by Teri Wilson
“No, really. I can tell you want to say something else.” She crossed her arms over her ruffled apron. “Go ahead.”
He frowned and said nothing for a prolonged moment before finally shaking his head. “Nope. Never mind. I think it’s best if I just drop it.”
Aha! So there was something he wanted to say. She knew it. “Now you have to tell me.”
“Violet.” He was on the verge of walking away. Violet could tell. Why did he have to be so infuriating all the time?
She held up her hands. “Fine. It’s okay. You don’t have to say it. We both know what this is about.”
“We do?”
“Of course. You’re trying to thank me.” Violet shrugged. “Like I said, I get it.”
Sam’s eyes narrowed. “You think I’m trying to thank you? For what, exactly?”
She waved a hand. “For saving your life, silly.”
An incredulous laugh burst from Sam’s mouth. “Unbelievable. Have you forgotten that you set me on fire?”
Violet glanced at Cinder. A little help here? But the Dalmatian’s expression was as neutral as Switzerland.
She cleared her throat. “If you don’t want to thank me, then why are you hesitating to say whatever is on your mind? Has the Dalmatian got your tongue?”
He looked at her like she’d lost her mind. Maybe she had. “That’s not an expression.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do, which in and of itself is cause for concern.” He pressed hard on his temples, as if speaking her language was the worst thing that could possibly happen to him. “For the record, thanking you was the last thing on my mind.”
She didn’t believe him for a second. “Oh, yeah? Then what was it that you wanted to say?”
He pointed to a spot somewhere behind her, in the depths of the cupcake truck. “You’re in violation of the fire code. Again.”
Violet felt her mouth drop open.
Seriously? She’d thought he was brimming with unspoken gratitude when in fact he’d once again been looking for reasons to issue more of those annoying citations.
Violet was mortified to her core. The only thing that would have been more humiliating was if Sam Nash, the world’s most efficient fire marshal, had forgotten about their kiss.
Had he forgotten about it? By all appearances he had, while Violet had been reliving it every time she closed her eyes.
Hot…so hot. She’d give anything to get those aching words out of her head for good.
“It’s your extension cords.” Sam motioned toward her power strip and the tangle of cords plugged into it. “They’re not commercial grade, and you’re not supposed to use multiple strings like that. The North Carolina fire code has specific requirements for power cords on food trucks, so technically, you’ve got two violations.”
Of course she did.
Violet wanted nothing more than to offer up a snappy comeback, but she was at a loss. Was Sam’s home wallpapered with the Turtle Beach fire code? How did he come up with all these violations off the top of his head? The mind reeled.
“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” Sam lifted an eyebrow. “Dalmatian got your tongue?”
***
Sam was winning—not just the ongoing Dalmatian war with Violet, but also the softball game. The past few nights spent at the batting cages with his colleagues had paid off. Big time. Nearly every chance the TBFD had on deck, a firefighter knocked one out of the park.
The game ended at 6–2, in favor of the fire department. Chief Murray was elated beyond all description. In a rare breach of protocol, he’d accompanied the team to Island Pizza after the game, where the firefighters sat on one side of the restaurant and the police officers sat on the other. Gone was the casual camaraderie of the previous week. The members of the Guns team seemed shell-shocked. What just happened? their stunned expressions seemed to say.
Sam happened. That seemed to be Chief Murray’s takeaway. In the ultimate power move, he stood on a chair at Island Pizza and named Sam the MVP of the entire tournament even though they potentially still had three more games left to play. When one of the police officers called BS, Murray shrugged it off. After all, the Hoses just needed to win one more game to lock up the championship. If next Saturday looked anything like today, the tournament trophy would soon have a new place of honor in the firehouse.
Sam accepted the praise of his boss and numerous pats on the backs from Griff and the rest of the team with a certain degree of discomfort. He wasn’t sure why he felt so uneasy about the hoopla surrounding their victory.
Liar.
Okay, fine. He had a pretty good idea why the accolades didn’t sit well. Throughout the entire pizza party, Violet sat with her usual group of friends from the retirement center, gracious even in defeat. Sam had to give her credit where credit was due. She didn’t try and say that the fire department had cheated or blame their victory on a stroke of dumb luck. When Sam had passed her table, she’d shaken his hand and told him he’d played well, but the TBPD would get him next time. That’s it. No outlandish trash talk, no name-calling, no setting him on fire.
Sam was—dare he think it—almost disappointed. He’d spotted Sprinkles resting quietly in a fancy pink crate when he’d stopped by the cupcake truck before the game. It was a wise choice, given what happened the previous Saturday. A responsible choice. Sam was a big believer in crate-training dogs. Still, the Dalmatian’s sad little tail wag had hit him straight in the feels.
What was happening to him? And why did Violet’s grace in the face of defeat remind him so much of Sprinkles’s cotton-candy-hued confinement?
He liked sparring with Violet, that was why. And God help him, their kiss had been the best thirty seconds of his life, flames and all. Clearly there was something very wrong with him.
Still, he probably should have kept his mouth shut about her extension cords earlier. At minimum, he should have simply given her a verbal warning. But no, he’d whipped out his trusty pad and written her two new citations right there on the spot. Why had he even brought the blasted pad along with him to a softball game, anyway?
You know why.
He was losing it. If he had a lick of sense left, he’d take the fire marshal job in Chicago and leave Turtle Beach and all the accompanying Dalmatian drama in his rearview mirror.
Sam didn’t want to move back to Chicago, though. He’d realized as much when he’d come home from the batting cages the past few nights and proceeded to stay up late, unpacking his remaining moving boxes. His clothes were all lined up neatly in his closet. The books on the shelves in the living room were all carefully alphabetized by author. Sam had even hung a few things on the walls—a framed photograph from Cinder’s Medal of Honor ceremony, a picture of Sam’s old engine company in front of the firehouse on LaSalle Street, and, in a rare moment of sentimentality, a watercolor painting of Turtle Beach’s coastline at sunset.
Sam had picked up the framed piece of art at one of the numerous galleries on the boardwalk while he’d been doing a routine new- business inspection. Something about the painting’s delicate hues and soft swirls of color had calmed him. He’d thought hanging it in his new home might make him feel good about the changes he was making in his life.
It wasn’t until he’d nailed it to the wall that he’d recognized the location in the watercolor as the dog beach—the exact spot where he’d first encountered Violet March. In fact, if he squinted hard enough, a tiny figure on the horizon definitely looked familiar, as did a spotted dog romping in the waves.
Sam tried not to read too much into it. So he’d accidentally purchased a painting that featured the woman who seemed intent on driving him crazy. It didn’t necessarily mean anything.
But the fact that he couldn’t stop thinking about her did mean something. God, that kiss. Sam had never experienced anything like it. What sort of magic made a
man want to keep on kissing a woman while everything around him prepared itself to burn to the ground?
“One more game, eh?” Murray slapped Sam so hard on the back that he nearly choked on a pepperoni. “We can wrap this thing up next weekend. The tournament will be over practically before it started.”
All the firefighters around the table whooped in agreement. If there’d been a nearby cooler full of Gatorade, Sam was certain they would have dumped it on his head.
“You’re meeting us at the batting cages again this week for practice, right?” Griff said. “Those tips you gave us really helped.”
“Sure.” Sam nodded. “I think I can do that.”
His gaze darted once again to Violet’s table. She laughed at something one of her elderly friends said and then took a comically huge bite out of her slice of pizza. Cinder rested her head on Sam’s knee with a sigh, and when he glanced down, he realized he wasn’t the only one sneaking glances in Violet’s direction.
The tournament will be over practically before it started…
Victory had never tasted quite so bittersweet.
Chapter 12
The following morning, Sam sat at his desk with a renewed sense of purpose. A night of tossing and turning had ended with a revelation as he guzzled coffee in the morning and watched Cinder drag his tangled sheets neatly into place. Violet March was a distraction, plain and simple.
Perhaps that was oversimplifying things, as there was nothing remotely plain nor simple about her. But she was definitely a distraction. Luckily for Sam, years of training Cinder to be the perfect fire dog had taught him plenty about eliminating unwanted diversions.
He just needed to focus. He needed to practice redirecting his attention to other things every time the memory of kissing Violet’s perfectly impertinent mouth invaded his thoughts.
Sam could do this. He was great at this sort of thing. He’d literally been awarded medals for it. If he’d taught Cinder how to ignore distractions with nothing but a firm tone and a pocket full of bacon treats, surely he could manage to control himself in Violet’s presence.
He knew just how to start. Step 1: Become so busy that he didn’t have time to think about anything else besides fire prevention. After all, that was why he’d moved to Turtle Beach in the first place.
The fire station on Seashell Drive wasn’t exactly a hive of activity, but that didn’t matter. Sam wasn’t at the mercy of the fire alarm like the rest of the guys were. He could do surprise inspections. He could pop into local businesses and examine their floor plans, their fire extinguishers, and emergency exit plans. He could write citations to people who didn’t have perfectly tousled blonde mermaid hair and who didn’t wear pink frilly aprons. And he would…starting right now.
As luck would have it, just as Sam started crafting a to-do list that was sure to keep him busy for at least a week, Griff popped his head into the office.
“There’s a call for you in dispatch,” he said, drumming his fingers on the door frame.
“In dispatch? For me?” Calls that came in on the dispatch line were usually emergencies, and Sam didn’t do emergencies. Not anymore.
He gripped the edge of his desk as his heart pounded so hard that his throat grew thick.
Griff shrugged. “It’s one of the ladies from the senior center. She asked for you personally—something to do with the sprinkler system.”
Sam relaxed ever so slightly. “I’ve got it, thanks.”
“Sure thing,” Griff said.
Sam picked up the phone and punched the button with the blinking red light. “Sam Nash.”
“Hi, Marshal Nash. This is Ethel Banks. I’m not sure if you remember me, but I’m one of the residents at the senior center.”
“I remember,” Sam said. If memory served, Ethel was one of Violet’s trio of friends…not that Sam was thinking about Violet. “Is everything okay down there, Mrs. Banks?”
“Oh, dear. You can call me Ethel. Everyone does,” she tittered.
Sam leaned forward and planted his elbows on his desk. “Okay, then, Ethel. What can I do for you this morning?”
“It’s the fire sprinklers. They need to be inspected.” Ethel cleared her throat. “Right now.”
Sam frowned to himself. She needed an emergency sprinkler inspection? Something didn’t sound quite right. “Are the sprinklers going off right now?”
“Yes. I mean, no.” She paused for a beat. “I’m not sure exactly. But you should probably get down here immediately. You’re coming, aren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Sam said. He’d wanted to keep busy, hadn’t he? Be careful what you wish for. “I’ll be right there.”
“Perfect. Oh, and Sam?”
“Yes?”
“Make sure you bring that sweet spotted dog of yours,” she said. “And hurry!”
Now Sam was really confused. Why would it be necessary for Cinder to accompany him on an emergency sprinkler inspection?
Never mind. He wasn’t even going to ask. What difference did it make? He never went anywhere without his dog.
“Will do.”
Sam hung up, grimacing at the phone. He’d wanted to keep busy, but this felt strange. No matter, at least it would get him out of the firehouse for a bit.
“Come on, Cinder.” He pushed his chair back from his desk and stood. “Let’s go see what’s really going on down there.”
What was going on down at the senior center had little or nothing to do with the fire sprinklers. That was how things looked at first glance, anyway. Sam entered the building to find fifteen or so retirees in wobbly downward dog positions on colorful yoga mats lined up on the lobby floor.
Violet’s gentle yoga class was in session. Super.
Sprinkles eyed Sam from a yoga mat situated right beside Violet’s. Cinder let out a delighted little snort. The Dalmatians were clearly happy to see each other.
Sam awkwardly shifted his weight from one foot to the other, trying his best not to stare at Violet’s willowy form clad in skintight leggings. He looked anywhere and everywhere until his eyes met Ethel Banks’s, who was casting him an upside-down grin from her yoga position.
“Cinder,” he muttered, “why do I get the feeling we’ve been lured here for purposes unrelated to sprinklers?”
“Sam. What are you doing here?” Violet shimmied to her feet, and Sam couldn’t help but notice that her cute little toenails were painted the same shade of blue as the famous little boxes from the jewelry store in the famous Audrey Hepburn movie. Just like her charming vintage bicycle.
Attraction percolated between them. Sam could feel it from clear across the crowded lobby. All thoughts of avoiding distraction went right out the window.
“Look, everyone! It’s Marshal Sam,” one of the residents said. “Are you here for yoga?”
Cinder’s tail wagged against Sam’s leg.
“I’m afraid not.” He twirled his pointer finger overhead in the direction of one of the sprinkler heads on the ceiling. “We’re responding to a call about the sprinkler system.”
A furrow formed in Violet’s forehead. “Really?”
She glanced up at the dry-as-a-bone sprinkler head directly above her.
“Really,” Sam said.
Ethel remained suspiciously silent.
Violet crossed her arms. “Honestly, Sam. If you and Cinder want to join the class, just say so.”
“We’re not here for yoga,” he said, trying his best to hammer the point home.
“Then what is it?” She gave him a dry smile. “Are my yoga clothes flammable? Are you about to give me another ticket?”
The crowd of retirees tittered behind him.
Sam had a good mind to leave, but his sense of professional responsibility prevented him from doing so. He was going to have to write a report on this when he got back to the station. Like it o
r not, he couldn’t leave without taking a look at the sprinkler system.
“As I mentioned before, I’m here to inspect the sprinklers. Carry on with your class.” He turned to go, and immediately heard an extra set of Dalmatian paws padding behind him. Sprinkles, no doubt.
“Sprinkles, come back here,” Violet said.
Sam knew without bothering to look over his shoulder that the Dalmatian was still trotting behind him. Fine. Sprinkles’s antics weren’t his problem. She’d be enrolled in obedience lessons soon enough anyway.
After checking in with the receptionist, Sam located the control panel for the sprinkler system. He checked the settings and wiring while Sprinkles danced around Cinder, trying to entice her into a game of chase by rolling onto her back and batting her paws in the air. Cinder remained as stoic and professional as ever, but kept shifting her sweet brown gaze to Sam.
Please, she seemed to say.
Cinder wasn’t supposed to play while she was on duty, just as she wasn’t supposed to have treats. But Sam’s efforts to get her to let loose a little at home had been unsuccessful thus far, so he was tempted to cut her some slack. It would be good for her to act like a regular dog. A few minutes couldn’t hurt.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Take five, and then we’re out of here.”
Cinder’s mouth curved into a huge doggy grin and she darted toward the lobby with Sprinkles in hot pursuit. Sam’s heart gave a little twist. Good dog, he thought. She deserved to have a little fun. It wasn’t as if they were on a legitimate call. Violet’s elderly friends had obviously decided to play matchmaker and decided dialing 911 was the most effective way to do it.
He sighed. Ethel probably wasn’t going to like what came next.
The yoga class was transitioning into a pose that Violet called murder victim when Sam strode toward Ethel’s mat. He didn’t know much about yoga and murder victim didn’t sound very Zen, but he knew better than to question it.
No distractions, remember?
He directed all his attention toward Ethel, who seemed to be purposefully avoiding his gaze. “Can we have a word, please?”
