little boy behind his mother’s back, Dylan sneaked a cookie; Mrs. Lowe slapped his hand away. “It’ll ruin your supper.”
“I’m cookin’ for my wife and new baby tonight.” He winked. “I got pictures in the car, Mrs. L. Wanna see?”
The old woman’s face lit from within. She looped an arm through Dylan’s and said to Jake, “Enjoy the cookies, boy, but bring the plate back next time you come to the nuthouse.”
Jake stood, smiling. “I will. I’ll walk you out to the bay. We’re doing training before supper.”
When they reached the huge garage, Dylan and Mrs. Lowe said goodbye and detoured to the left. Jake found his group waiting by the confined-space pipe. Chelsea leaned against the rig, her face impassive. Mick sat on the floor next to Joey and Don. Peter had taken a straight chair and was leafing though a magazine.
“Hi, guys.” Jake held up a clipboard. “Let’s go over a few procedures for the CSP before we try it again. This is a technically complex rescue.”
Groans all around.
Except from Whitmore. He didn’t look at her because he didn’t want to see her smirk.
Briefly Jake reviewed the equipment they might need for a confined-space rescue, along with some of the physics involved in the maneuvers. Though it was a complicated task, he was really giving them time to prepare for another stab at the pipe. After twenty minutes, he couldn’t delay any longer.
“Anybody have any suggestions for making this easier?” Don Diaz asked. “I sure as hell hate not bein’ able to do somethin’.”
Jake started to give a piece of advice he’d read in Firehouse magazine, when Chelsea pushed away from the rig. She cleared her throat. “Over at Engine Four, when we did it the first time, the captain suggested we use visual imagery. Think about something pleasant, at least to get inside. After the second or third time through, you won’t need to do that.”
Huff caught on first. “You done this before, Whitmore?”
She faced him squarely. “Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell us?” Joey asked, despite his previous desire to give her the deep freeze.
“Yeah, why didn’t you help last time?” This from Mick.
She swept them all with a level gaze. “Because when I came in that morning, I heard you guys in the locker room trashing me about Milligan.”
Silence. They all stared at her.
Then Huff said, “Hurt your feelings, Whitmore?”
No firefighter in his right mind would admit that. Jake hoped she wouldn’t.
“Not on your life,” she said. “I was just mad. I don’t like to be talked about.”
Good girl, he thought. She could hold her own with these guys.
Huff shrugged. “Fair enough.”
When nobody else jumped in, Jake said, “Let’s remember that, then.” He nodded to the pipe. “Now, let’s try it again.”
With his encouragement and Chelsea’s suggestions, two of them made it through the pipe.
An hour later Chelsea was putting the finishing touches on dinner when Jake entered the kitchen. “Smells great.”
She kept her back to him as she stirred tomato sauce. He came up beside her and leaned against the counter. He smelled great, too, she thought.
He frowned at The Healthy Firehouse Cookbook on the counter. “What is it?”
“Bean sprout steak.”
“What?”
She looked up, her eyes dancing with devilment.
“You jerkin’ my chain, Whitmore?”
“Who, me?”
Crossing his arms, he said, “It feels good, doesn’t it.”
“What does?”
“Having the ice broken.”
She nodded.
“Thanks for helping with the drill.”
Poking green beans with a fork, she didn’t look at him.
“I should have done it last time.”
In her peripheral vision she saw him watching her. Then he pushed away and sat at the table.
“It’s Italian grilled chicken with pasta,” she said.
“They’ll like it as long as they don’t know it’s got only three grams of fat per serving.”
“You eat chicken?” he asked.
“Yeah, especially when I’m training.”
He turned around. “Training?”
“I, um, compete sometimes in fitness contests. There’s a women’s triathalon coming up, and I’m in it.” She explained the events as she kept vigil over the food.
“Is it fun?”
“Yeah. As long as you’re in shape.”
After she put the fettuccine noodles into boiling water, she edged to the sink to wash her hands.
“Hell, I only know two out of three,” she heard Jake complain.
“Of what?”
“Dylan’s trivia.” He chuckled. “He’s something else. This week the subject’s famou
s sons.”
Chelsea laughed, too. “Read me the questions.”
“Who is the Boston firefighter whose son almost died of congestive heart failure two years ago, but was saved by another firefighter who lived in his apartment building?”
“Search me.”
“You gonna play?”
“Obviously not this week.”
“It’s Leo Stapleton. His son Garrett was saved in a dramatic rescue in 1998. It was profiled in Firehouse.”
“Wow.”
“Whose son made a fortune by patenting and printing the phone labels for fire and police numbers? This was before nine-one-one.”
“You can’t possibly know that.”
“Yep, I do. His last name is Conway. Fred, I think. The guy who wrote Fire Fighting Lore.”
Chelsea asked, “Is there anything you haven’t read about the fire department?”
Shrugging, Jake said, “Well, I don’t know the last one.” His brow furrowed. “What book did Firefighter Joseph Bonanno dedicate to his mother, Audrey, who died from critical burns sustained at home?”
The name sounded familiar. Chelsea glanced at the counter. And smiled.
“Damn, nobody’s gonna get that,” Jake said. “Dylan’s crazy.”
Chelsea came up behind him and dropped the cookbook on the table in front of him.
Jake laughed, deep and from his belly. It made her insides flutter like the heroine in a Victorian novel. “Hey, thanks, Whitmore.”
Turning back to the stove, she tried to ignore the warmth spreading though her. “You’re welcome. Chow’s almost ready. Set the table and call the boys.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She stole a quick peek at him. His gray eyes flashed with humor. He was grinning a curl-your-toes grin. Man, this guy was lethal when he turned on the charm.
Good thing she was immune.
AT TEN THAT NIGHT Chelsea sat at the oak kitchen table waiting to take the apple pie she’d baked out of the oven. Absently she rubbed the table’s polished surface, wondering where the station had gotten such a quality piece of furniture. The Quint, to which she’d been assigned tonight, had had one call after dinner; the Midi was out on its second now. Besides playing Betty Crocker, she’d gone over some schedules, then come in here with a new procedural manual to skim. Outside the calls, she hadn’t seen much of the crew since dinner; she’d heard them in the bunk room and then in the back office, but they weren’t around now.
The bay door went up, and in minutes, Jake entered the kitchen. His hair was messy from the wind that had picked up earlier; he went to the sink and drew a glass of water. Taking a sideways glance, she saw his throat work as he swallowed. She shifted uncomfortably.
“Whitmore, you baking?”
“Who me?”
She kept her eyes focused on the procedural manual.
Mick Murphy strode into the room. “Oh, my God, what’s that smell?”
From the table, she didn’t look up. “What smell?”
“It’s apple pie, isn’t it?”
“Is it?”
Huff tromped in after writing his report; he’d affected his usual lazy demeanor, but sniffed loudly. “My firstborn for some of that, Whitmore.”
Finally, a smile aimed at all three of them broke through. “That won’t be necessary. It was covered in your six dollars for dinner.”
At the bing of the stove buzzer, she got up and removed the bubbling, steaming confection from the oven. Mick got a wooden cutting board and placed it in the center of the table. “Don’t wanna hurt Jake’s baby.”
At her quizzical look, Mick said, “Jake made this table.”
“Really? It’s beautiful.”
“Yeah, you should see some of the stuff he’s done.”
Her lieutenant grunted and eyed the pie. “Don’t suppose you thought to get vanilla ice cream.”
Cockily, she crossed to the fridge and opened the door to reveal two half gallons. She knew the Mount Everest appetite of firefighters.
The guys sank into chairs like little boys waiting for birthday cake. When she told them the pie had to cool for a few minutes, they pouted.
“How’d the run to Dutch Towers go?” she asked Jake.
“Fine.”
Chelsea smiled. “Which were they—scared or lonely?”
“Both.” Peter snorted. “Mr. Steed was with Mr. Olivo when he had trouble breathing. ’Course, Mrs. Lowe came out to see Jake when she heard the truck.”
Mick said, “She’s sweet on Jake. Keeps track of his schedule.”
Jake chuckled. “She’s just lonely. Look, Whitmore, I’m dyin’ here. Cut the pie.”
Just as she finished dishing out the pieces—à la mode—Joey strolled into the room. He scowled at them all gathered around the table like a family at Thanksgiving. Then he sauntered to the coffeepot. Joey had first watch tonight, from ten to two, so he’d want to stay awake.
Chelsea caught Jake’s look. His gaze slid to Joey, then back to her.
Okay, why not?
She got up and fished out another plate, then served the last slice of her masterpiece. She sat down, handed it to Mick, who gave it to Huff, who passed it across to Joey.
The surprise on his face was almost comical. After recovering, he said, “Ice cream?” She passed him the container and the scoop. “Thanks.” He took a bite. “It’s good.”
When Chelsea looked up, she saw a smile flirting with Jake’s lips, and the approval in his eyes warmed her a like cozy fire for two.
After a moment Jake said, “I saw your grandparents at the Towers, Joey.”
Joey grunted.
“Moses said you never called them back. Josephine misses you.”
“I forgot.”
Diaz said, “If I had family, I wouldn’t ignore ’em.”
“I’ll call them in the morning.” Joey sounded chagrined.
Huff and Diaz cleaned up the dessert plates. It was almost eleven when Chelsea said, “I, um, assume you guys have specific bunks. Anybody want to tell me which is mine?”
Almost imperceptibly, Mick hesitated in his movements. Huff turned his face away—to hide a snicker? Diaz shifted in his seat and coughed. Jeez, where did they expect her to sleep?
Jake stood. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
Miffed, she rose and followed Jake to the bunk room. With these guys, it was three steps forward, two back. From the hallway, she could see the bunk room was dark. Jake stepped aside so she could go in first, which was odd. She felt for the wall switch, then flicked on the light.
And gave a start of surprise.
Very male chuckles came from behind her, and she turned to see the guys, except Santori, lined up at the doorway. She faced the bunks again, which were pushed together. Five beds nestled up to one in the middle, all six touching.
“Somethin’ wrong, Whitmore?” Jake asked, amusement deepening his voice.
“Look, I know you guys are close, but this is ridiculous.”
Diaz said, “Don’t they sleep this way over at Four? It makes us all feel safer.”
She bit back a chuckle. “I guess I don’t have to ask which bunk is mine.”
The one in the middle had a pink lacy bedspread, white ribbons around the headboard and a teddy bear propped against the pillow.
Diaz said, “The bedspread used to be my daughter’s. She loaned it to you.”
“I brought in the ribbons,” Mick told her.
“Whose is the teddy bear?”
Jake grinned. “It’s an old one of Jessie’s.”
She looked at the guys again. Though Huff leaned against the wall, not participating, he was there, with a grin breaching his lips. Jake, Mick and Don could hardly keep a straight face.
Chelsea started to laugh. “If it’s short-sheeted, you guys, you’re gonna pay.”
The men laughed good-naturedly, and began rearranging the bunks. Hers was shoved against a far wall, like theirs, with plenty of space, though no real privacy. Mick, Don and Peter went to s
hower. She removed Mick’s daughter’s bedspread and the ribbons and folded them neatly. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Jake unbutton his blue shirt. He threw it on the bunk closest to hers where some RFD sweats rested. She sank down on her bed, hugging the teddy bear to her chest the way she cuddled her cats at night.
He grinned at her. “I’d check the sheets if I were you.”
AT THREE Jake wasn’t grinning. He was sitting up straight in bed, shaking. He’d had the dream again—Danny and the flashover. Only this time Chelsea Whitmore was in the middle of the inferno.
Flinging off the covers, he grabbed his sweat suit from the bottom of the bed. They all slept in gym shorts and T-shirts, but it would be cold in the kitchen, or the watch room if he decided to keep Mick company. He knew he wouldn’t go back to sleep after being out cold for four solid hours and with the remnants of the dream lingering like stale smoke in his head.
He left the pitch-black bunk room silently. Diaz, Santori and Huff slept like the dead, but he didn’t know about Whitmore, and he didn’t want to wake anybody and explain his sleeplessness.
He was thinking about what Chelsea looked like laughing at the guys’ prank when he entered the kitchen. A small light was on over the stove, casting the room in an eerie glow. A figure sat curled up on a chair, sipping from a mug. The feminine slope of the shoulders told him it was her.
“Chelsea?”
She jumped.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“It’s okay.”
Her voice was raspy. She cleared her throat. “What are you doing up?”
“I could ask you the same.” Farther into the room, closer, the dark circles under her eyes told him the story.
“Can’t sleep?”
She nodded, the action sending her hair cascading around her shoulders like a golden waterfall. Though she wore it up in some kind of knot all day, she obviously took it out when she went to bed. It was mussed and a little wild. Sexy.
Uncomfortable with the direction of his thoughts, he crossed to the coffeepot, poured a mugful. “Want some?”
“No, mine’s fine.”
