by Kacey Shea
His grin grows wider. “Anything I can do to help a patron in need. Welcome to the neighborhood. I’m sure I’ll see you around.” He turns and struts, with laze and ease, back toward the sidewalk. The rest of the crew exits my house and catches up to his side. I try not to watch his backside retreat. Really, it’s not polite to gape in the open like this, but I can’t help but admire his strong back and shoulders, and the tattoos that cover one side and dip low into his pants. Even his ass is nice, round and firm through his shorts.
“Callie.” Alicia’s voice startles me from my visual exploration. I didn’t hear her walk down the drive. “You have a damn fine neighborhood.”
“Mmm hmm,” is all I can muster. Yeah. I think I’m going to like living here.
I hate mornings.
I especially hate mornings when I’ve had too much to drink the night before. My mouth is rough as sandpaper and I have to open and shut it several times to work the saliva through. My lips are on the verge of cracking, they’re so dry. I untangle my limbs from the soft, downy comforter and roll to my stomach.
I pat around in the dark until I hit my bedside table, then slap around until I find my phone to silence the blaring guitars. The artist croons about not being able to feel his face. I can feel my face, and without a mirror I know for certain it isn’t pretty. With the music off, my fingers roam some more and claim my tube of lip balm. I roll to my back and crack my eyes open. The morning light hits my eyes as I smooth the beeswax concoction over my lips and sigh in relief. I pull the phone from the charger cord. The backlighting of the screen blinds and I have to squint to read the time. Crap! I’m gonna be late!
I rush through my morning routine. Shower. Underwear. Makeup. Hair. Clothes. And throw my essential items—phone, wallet, keys, lunch—inside my laptop bag on my way out the door. I don’t have time to brew coffee, which has my tolerance for rush hour traffic at a lower than normal acceptance level. And all the assholes in Richmond have collaborated to be on the road today.
My stomach rumbles, pissed at the lack of sustenance. I dig around the side pockets of my bag and unearth a protein bar that’s most certainly passed its expiration date. Fuck it. I’m starving, and without my morning caffeine fix I need something in my belly. The chocolate mint flavor makes a poor attempt at fooling my taste buds that it’s the real thing, but at least my stomach settles.
I’ve been working at Superstition Graphix for eleven months now, first as an intern and only full time since graduating in May. My recent promotion gave me the salary and confidence I needed to purchase my first home. It’s a small design firm and new to the industry, but both owners came from larger companies.
Pat and Michael joined forces two years ago, leaving their established careers to open their own company. They bring solid experience and have created a good working environment. I like my job and it pays well. Two things I’m extremely thankful for after watching so many of my classmates move home to work retail post-college.
Pulling into the small parking lot, I hustle inside the building and take the stairs as fast as my dress shoes allow. It’s just nine o’clock when I wave to Lisa, our receptionist. I give myself props for beating the odds and making it in on time. I find my cubicle and drop my belongings under the desk, plug in my laptop, and stride to the kitchen. The succulent smell of roasted coffee attracts with a force that can’t be stopped.
“Hey, Callie.” Jim, one of the senior designers, greets me from where he stands at the counter pouring his mug full of the precious liquid my body craves. He assesses me with a knowing eye and pulls another mug off the shelf. “You look like you need this more than I do.” He slides his mug within reach and then fills another for himself.
“Thanks, Jim.” I don’t bother with sweetener or cream. The bold roast hits my taste buds and works its way down my throat. So fucking good. I quite possibly moan out loud. The liquid magic awakens the parts of my brain that were foggy and I’m ready to take on the day.
“Good weekend?” Jim asks.
“Yeah. Great, actually. I moved into my first house. I’m all settled and unpacked, too.”
We chat a few more minutes about my home, the neighborhood, and property values before I excuse myself. I like Jim. He’s not my direct manager on projects but we’ve been on the same team a few times and I spent a week with him during my internship. He’s friendly enough and really knowledgeable in design.
I spend the morning deep in my latest project, a signage revamp for a mom and pop chain of Italian restaurants. I’m ready to break for lunch when my boss calls my workstation and asks me to step in his office.
“Callie, please have a seat.” Jared’s gaze is somber and my gut starts to tighten with nerves, though I have no reason for them. I step around the chair across from his desk and sit.
“What’s up, Jared?”
“You may have heard the rumors . . .” He tightens his lips in a thin line, crosses his long arms over his chest, and leans back in his chair. Waiting. As if I should know what he’s referring to. Rumors? Shit. This is why you’re supposed to have friends at work. Or hang out by the breakroom. I’m such a loner here. I mostly eat lunch at my desk while everyone else goes out. Work is work. I do my job and leave.
Totally not working in my favor at the moment.
“About the possible acquisition,” he finally finishes. I nod. “Pat and Michael will be in meetings all week. You’ll see a few new faces around the office. Don’t be alarmed. They’ll be here to observe and see how we work. Just go about your usual business.” Jared pins me with a stare.
Usual business. I can do that. But the way he keeps staring at me, I’m starting to guess this is a bigger deal than he’s letting on. I may have to break for coffee more often this week to get a lead on the gossip.
“Okay. Great. So, is that all you needed to see me about or is there something else?” I’m uncertain how we end this conversation since he won’t break eye contact and I don’t want to appear intimidated or flippant about his news.
He leans his elbows on the desk and steeples his fingers under his chin. Wow. This is intense. I’m back in third grade all over again having a staring contest with Andrew Perkins, neither of us willing to blink first.
“Keep up the good work, Callie. You’ll do just fine here.” He finally stands and glances at the door over my shoulder. I scramble from the chair and mutter my thanks. I’m not able to get back to my workstation quickly enough.
That was strange. I pull my peanut butter sandwich from my bag and pretend to check Facebook while I sneak covert glances at my colleagues. Everyone seems to be more on task today. More than usual for a Monday. I have to wonder if that has anything to do with this possible acquisition. I’ll have to Google our company when I get home tonight. In the meantime, I do what I do best. I dig back into my project.
One thing I know to be true. I will outwork every single one of these staff designers. I may be green, but in this field seniority means nothing. It’s ever changing and dynamic and the people willing to learn and work the hardest will prevail. It’s sure to be a long week but I take some satisfaction in knowing that my own little home is organized, clean, and waiting for me at the end of the day.
I love Saturday mornings.
The start to the weekend. It holds so much promise, possibility, and most importantly, it begins two full days away from work.
This week kicked my ass. The good intention to get up and run before work every morning was lost somewhere around Wednesday. I lie, it was Monday. Monday’s slight hangover killed all intents to exercise. And on top of that, work was crazy busy. Rumors were flying wild about the future of the company. Unlike my co-workers who wasted hours gossiping about possible job layoffs, I put in fourteen-hour days and busted my butt to outperform those with seniority.
I can’t afford to be out of work, so I’ll prove my worth and ensure it doesn’t happen. The long days completely knocked my usual routine and organization out the window. The need to create
order pulses through my veins and I awoke this morning with a plan. This week I’m getting back on track.
I’m up early, dressed, showered, with full makeup, and wandering the aisles of my neighborhood market checking item after item off my grocery list. Okay, admittedly, the makeup and cute outfit are for my planned walk by the fire station after meal prepping for the week. But the list is for my seven-day paleo eat clean diet.
Except this list is taking longer than I’d like. I’m currently stuck on nut butter. Nuts can be butter? I scan the refrigerated wall and suck my bottom lip between my teeth. Margarine. Soft spread. Sticks. Made with canola oil. Made with olive oil. Natural butter. Unbelievably not butter. Where the fuck is nut butter?
“Just pick one. They won’t bite.” I lift my chin and bite my lip hard . . . to hold in the moan that threatens to escape. Melted chocolate. His eyes. I have a weakness for chocolate. Fireman’s eyes. Not quite chocolate because they have specks of gold that catch the light. Almost as though they’re dancing. Laughing. He’s laughing at me.
“Cat got your tongue, Callie?” He reaches out and pushes a strand of my hair from my face and tucks it behind my ear. I shiver when his rough fingertips graze my skin. Smooth. Way to go, Callie.
“Nuts,” I croak.
“What?” Chase smiles. His eyes crinkle with humor.
“How the fuck do nuts make butter?”
He laughs, a booming sound, and I glance around, self-conscious of drawing attention from strangers. I puff out an exhale and relax, relieved the store is practically empty at this early hour.
“Nut butter is over by the jams, jellies . . . peanut butter.” Ah! Realization and embarrassment wash over me. That kind of butter. He must think I’m an idiot.
“Er—right. That makes better sense. Thank God you came to my rescue! I could’ve been here all day. Probably would have caught a cold even!” Shut up, Callie. I can’t seem to stop rambling once I start. Nervous habit, and this man has every cell in my body aflutter and amiss. Chase’s fingertips on my arm halt the sounds tumbling from my lips.
“How about I do you one better? Let’s walk together?” He pushes my cart out of the aisle and I follow, my steps quick to catch up to his long strides. He winks and nods toward the destination. “Anything to help a woman in distress.”
“I was not in distress. Maybe a little confused. But it’s understandable. I’ve never heard of half of these items.” I wave my list as we arrive at all the spreads. I pluck the cheapest jar from the shelf and add it to my cart. Which he’s still holding tight. Almost as if he’s keeping it hostage.
“New recipe?” He nods to my hand and the list clenched between my fingers.
“New plan. I’m going clean.”
“Pity. I like dirty.”
My eyes snap to his. “Pardon?”
He chuckles. Three other firefighters round the corner with two carts piled high. It’s a sight to behold. They all wear matching navy pants with their County Fire T-shirts tucked into trim waists. Black heavy boots. But it’s the ball caps that complete the look. Give them an aura of mystery, even. Like, even if they aren’t perfectly attractive, they appear so from afar because of the coordinated outfits.
“What’s up, boss? You ready to head out?” Mustache says to Chase.
It’s then I notice their carts. Holy crap—
“How much do you guys eat?” My mouth waters at the piles of packaged bacon, bags of potatoes, and carton upon carton of eggs. Damn. My eyes flick to my healthy eating cart and its sad state in comparison.
“We’re having a community cookout— “He glances down at his watch and his eyes widen. “In an hour.” He releases my cart and glides it back into my hands. “Sorry, Callie, we’ve got to run. You should come by. We’ll be serving breakfast and collecting donations until ten. Bring food for a local shelter and get a hot meal.” He walks backwards, following his crew toward the checkout.
Firemen serving breakfast. Where’s the list? Sign me up.
“Sure. Yeah. Maybe I’ll stop by.” Much better. Even my face hides the merriment bouncing around inside.
“Won’t be clean, though.” His brows waggle and I can’t fight the grin that pulls at my lips.
“That’s okay. I like it dirty, too!” I shout. Facepalm. I don’t, but I want to. I’m tempted to hide my face but his eyes widen slightly and the way they heat from under the bill of his hat catches my breath. The grin that spreads across his features next could be classified as shit eating. He turns and strides out of view.
“Nice, Callie,” I mutter to myself, then snatch my cell from my back pocket and shoot a group text to Alicia and Jill.
Me: Emergency! Hot guys. Bacon. Eggs. Potatoes. My house, 1 hour!
Jill: This qualifies as an emergency how?
Me: Firemen. The firemen are making us breakfast!
Alicia: Wow! Fast much? U already hook up with 1?
Alicia: Save 1 for me! I want my own!
Me: No. They’re doing some fundraiser for the needy. The community needs us!
Jill: I’m a maybe. I have shit to do.
Alicia: Let me finish cleaning my apartment.
Me: No bailing or lame excuses! You have to come. I need you.
I lock my screen and pocket my phone. Excitement bubbles in my belly. It rumbles. Okay, so maybe it’s mostly hunger. I glance down at my half-filled cart. Crap. My list still has a few items unchecked. I better finish soon if I want to get to that breakfast. My morning plan to food prep for the week is abandoned a little too easily at the thought of overindulging in carbs, fat, and firemen.
I love breakfast.
I’ve always loved the first meal of the day, but on this sunny morning my gratitude sighs at an all-time high. Top forty music plays across the parking lot with the drone of the generator humming in the background. Six long folding tables surrounded by chairs fill the south end of the blacktop, and families and neighbors sit about. The joyful sounds of chatter and laughter float through the air.
Center stage, though, the guys man the propane grills, flipping pancakes and bacon while wearing smiles and those glorious uniforms. Navy pants, T-shirts, and logoed ball caps. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a better sight.
“Le sigh,” Jill gushes at my right. “Good looking and kind hearted? You know what makes this better?”
“Big hoses,” Alicia says from my left.
I snort. Of course that’s the exact moment Chase decides to look up. Be cool, Callie. He can’t hear a snort from all the way across the parking lot. I raise my hand and wave. He grins back and raises his spatula.
“Bring the bacon to mama,” Alicia says, gives me a little push, and keeps stride. I imagine we draw the attention of the cooking crew, strutting through the lot in our intentionally constructed outfits. I imagine, because I can’t actually know. I keep my sunglass covered eyes focused at the ground so I don’t trip.
We didn’t want to appear too obvious, but Alicia insisted there be lots of skin. To rein them in, of course. We’re all dressed in casual shorts—each wearing a different color and cut—paired with sleeveless tops and strappy heels.
Jill, quite often the voice of reason in my life, wears a muted pink lace top and white shorts. Her blonde tresses are combed long and her tan skin almost matches the nude of her shoes.
Alicia, on the other hand, is all black everything—hair, nails, eye liner, shoes, and blouse. Except for her shorts, which blaze a fiery red. She looks sinful, and even with the tallest heels she’s shorter than either me or Jill.
I’m in my black and white patterned shorts and white top, the one that dips low to showcase the girls but not too low to be mistaken for a night out earning at the club. My white and tan wedges keep my steps steady, even on this gravel lot. Alicia helped pile my curly brown locks into an effortless messy bun—in reality it took us twenty minutes to achieve the optimal look. I’m confident and sexy. Ready to hook myself a fireman.
As we step closer I’m thankful for the shades
as they hide my eyes and allow me to assess the man candy. And boy, how tasty they look. Though, as we conform to the line of people waiting on breakfast, my eyes land back on Chase. He’s dreamy and has an air of confidence and leadership. It’s attractive. He’s attractive. He’s talking to me. Oh, God, I was ogling. I don’t even know what he said. He tilts his head and a smirk pulls those plump lips. Lips that would be talented at kissing. I’d bet, if that was something I could put money on.
“You okay, Callie?”
I shake my head and then switch directions to nod. “Fine! Totally great. Super. Fab.” Fab? I blow out an exhale.
He chuckles. “You look nice. Pancakes?”
“Thanks. Yes. Please.” He piles them on my plate. One. Two. Three.
“That’s good!” I laugh and pull my plate away. “Gotta save room for meat.”
He grins. “You like meat, Callie?” Oh, God! Now I have an entirely different vision of sausage running through my mind. I glance down at his crotch and he laughs, a loud, booming rumble that draws attention from everyone near. My cheeks heat. I’m sure they’re as pink as if I’d spent an afternoon at the beach. His knowing grin tells me that was his intent. Well, two can play at this.
“I love meat,” I purr. His eyes widen and his laughter dies. I lean forward over the grill, careful to not get too close and burn my arm, but far enough that he has a clear view down my blouse. “I especially love sausage. The juicy taste when my lips lock around it.” I close my eyes and moan once. I open my lids to find him licking his lips. His Adam’s apple bobs at his throat.
“But I’m a little disappointed because those you have today sure are tiny.” With that I smile wide and let the laughter fall from my lips. I glance down at the grill. “You’re burning your cakes, boss.” I turn on my heel and strut to the table where Jill and Alicia await with eager smiles. I can faintly hear Chase’s curses follow in my wake.
“Gurl . . . What did you do to that poor boy?” Jill laughs.
