Two Hearts Rescue: Park City Firefighter Romance

by Daniel Banner

  Slade couldn’t see how long it was because it was hidden. He could tell there was printing on the side Pineapple was looking at, but couldn’t see it clearly enough to tell what it said.

  “Tell you what, Powers. There’s a banquet here Saturday. I’m on shift, but I want to be here to make sure everything goes smoothly. You cover three hours for me and I’ll tell you everything I got on her.” He rattled the receipt.

  Three hours with B platoon on a Saturday night in exchange for info he didn’t just want, but needed? Seeing that smile again felt like more of a necessity than an option. It was a bargain.

  “Deal.”

  Pineapple stuck out one huge paw and they shook on it, both probably squeezing a bit harder than they had to.

  “Your girl,” said Pineapple, then cleared his throat. “Your girl found the healthiest thing on my menu today. Maybe the only healthy thing.”

  “Yeah, and …”

  “She had a glass of water to drink with it.”

  “You’re gonna make me suffer?”

  “Alright, I’ll tell you what you want to know.” Pineapple pulled out a few bills, a ten and some ones. “She’s a good tipper.”

  “You’re killing me.”

  “That’s it.” Pineapple flapped open the bill holder and handed over a short receipt.

  The total for her lunch was $8.71 with tax. She’d paid cash. No breadcrumbs.

  “Well,” said Pineapple, “you learned a couple lessons today.” He slapped Slade on the back with a meaty hand. “Don’t be a wuss when it comes to girls. And be a little more wary when you make deals with firemen. We’re scoundrels. See you at five on Saturday. And you’re welcome.”

  He handed the bill back to Mercedes and disappeared into the kitchen.

  Even though he felt like he’d just woken up to realize he’d slept through Christmas, all Slade could do was laugh at his own stupidity.

  5

  “The longest thirty minutes known to man,” announced Poppy quietly. “Nine-point-seven times as long as a normal thirty minutes. Thirty-two times longer than any given sitcom. I will give you that—you are a time and space phenomenon. Maybe it makes me a bad person to hate a marvel of physics, but I loathe you even more than I did on Tuesday.”

  The treadmill just blinked back its smug little numbers.

  “I know, right? Who would have thought it was even humanly possible for my hatred of you to increase? Hey, I guess that makes me a superhuman. Power of loathing stronger than my desire to do anything rather than this. I’d rather smell the infected boil on Duodenum’s anus—”

  “Hey, glad you’re back!” Alta gave Poppy a small wave as she walked past the treadmills on her way to the front desk.

  Poppy smiled. And turned a deep shade of red. After Alta was gone, she explained in a much quieter voice, “Duodenum was this Bernese Mountain Dog we rescued, and he had the nastiest ulcerated boil on his—nope, Poppy. You’re making it worse.”

  Blink, blink, blink, went the treadmill.

  “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about you.” Poppy stepped on and pushed the up arrow and braced herself for thirty-minutes of pain.

  At least she still had a good audiobook, and at least the treadmill in front of the pillar was open. If she had to hurt it might as well be her arch enemy who administered the torture.

  The gym door opened and a familiar pair of gorgeous blue eyes set above cheekbones chiseled from marble stepped in. Slade, wearing running shorts and a sleeveless workout shirt. Their eyes didn’t meet like the first time, they had already done that and now moved on to a private conversation, from which Poppy was unable to extract them. It made her blush that she didn’t even know what the intimate discussion was about, only that it was extremely personal.

  With eyes locked on him, she used her peripheral vision to admire his bare shoulders and biceps. He had to be flexing. But it didn’t look like he was straining or anything. He couldn’t just walk around in a constant state of flex, could he, like a flexing Greek statue?

  Stahhhp, said a voice inside her head and her eyes gave up their grip on his. Focus. Do not show off your treadmill fail skills.

  Oh, good idea. Poppy looked down at the machine and resisted the urge to grab the hand rails. Suddenly, staying balanced on the spinning belt seemed as difficult as balancing on a spinning log in the middle of a lake. The intense focus gave her a tiny hitch in her step, but she kept moving forward. Well, moving forward while staying in the same place. What a stupid hobby. Whoever invented this torture device was certainly doomed to an eternity of having his face held against the belt as ever-regenerating skin was sanded off.

  Wow, that got dark.

  Poppy looked back up at the handsome devil who had inspired her sinister mental rant. He was standing at the front counter talking to Alta. When he had come with the other firefighters, they had walked right in. This time he was alone—no radio, no leering-eyed partner, just a small gym bag. Poppy tried not to watch, but there wasn’t anything else to hold her attention. She increased the speed to 6.0. If he happened to get close enough to check out her numbers she didn’t want to be running in the measly 5’s.

  Alta slid a clipboard across the counter and Slade picked up a pen.

  What the heck is he doing here? How did he find me?

  Wait, how did he find her? What kind of question was that? Apparently, the exercised-induced oxygen deficiency was already kicking in. Why in the world would he even be looking? Maybe he was scared she was going to get launched through the wall this time. He could be a concerned citizen here to make sure this evil contraption didn’t succeed in turning her into a quadriplegic.

  The next time she glanced over, he was pulling something out of his wallet and handing it to Alta. The next time, Alta was handing it back. Then he was walking toward her.

  Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look. The pillar in front of her was fascinating. Painted purple up to about the eight-foot mark, then a dingy white as it continued to climb into the unfinished ceiling like a Coliseum pillar.

  The Greek statue took the treadmill next to her.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Hi, good.” Wait, was that his question?

  “Oh, hi. I guess that’s a better way to start a conversation.”

  “Poppy.”

  “Hi, good,” he said. They smiled at each other, all awkwardness gone from the conversation and her knees a little weak. He glanced down at her nemesis. “You’re brave.”

  “My mother always told me when you get bucked off the treadmill, get right back on again.”

  Slade fiddled with the settings and started running. No intimidating talk, no psyching himself up. But the crazy thing was he’d just plopped down right next to her when there were over a dozen other machines available. Had she been sweating this bad a minute ago?

  “Your mother wasn’t one for horse analogies, huh?”

  “Ha.” In between breaths she managed to say, “My mother thinks horses exist to pull sleighs around Temple Square at Christmas.” There was no way she could keep up this pace if they were going to chat. But she also didn’t want to seem like Tuesday had been her first time ever on a treadmill. This was at least the third time she’d run on one of the infernal machines.

  Six-point-oh was only a ten-minute mile. Why was she already dying? That’s right, the elevation. She’d been back at 7000 feet for a few months now, but hadn’t done this kind of intense cardio. Or any kind of cardio, for that matter.

  “Sorry I ran off the other day,” said Poppy.

  “No worries,” said Slade. “It only took me every waking moment since then to track you down. And a few of the sleeping moments as well.”

  That was obviously a huge overstatement, but the pressure from the fake compliment forced Poppy to spit out, “I have a thing about being in competition for someone’s attention, and the firefighter guys …”

  “They didn’t stand a chance. Sorry that JFK was being JFK.”

  Poppy gr
inned, with her mouth open trying to catch up on breaths.

  “Been at it long?” asked Slade.

  The display showed a measly four minutes. “Apparently I just started into my fourth hour.”

  His eyes widened and it was his turn to miss a step.

  “Wait, I read that wrong. Four minutes, not hours. So, yeah, still a long time.”

  Slade chuckled and regained his footing. Maybe he was taking really long steps, but he sure seemed to be moving slowly. Not much more than a walk. Every few seconds he glanced down at his wrist.

  “You’re a speedster, huh?” If he didn’t kick it up a notch soon, she’d feel better about dropping her own speed a bit.

  “Running isn’t my sport of choice. The one and only 5K I ran, they put me in the Clydesdale division.”

  “What’s that?” It was so much easier when he did all the talking.

  “It’s the division for people too big to be expected to run with the normal-sized runners. Two hundred pounds and up.” He looked down at his watch.

  “Phew,” said Poppy. “I barely miss out on being a horse.”

  He laughed again. “In the race I did they called the females Venus or Athena or something. Which one was the goddess of war?”

  “Athena.” How nice of him to let her imply that she weighed almost 200 pounds.

  “Besides, it’s like one-fifty for women, so you still wouldn’t be close.”

  Poppy smiled and kept her face straight ahead. At 140 she could chug about a gallon of water and be Athena. The CDC said she should be under 125. Her mother might be happy if Poppy hit 90. Poppy agreed with the CDC.

  Wait. Silence. Say something! “So you’re one of those cardio-is-for-sissies weightlifter guys?”

  “I play a little early morning basketball down at a church a couple times a week.”

  “I’ve heard church ball is pretty rough.”

  He shook his head. “In the mornings it’s just pick-up ball. Totally different. They’ve invited me to play in their league, but I’m too scared.”

  “You’ll run into a burning building, but you won’t step on the court with a bunch of churchgoers?”

  “I’m brave, not suicidal.” He checked his watch again and adjusted the speed of his treadmill slightly.

  Poppy went ahead and slowed hers as well. And they ended up running at a comparable pace. She was still breathing way harder than him.

  “Weights?” she asked. “Or does the Fire Godmother just wave her wand and give you guys bulging muscles along with your badge or whatever?”

  “No, that’s ridiculous. It’s the Fire Godfather. And he uses a magic axe, not a wand. It’s a tiny little axe, actually, but it works.”

  They ran in silence for a bit, enjoying the ease of the banter. Poppy was glad for the respite to catch her breath. Soon the oxygen deprivation would have her saying all sorts of loopy things.

  “Do you ever get random great ideas in the shower?” he asked out of nowhere.

  “You don’t believe in easing into personal questions, huh?” Poppy finally hit the mile mark and tapped her speed down two beeps.

  “You know,” he said, unfazed, “when you’re thinking about nothing and your brain is free to work without constraints?”

  “Blow drying my hair,” said Poppy. “I always thought it was because I was warming up my brain cells.”

  “Maybe it is. One guy I read called it incubation. Just letting the inkling of an idea simmer until it hatches.”

  That was a beautiful analogy. Poppy wasn’t the creative type, but the idea still appealed to her.

  “That’s what lifting weights is for me. I don’t do structured workouts to tone up for the calendar like some guys I work with.”

  Did she dare tell him he could? Or should, anyway. That would be a calendar she would buy.

  He went on. “I get my ideas. I let my mind wander and I jot down—”

  Poppy glanced over to see why he’d cut off so quickly but couldn’t see any indication other than a pale face and widened eyes. The gym appeared to be unchanged, so it hadn’t been due to an exterior distraction, but something had made him cut off as if …

  He had almost said too much.

  “What do you jot down?” she asked.

  “Huh?”

  “You said you jot down something. While your brain eggs hatch.”

  “Are you from Park City?”

  “Yeah.” This guy changed subjects more often than a radio with a broken scan button.

  “When did you graduate high school?”

  “Seven years ago.”

  “Really? I graduated seven years ago. I think, no I know I would remember your smile. Unless you had smile implants after high school. Or are you talking about Park City, Maine or something.”

  “I went to Rowland Hall.” It was always interesting to see how people reacted when she told them she went to the priciest private school in the state.

  “Oh. Rowland Hall. Did you know Phil Franklin? I think he went there for a bit.” He didn’t seem to care where she’d gone one way or the other.

  “Doesn’t sound familiar.” This tangent was taking a circuitous route. Did he write letters to this Phil guy while he lifted weights?

  “Before his family got too rich to hang out with common people, we were best friends. Eighth, ninth grade. We would play this game to see how many times we could change the subject on someone before they noticed what we were doing. Anyway, he’s a Secret Service agent now. Remember that scandal? In Columbia a few years ago?”

  “Yeah. Sure do. I also remember we were talking about your dirty little secret. Not the fictional Tangent Man. The one who happened to go to my private high.”

  “Tangent Man,” said Slade, still sounding as winded as a guy sitting in a lawn chair. “That’s a great name for him. Sounds like it could be in Particle Man. You know that They Might Be Giants song.”

  “You’re doing it again.”

  For a while they ran in silence. If he didn’t want to tell her, that was fine, but she wasn’t going to let him dodge it. He could say straight out that they barely knew each other and to mind her own if he wanted her to lay off him.

  “Word association,” said Slade. “First word in your mind when I say … Space Cat.”

  Poppy groaned. “You saw my tattoo.” Not many people ever had the pleasure of seeing the tabby with a space helmet that she carried on her ribs as a reminder of bad choices.

  It was obvious Slade was trying to hide his smug grin, but his eyes gave him away.

  “That’s very professional of you, Mr. Fireman.”

  “You can’t just put Space Cat out there and expect someone not to admire it.”

  “His name’s not Space Cat,” said Poppy with all the seriousness she could muster. “It’s Castronaut.”

  Slade cracked up. He laughed so hard he had to grab the hand rails and step off the treadmill. When he caught his breath, he said, “I hate treadmills,” then hit the stop button.

  “Thank you,” gasped Poppy. She pulled the emergency stop cord so hard she thought it would rip loose from its anchor.

  “So tell me about Castronaut.”

  Poppy leaned on her arm rail, breathing quick and shallow. “Sometimes he hides in my fat rolls.” What! Did she really just say fat rolls? Quick, deflect! “He’s playful like that.”

  “There’s got to be a story behind a tattoo like that.”

  How nice of him to not object to her claim that she had fat rolls over her ribs. Lack of denial was practically proof positive. The embarrassment of the dismount incident rushed back.

  “I, uh, I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life.” Don’t go there, Poppy! “Like getting on this stupid machine today, for example.”

  “Treadmills are the worst. Soul-sucking and confining.”

  “Yeah, but you know what’s even worse? I mean, by definition, the worst is the worst there is, but know what’s even worse-er?”

  “Tell me,” he said in a perfectly not-out
-of-breath voice.

  “When someone keeps trying to change the subject on you.”

  “You’re not going to let me out of this one, are you?”

  “You saw Castronaut. Pretty sure you owe me one.”

  Slade combed his fingers through his long-on-top hair, which was barely slick with sweat. She wanted to run her fingers through it over and over. Was that gross? It wasn’t her fault; he looked like a freaking male model while Poppy resembled a beached whale with heat stroke. She didn’t dare check the mirror for confirmation.

  “Poetry,” said Slade.

  “Poetry? That’s what you jot down while you work out?”

  He looked … ashamed, but Poppy couldn’t tell if it was a façade.

  “You might as well write romance novels.” She laughed out loud at the thought of this Greek god holding the tip of his pen to his chin and flexing as he tried to work out the next rhyme in his sonnet.

  “Do not, even under interrogation, ever tell the guys at the station,” said Slade. “We both have skeletons in our closets we aren’t proud of.”

  “You don’t even know …” Don’t go there! Poppy reminded herself. Somehow she hadn’t scared this hottie away, but her past definitely would.

  “Wait, did I say poetry? I misspoke. I’m a wordsmith. Is that more manly?”

  “Too late, Maya Angelou. Your secret is out.”

  “Oh, the guys at the station would love that one. Let’s go there right now so you can tell them you found the perfect nickname for me.”

  “So is it any good? Your poetry?”

  “No,” said Slade immediately. “I mean, I like it, but it’s pretty horrible. I’m not really sure you can call it poetry.”

  “If you’re so embarrassed about it, why do you write it?” Poppy remembered her towel and picked it up.

  “Why do you run?”

  Poppy froze with her towel over her face. That was a question she didn’t know how to answer. They’d already established that she was, to put it nicely, closer to plump than thin. But she still couldn’t make herself say it out loud. Not without saying it in a joking manner. “Is that a rhetorical question?”

  “I mean running is fine, but on a treadmill? I’d rather do crunches on a layer of Legos.”