Combust

by K. Bromberg

  “I’m so sorry, Shelby.” I sniffle and squeeze her hand as she lifts her free hand to wipe her tears beneath her sunglasses.

  “It’s been a little over two years since he died. There isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t think about him. It’s impossible not to when I see him in everything Brody does. And I know it’s the same for Grady. And I love that about him. His loyalty to his friend. To his unfounded guilt. To keeping the promise he made to my husband that he’d make sure Brody knew everything about his father . . . but that means Grady stopped living too. Sure, he’s gone through the motions, but I haven’t really seen him light up with happiness . . . until you came along.”

  She breaks from her commentary when Brody and Grady look our way and wave.

  “Why are you telling me all this?” I ask gently.

  “Because Grady will never admit to you that you’ve made a difference. He won’t allow himself to acknowledge what he feels for you, but we all can see it clearly in that photo.” I turn my head to look at her and she chuckles. “Marcy told me about the shoot. About the only time Grady actually relaxed and showed his true colors was then. When he was looking at you.”

  “I have my life to get back to,” I murmur in explanation despite my feet feeling perfectly fine where they’re planted.

  “Uh-huh.” She shifts her feet and releases my hand. “And sometimes life changes at the drop of a dime, and you take the chance.”

  “I appreciate what you’re doing here, Shelby, but Grady is the one set in his ways. I’m glad I helped him in some way to find his everyday normal in a sense,” I repeat like a broken record.

  “You have. And I thank you for that. We all appreciate it more than you’ll ever know.”

  “Umm.” It’s the only thing I can think to say when I walk into the kitchen to find candles lit at the kitchen table and a meal simmering on the stove.

  I feel like I’ve stepped into an alternative reality. Romance? Is this romance?

  And my heart stills in my chest. And then starts again.

  Has he finally realized what I have? Has Grady finally decided to give whatever this is a chance between us without his predetermined rules and regulations?

  “Hey there.”

  “Should I leave? Am I interrupting a date you have planned with someone?” I use humor to combat the sudden nerves rattling around inside me.

  The look on his face, amused confusion, tugs at my heartstrings as he purses his lips and shakes his head. “No date planned with anyone else.”

  I take another step into the kitchen. “Oh?”

  “I cooked dinner for you.”

  The simple statement is enough to make this girl’s heart melt. “You did?”

  “Yep.” He hands me a glass of wine and pulls a chair out for me. “I thought it was about time I tell you.”

  “Tell me what?” A lump forms in my throat.

  Can we try this? Try to make whatever this is work?

  Don’t go. Please stay.

  My head swirls with possibilities, as his eyes remain locked on mine. He sits on the chair beside me, his knees framing mine, as he places his hands on my thighs. He rubs them up and down their length causing chills to chase up my spine.

  “Thank you.” His smile is shy, the look in his eyes generous, and his voice is almost a whisper.

  And my hopes still hang on.

  “Grady?”

  “Thank you for making me see what I was denying.” I lay my hands atop his and squeeze. “You talked me into doing the calendar. You keep reiterating the guilt is okay, but it can’t rule my life. You . . . you made me realize the scars on the outside aren’t the problem, but it’s the ones on the inside I need to work on. This is the new normal, and I have to accept it.”

  “Not so much accept, but live with it.”

  “You always say things so much prettier than I do.” He smiles.

  “It’s an occupational hazard, but honestly, Grady, I didn’t do anything different from what anyone else has. Maybe it was just the new voice that made you listen.”

  “Perhaps. Regardless . . . I owe you a huge thank you.” He twists his lips and looks at our hands. “I know you’re on your last song and will be leaving soon, and I wanted to take the time to let you know how much your encouragement means to me, how much you mean to me.”

  Ask me to stay.

  I bite back the words because they’re silly and not possible, but, God, how I’d try to make it work if he asks.

  “Thank you.”

  “I bet you can’t wait to get back to Los Angeles. Your daily routine. Your life without a pig rooting around and a police scanner going off every five minutes reminding you of your dad.”

  My smile is soft, and my heart is heavy. The hopes I’m creating in my mind—that he’s made this dinner to ask me to stay—sink slowly. One by one. My foolishness crashes with a big thud, making me feel more stupid than anything. Grady said we were enjoying each other. That’s it. I am the foolish one who let Betsy’s words, Shelby’s comments, and the picture in the calendar make me think there can be more.

  But I’m wrong.

  “I’m used to them now. I think I’m actually going to miss them.” I swallow over the twinge in my heart and force a smile.

  “I doubt it. Without you, I wouldn’t have done the calendar. And without the calendar, I wouldn’t have stepped outside of myself to see how others view me. How the scars fade away after the initial shock. For that, I owe you so much.” That shy smile graces his lips again and steals my heart. “And what I thought an hour ago was a good idea—cooking for you—I’ve now realized is a subtle form of torture considering my cooking is not always the best.”

  I laugh. “That bad, huh?”

  “Let’s just hope you’re standing when we’re done with the meal.” He squeezes my thighs and stares at me in silence for a beat. I try to tell myself his eyes aren’t saying the words to me that my imagination is making up, but it’s so hard not to.

  The sincerity in his smile. The emotion in his eyes. The hum from our physical connection.

  Stop thinking, Dylan. Just enjoy.

  So, I do. I push everything out of my head and focus on the playful banter we share over dinner. On the casual brushes of a hand on my back or when we both reach for the bottle of wine. On the undeniable, slow simmer of sexual tension so frustrating and exhilarating at the same time.

  Grady tops off my glass of wine and sits back on the couch beside me. “So . . . you’re still alive. That’s always a good thing.”

  “The food was great. It’s hard to screw up pasta.”

  “You’d be surprised the things I can screw up when cooking. The guys razz the hell out of me over it.”

  “Well, I thought it was excellent. Thank you.” I take a sip of my wine and give in to the urge and rest my head against his shoulder. We sit and watch the fire crackle and pop in the fireplace.

  “What is it with you firefighters? I think you’re all secretly pyromaniacs.”

  He chuckles, and his shoulders move with it. “We are. We all love to play with fire. It’s a job requirement.”

  “That explains why we have a fire going when it’s at least sixty-plus degrees outside.”

  “I’ve got to get my fix somehow,” he murmurs and then fades off. Without having to look at him, I know what he’s thinking. It’s his only fix. There have been wildfires around us in neighboring communities but none have touched Sunnyville. And Grady’s station hasn’t been one of the departments called on to help during them.

  The question is, if his station had been called, would he have been able to fight the fire? Does the realization he talked about earlier pertain to his career as well, or only his own physical scars?

  “I like the song you’ve been working on,” he says softly, and I can’t help but wonder if this is his way of changing the subject he unexpectedly shifted to.

  “It’s been a hard one to get right.”

  “Maybe it’s because you secretly don
’t want to leave,” he jokes and laughs without a clue as to how close his words ring true for me.

  “Maybe,” I murmur.

  “I’ve only heard it in bits and pieces. What’s it about?”

  “Love.” I chuckle. “Isn’t that what most songs are about?” It’s the only way I can answer without telling him the song is about him. If he hears all the lyrics together, he’ll know.

  “I’m still waiting to see you write one of those songs for yourself.” If he only knew. “And sing it in public.”

  “And I’m still waiting for you to fight a fire that isn’t in your fireplace,” I tease.

  “Touché,” he says and links his fingers with mine. “Am I supposed to go outside and light a fire just so I can hear you sing?”

  “You’ve already lit one,” I murmur as I look up and then brush my lips over his.

  His chuckle is deep, and it rumbles against his lips and onto mine. “Then maybe it’s time I play with it awhile before I help put it out.”

  Just like that, we slip into whatever this is with each other.

  And later, when Grady is cuddled against me, the heat of his body against my back and his arm holding me possessively as he does in his sleep, I pretend this will become something. A future. A tomorrow.

  Our tomorrow.

  I stare at my computer screen—at the completed set of lyrics for my last song—and a part of me wants to purposely forget to save it.

  Because if I don’t save it, I’ll have to rewrite it.

  And if I have to rewrite it, I’ll get more time here.

  More time means more Grady.

  More Grady means less heartache.

  Less heartache is always better.

  I close the lid of my laptop without saving. Almost as if I’m asking fate to make a decision for me—lose the song and tell me it’s worth staying. Save the song and let me know it’s time to move on.

  Jesus, Dylan. You’re going out of your mind.

  I flop back on the bed, sigh, and try to forget about the ten emails from the label I need to return. The ones verifying that I will be present for the studio time booked in five days. The time that can’t be pushed or rescheduled because it’s with the hottest producer in town.

  Then there are the texts and voice mails from Jett asking me why I haven’t sent him the last two songs. The songs that are about getting over him and falling back in love again, only it’s him instead of me who’s going to be singing about it.

  I put my arm over my eyes and try to shut it all out.

  “You okay?” Grady’s voice from the doorway scares the crap out of me.

  I bolt up from the bed with a little yelp. “Argh! I didn’t know you were home yet.”

  He laughs. “Yeah. I’m off shift and on time. It’s a miracle.”

  “Slow day in Sunnyville emergencies?”

  “Yep. By the lack of crumpled paper all over the floor . . . it’s true then? You’re really done?”

  “Yes.” It pains me to admit it.

  “When are you leaving?” His voice rings hollow, reflecting how I feel. In all honesty, I should be jumping for joy right now, because this last song is the key to the handcuffs keeping me locked to Jett and the label.

  “The end of the week,” I say because it sounds so much longer than three days.

  He chews the inside of his cheek, and I wonder if he’s counting the days left like I am. “This kind of sucks.” Only kind of?

  “Yeah . . . it does.”

  “I have somewhere I want to take you.”

  “Where?” I laugh at the sudden change of topic. “The last time you said that I ended up winded, climbing up a mountain.”

  “That wasn’t the only reason you were winded,” he says and winks. My body reacts to the statement and thinks of our scenic sex atop the mountain.

  “True.” I chew on the word as I angle my head and study him. He’s still in his Class A’s. His brown hair is styled, his eyes are alive, and that smile of his seems so much more at ease than when I walked in here a few months ago.

  And he’s definitely still sexy as hell.

  “Do you trust me?”

  I laugh. “Famous last words.”

  Grady doesn’t give any hints as to where we’re going as he drives a meandering route through Sunnyville. He talks about a few of the medical calls he had during his shift, but nothing of significance.

  And then we pull into the parking lot of the strip mall.

  “What are we doing?” I ask as I look over to where Marcy’s photo studio sits.

  “I have something for you to—”

  “Grady . . .” What the hell is going on?

  “Just hear me out.”

  “Why do I not like the sound of this when you haven’t even told me anything?”

  “You forced me to stand in front of the lens so I could see how everyone else sees me. So I could step outside of my head and my insecurities and realize that the things I focus on aren’t what everyone else sees when they look at me.”

  “Okay?” I draw the word out, my pulse racing as ideas twist in my mind.

  “So, I’m returning the favor.” I laugh, but he just grabs my hand and squeezes to get me to listen to him. “I’ve booked a photo shoot for you. A boudoir shoot to be exact.”

  If I had water in my mouth I’d have spit it all over his dashboard. “Are you crazy?” My voice screeches as I try to slide away from him, but he just clasps my hand tighter so I can’t physically reject his idea.

  “Hear me out. Please.”

  “These photos are not for anyone but you. I don’t care if they never see the light of day other than your eyes . . . I don’t.” He shrugs. “So long as you see them. Because I think once you look at them, you might actually see what the rest of us see when we look at you.”

  “Grady.” My mouth opens. Closes. My eyes flicker to the studio and then back to him. My heart swells at the absolute thoughtfulness of this gesture. And then shrinks when my self-esteem tells me to run and hide.

  “There’s a makeup artist, a stylist, a whatever else you need waiting for you in the studio.” My eyes widen, and he laughs. “It may not be Hollywood but, yes, even in little Sunnyville we have those.”

  Stuck in a mixture of indecision, fear, and disbelief, I just sit there when Grady leans forward and brushes a kiss to my lips. The kind that makes all parts of my body tingle and ache and want to stay in this suspended state of desire.

  “Let me do this for you, Dylan. I can’t give you much. Even with all you’ve helped me learn over the past few months, I can’t give you more . . . but I can give you this.”

  Tears well in my eyes, and I know he understands why. The fear. The unknown. The insecurity. And yet I bite my bottom lip and nod. That small reaction causes his lips to spread in a huge grin and light up his face.

  “You’re always more than welcome to share the photos with me too.” He laughs as I swat at him. “It was worth a shot.” He laughs.

  “Grady Malone.” I sigh. “What am I going to do with you?” I smile softly at him, feeling sad. The real question is, what am I going to do without you?

  “So? Was it as embarrassing as you thought it would be? It would be a great present for Grant, but not with this prego body.” Emerson laughs as she rubs her belly.

  I purse my lips and think of yesterday’s photo shoot. The first hints of mortification. Then the glass of wine that slowly put me more at ease with each sip. The chatter of the stylist and makeup artist, and then when I was finally in front of the camera—when it was just Marcy and me—how it wasn’t as bad as I feared.

  But that isn’t to say the pictures will be anything worth looking at.

  “It was . . . it was something I think every woman should do at least once in her life—a face-your-fear thing—but mind you, I’m saying that before I see any of the photos.”

  “I’m sure that they will turn out wonderfully. How can they not with you as the subject?”

  I roll my eyes.
“Like I said, I’ve yet to see any pictures.”

  Petunia comes into the kitchen and pushes her snout against my leg. My eyes sting with tears, and I keep them aimed down at her as I try to rein in the emotion.

  Emerson reaches over, puts her hand over mine, and squeezes. “You doing okay?”

  I nod and swallow over the lump in my throat and the unexpected emotions overwhelming me. “I’m good,” I lie. How have these people, this family, become so important to me when four months ago I didn’t know them at all?

  “So what? You’re going to leave just like that? Pack your stuff and walk out without ever looking back?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t say anything at all, actually.”

  “I have a life to get back to, Emerson.” I hate sounding like a broken record—pun unintended. Or maybe it’s only broken in my head, because that’s what I keep telling myself every time I hope Grady will ask me to stay.

  “That’s such bullshit, and you know it.”

  “What?” I laugh the word out in defense.

  “This pregnant woman is moody and emotional so don’t play the innocent game. I pushed Grant away. I know what it’s like to want more but terrified to ask for it.”

  “It isn’t the same thing. You two knew each other before.”

  “And? Are you telling me that just because you didn’t know Grady before you can’t want to be with him now?”

  “It isn’t that way.”

  Her chuckle is low and borderline incredulous. “Then if it isn’t that way, why didn’t you leave today? Why are you waiting until he’s off shift tomorrow to spend one last night with him before you go?”

  “Because I want to see him.” I scratch the top of Petunia’s head, still avoiding Emerson’s gaze. She’ll see right through me, because a woman in love can always see when another woman is denying their own.

  “You’re actually going to sit here and lie and tell me that when you leave here, you’re not going to leave any part of yourself behind, aren’t you?”