Beth Andrews - Charming the Firefighter

“That’s quite the theory,” he said, wondering about her romantic relationships. Was she in one? His gaze flicked to her left hand. No ring. No signs of a husband from what he could tell. But then, he’d seen only the hallway and kitchen. For all he knew, there could be a spouse lurking around somewhere, but something told him there wasn’t. “Most women believe in love and forever and happy endings.”

She snorted, then looked appalled, as if unable to believe the sound had actually come from her. “I’m all for love and forever. I also realize that happy endings require an immense amount of work and sacrifice, and if both people aren’t willing to pull their weight, none of it will be enough to make a doomed relationship last.”

She made relationships sound like a job, not something to be cherished and revered.

Like he’d said—fascinating.

She shook her head. “I don’t see what any of this has to do with why you’re here.”

“Not a thing.” But she was right. He needed to get back to work, focus on getting the details for his report, and make sure she really was as okay as she seemed and move on to the next case. He pulled out his notebook and pen. “Can you tell me what happened exactly?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”

He tapped the notebook. “Gives me something to write in here. If I come back with blank pages, my captain gets cranky.”

She slumped back and crossed her arms. “I had a glass of wine.”

He waited, but when she didn’t elaborate, he asked, “And the wine made the grill explode?”

She sent him a bland stare. “I was simply explaining the events leading up to the...the...incident.” Chewing on her bottom lip, she cleared her throat. “I may have had more than one glass, but definitely less than three. I think.”

Holding his pen over the paper, he raised his eyebrows. “You lost count?”

“Of course not. I’m an accountant. Counting is what I do,” she said in an aggrieved tone. “Counting and adding and subtracting and reading tax law among other things. The point,” she said, “is that I am not drunk.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

She sniffed. “You didn’t have to. I can tell by your face. You look all...smug. And amused.”

“Smug?” he murmured. “That hurts.”

“Let me tell you something,” she continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “While I may not be completely, one hundred percent sober, I am not inebriated.” She spoke with the slow enunciation of the drunk, but she handled the word with impressive skill. “I’d realized I should eat something and that was why I lit the grill in the first place. I’m not drunk,” she repeated, though way less vehemently. “I’m just...” Her voice dropped to a whisper, her eyes taking on a sadness that tugged at something deep inside of him. “I’m just having a really bad day.”

Compassion swept through him. Nothing new there. Taking care of others wasn’t just his job, it was his calling, one he was damned good at. He prided himself on his ability to sympathize with the people he helped, to understand what they needed most.

Penelope, with her sad eyes and that sexy mole, needed someone to make her day a little brighter, a little better.

She needed to know she wasn’t alone.

“Excuse me a minute,” he said before crossing to the French doors. He stepped outside and shut the door behind him. “Everything okay with the grill?” he asked Forrest.

“Hoses are still intact, no leaks or damage to them or the tank. Rhett and the rookie just left.”

“Good. Hey, can you give me ten minutes? Ms. Denning isn’t feeling well, but I think it’s only low blood sugar.” Low blood sugar. High alcohol content. Why split hairs? “I want to make sure she has something to eat, is feeling steadier before we take off.”

Forrest shook his head sadly. “You saving the world again, partner?”

“Not the whole world,” Leo corrected as he turned to go inside. “Just this one little corner.”

* * *

WITH HER HEAD resting on her folded arms on top of the island, Penelope shut her eyes. She needed a moment to get her bearings, to gather her thoughts, then she’d get on with her day.

Her awful, horrible day.

She could hardly wait.

A moment later, she jerked upright. Confused and disoriented, she glanced around, then frowned at the fuzzy image of Leo Montesano taking food out of her refrigerator. She must have dozed off. The thought of Leo witnessing her impromptu nap should have horrified her, but she had too many other things on her mind.

Such as why on earth he was still there.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Getting you something to eat.” He set the bowl of potato salad on the counter, reached back in for the caprese and taco salads. Carried them to the dining-room table, then crossed to her. “Let’s sit at the table.”

“This isn’t necessary,” she said, knowing she sounded ungrateful and prissy but unable to help it. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

“That’s clear enough to see, but everyone needs help once in a while.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“I don’t have to know you. It’s my job to make sure you’re all right, and in a place like Shady Grove, we take care of each other.” He studied her and for some odd reason, it took all her willpower not to fidget. “Let me guess. You’re not from here.”

“No.” But she had been in town almost eight months. Long enough, she would think, to stop feeling like a tourist. An outsider. “But I lived here for six months when I was in middle school.”

Many, many eons ago.

Out of the dozen-plus places she’d lived during her lifetime, the six months she’d spent in Shady Grove had been, by far, the happiest. She’d felt a sense of peace, of belonging she’d never experienced before. She wanted that for Andrew.

Was it so wrong to want it for herself, as well?

“Since you’re new to town,” Leo said, “let me show you how we take care of our own.”

He helped her off the stool, kept his hand on her elbow, solicitous and polite, as he led her to the table. She sat, mainly because she had no idea what else to do. When he headed into the kitchen, she slid her hands to her lap, hid them under the table and pinched her forearm.

Yes, it hurt. This was real. She was wide-awake, sitting at her table while a man handsome enough to give a movie star a run for his money searched her cabinets.

What on earth had happened to her life?

“I hate to repeat myself,” she said, “but what are you doing now?”

“Looking for...ah...” He pulled a plate from the cupboard. “Found it. Silverware?”

“Are you certain you don’t want to open and shut every drawer?” she heard herself ask, then was appalled, not only that she’d say something so blatantly rude and antagonistic, but that she’d sounded so petulant doing so.

But she’d already had one stranger rummaging through her personal items—as personal as kitchenware could be. Her patience was threadbare.

“I could,” he said, not sounding the least bit bothered by her rudeness. “But it’ll save us both time if you just tell me.”

“Next to the dishwasher,” she muttered. Where else would they be? It was the most convenient place for them.

He pulled out a fork, knife and serving spoon, then walked toward her. He set the plate in front of her, laid down the silverware and began opening containers.

Maybe she was still in shock. Or tipsier than she’d originally thought, because she sat there like a helpless idiot and let him pile food onto a plate. Noticing that the potato and taco salads were touching, she grabbed the plate and pulled it out of his reach. Used the fork to separate her food.