Beth Andrews - Charming the Firefighter

He pulled his stethoscope from his bag. “My loss.”

She twisted her fingers together. “I do not flirt with men.”

“No? Just women?”

She laughed, a surprised, light burst of sound that washed over him, sweet and warm, like a ray of sunshine. He wanted to absorb that brightness, soak it into his skin, into his bones. Wanted it to dispel the coldness inside of him, to erase his memories of last night.

“I’m not gay. I just...I don’t flirt with men or women. I don’t flirt with anyone.” Her voice trailed off in resignation. Or disappointment. “At all.”

“That clears it up,” he murmured, his voice inadvertently husky. He skimmed his gaze from her long, side-swept bangs to her prominent cheekbones, then lingered on that mole. “Like I said...my loss.”

Her mouth opened on a soundless oh, her eyes wide.

He bit back a grin. Technically his comment, his demeanor, could be considered flirtatious, but he wasn’t big on technicalities.

“I couldn’t find it,” the teenager said as she stepped into the room. She pulled her own phone from her pocket. “Do you want me to try calling it?”

Penelope blanched; her guilt over her little white lie couldn’t have been clearer on her face if she’d written out a full-blown confession on her forehead in red marker. “Isn’t it silly? I had it in my pocket all along.”

The kid, a pixie in hippie clothes with hair to her waist, lifted a shoulder. “No problem. Are you sure I can’t fix you something to eat? Or I could do your dishes,” she said, crossing to the sink. “Maybe throw in a load of laundry for you?”

Penelope glanced at Leo. “Oh, I don’t need you to—”

“And when I’m done, I’ll grab a couple of movies from my house. You probably shouldn’t be alone.” The kid turned to Leo. “She shouldn’t be alone, right? If she has a head injury?”

Penelope’s sigh was as close to a whimper as Leo had ever heard from a human. She sent what could only be described as a long, yearning look at the bottle of wine.

And Leo finally got it.

Why the hell hadn’t she just said she wanted him to get rid of the kid for her? Women. Always wanting a man to read their minds, know their every thought and react accordingly.

Only to give the poor sap hell when he didn’t.

Wrapping his stethoscope around his neck, he stood. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name when I came in.”

“Gracie Weaver,” she breathed. But when she shook his hand, she made eye contact and didn’t send him any underage come-hither looks or step closer in order to brush against him. Unlike what a few of the bolder cheerleaders had done after their first scrimmage last week.

Thank you, sweet Jesus, for small favors and for young girls who didn’t hit on him. Amen.

“Weaver?” he asked. “Wes’s daughter?”

“The one and only.”

Far as Leo knew, she meant that literally. Last he’d heard, Wes and his wife, Molly, had enough sons to form their own basketball team.

He took the girl by the arm and led her toward the door. “You did a great job,” he told her. “Calling us, shutting off the grill and helping Ms. Denning inside. But HIPAA rules state that unless you’re related, or a legal representative of the patient, you can’t be present at this time.”

All bullshit, and if he wasn’t mistaken, something Gracie suspected, but unless she called him on it—and whipped out a copy of the HIPAA regulations—he was standing by his words.

He opened the French doors, avoiding Forrest’s smirk as he deposited Gracie on the deck. “I’m sure Ms. Denning is grateful for all your help.”

And he shut the door.

“You were a little rude to her.”

He crossed back to Penelope, who was giving him the time-honored death stare of doom.

Some days, a guy couldn’t win.

“Sometimes playing hero means being the bad guy.” He unwound his stethoscope and put the ear tips in. “Just going to listen to your lungs, make sure they’re clear.”

She sat rigidly, her hands on her thighs, her fingers curled. Everything sounded good.

“Gracie meant well,” she said.

“I’m sure she did.” He wound the stethoscope around his neck and straightened. “But it seemed to me you could use a break from her good intentions.”

“She was very helpful,” Penelope said, glancing nervously to the deck as if worried Gracie was going to return. “But she was quite...chatty. And pushy.”

“That can be a lot to take in. Especially when someone is having a rough day. She seems like a sweet girl, but it was obvious she was wearing out her welcome.”

“I think she’s lonely,” Penelope said softly. “Her parents went to some picnic and left her home by herself.”

“Wes—that’s her dad—is a good guy. And Molly, his wife, is as sweet as they come. I’m sure they didn’t abandon her. They love their kids.”

Her ill-natured shrug told him she was firmly on Gracie’s side in this imaginary battle she’d concocted between the teen and her folks—no matter that the kid had bugged the hell out of her. “So you’re close friends with them?”

“Nope.”

“Then how could you possibly know what emotions they do, or do not feel, toward their children?”

“I don’t,” he said simply. “But Shady Grove’s a small town with all sorts of ties among the people who live here. Some of those ties are personal—friendships, marriage, family. Some are professional. But even if you don’t know someone personally, chances are someone you know does. In this case, that someone would be my eldest brother and his wife. They went to school with Molly, hung out in the same crowd. And Wes is good buddies with my captain. So I know them well enough to say they wouldn’t ditch their kid. They’re decent, hardworking, caring people. And about as opposite as two people can be, which must be why their marriage works so well.”

“That is ludicrous. Not to mention highly unlikely. I would surmise that if they truly are as opposite as two people can be , their marriage will eventually crumble under the pressure of trying to hold up unrealistic expectations of success.”

Gripping both ends of his stethoscope, he leaned back. Tried to figure out what the hell was wrong with him. He should be put off by her prim and preachy tone, but he liked her light, clear voice too much, the way she spoke with such careful precision. And it was tough to get pissed at her haughty, patronizing expression when her hair was such a mess, her face pink.

Interest stirred again and this time, he didn’t fight it. Didn’t plan on acting on it, not at the moment anyhow. But that didn’t mean he could stop from finding her fascinating.

From wanting her to keep talking.

If only because, for the first time since he’d arrived at the accident scene last night, he felt...lighter.

Women had a way of doing that, of making a man forget his troubles and focus on other things. Things such as soft, sweet-smelling skin, lush curves and long kisses. All things he’d rather think about than what had happened last night to Samantha, the pain and grief her family was going through.

His sense of responsibility for their loss.

“I take it you’re not big on the theory that opposites attract,” he said.

“Hardly. Oh, people like to believe in that silly, romanticized notion, but in reality what holds a relationship together is commonality. Common interests.” She ticked the items off on her long fingers, one by one. “Common views on religion, politics, finances, child-rearing—”

“And sex,” he couldn’t help but add.

Her flush deepened, but she held his gaze, her chin lifted as if to prove he couldn’t fluster her. “Yes, naturally they should also have similar views about sex. What they shouldn’t believe is that simply because they have a satisfying physical relationship, they can work through other problems. For a relationship to succeed, a couple should have similar intellects in order for them to enjoy scintillating conversation, as well as interesting and intriguing debates. If they have similar tastes, they can share hobbies and enjoy the same types of film, shows and music. All of which will make it easier for them to want to spend time together.”