Beth Andrews - Charming the Firefighter

Title Page Charming the Firefighter Beth Andrews www.millsandboon.co.uk

About the Author When Romance Writers of America RITA® Award-winning author BETH ANDREWS was a young wife, she started a gas grill with the lid down. The small explosion left her with singed hair and a lifelong respect for propane. While no handsome firefighters came to her rescue that day, she will never forget that particular incident. Mainly because her husband reminds her of it every summer. Learn more about Beth and her books by visiting her website, bethandrews.net .

Dedication For Hannah Grace. Welcome to the family!

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

EXTRACT

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

PENELOPE DENNING GLANCED behind her, left, then right, then left again. Still alone. She was safe.

Shaking her hips to the Fray’s latest song, which streamed from her laptop, she danced from the pantry to the center island and set down the bottle of olive oil. She wiggled her shoulders and moved side to side to the beat, the tile floor cool under her bare feet. At the catchy chorus, she sang along under her breath.

And Andrew said she couldn’t sing. She may not be in Beyoncé’s league, but Penelope could hold her own against the likes of a few of those American Idol finalists. She was definitely good enough for the church choir, no matter what her son said. It wasn’t as if she’d have to stand in front of the entire congregation under a spotlight, performing solo and, no doubt, sweating and nauseous. She’d be a part of the group.

She sang louder. She’d finally be a part of something. Would have a place where she belonged. Maybe she should audition for the choir.

Unless Andrew was right. In which case she’d simply make a fool of her—

Something creaked. Penelope froze, the tiny hairs on the back of her neck standing on end, the tune dying in her throat.

She turned, her chest tight with trepidation. Only to exhale heavily to find the room still empty.

Oh, thank goodness.

She was being paranoid, that was all. But she stopped shimmying and two-stepping. Sang silently with only her foot tapping.

No sense tempting fate. If Andrew caught her dancing around the kitchen, he’d undoubtedly give her one of the smirks he’d perfected over the past two years. Then flay her with some sarcastic comment, one meant to hurt her. To anger her.

She hated to admit how often he was successful.

But not today, she assured herself, layering circles of fresh mozzarella and thick slices of tomato on a rectangular white plate. Today there would be no drama. No arguing. None of the angst, heartache or soul-crushing doubts that came with raising a teenager.

All she wanted was one day where she and her son weren’t at each other’s throats. Where they spent time together—in the same room—conversing and, perhaps, even laughing a few times. One measly day where she wasn’t the bad guy who’d ruined his life.

And he wasn’t an ungrateful, mouthy brat.

Surely that wasn’t too much to ask for.

She checked the caprese salad with a critical eye. Gently patted the tomato and cheese slices together so they lined up perfectly—two neat rows alternating white and red, each layer set exactly halfway on top of the one before it. Exactly. She wiped her hands on a clean towel, then drizzled a thin stream of olive oil over the dish.

The midday sun shone brightly through the dining room’s huge windows, illuminating the dust mites dancing in the air. One reason she’d bought the house, a midsize Victorian that had been remodeled, was the open floor plan. The entire first floor flowed, from one room to the other—foyer to living room, living room to dining room, and dining room to kitchen. She liked the sense of roominess. Of freedom.

After spending too much of her life cooped up in hospital rooms, waiting rooms and doctors’ offices, all she wanted was space. Space to stretch out. To move around.

Space to breathe.

A warm end-of-summer breeze ruffled the lacy curtain adorning the window above the sink and brushed against the back of her neck. Shutting her eyes, she inhaled deeply. Held it, just...held it in her lungs, the clean scent of the fresh air, the pungent aroma of olives and basil. Feeling this satisfied, this content, was all too rare. At least, it had been rare for her.

Might as well soak it in while it lasted.

She exhaled—mainly because she had no other choice, not if she wanted to keep living. She tore the top off the small bunch of basil on the cutting board, rolled the leaves up and began slicing. That sense of peace and contentment was fleeting. Life was too fluid. Always changing, always shifting, moment to moment, milestone to milestone.

She couldn’t do anything about those shifts taking her in new directions, those moments fading into the past, the milestones passing.

It was so annoying.

But what she could do was control how she responded to being set off course. She’d moved to Shady Grove to give her and Andrew a fresh start. It’d taken a while—going on eight months—but they’d finally settled in this small town so far away from everything they’d known. Everyone they’d known.

A fact Andrew never let her forget.

It hadn’t been an easy transition. There had even been times when she’d considered giving up and moving back to California.

If only to stop her son’s complaining.

In the end, she’d held firm and, more important, had stood by her decisions. Hooray for her. Hand over that shiny gold star, because she’d persevered against Andrew’s miserable attitude and constant griping.

This parenthood thing wasn’t for sissies, that was for sure.

She did her best to keep her son safe and healthy. Made sure they commemorated his milestones, no matter how small or insignificant, from getting his braces off to his voice cracking before it deepened to passing his driver’s test. Every stage of childhood, every rite of passage of adolescence, was cause for celebration.

For too long she’d worried he’d never get—

Clang! Clang!

She glanced up, just to make sure the weights Andrew was lifting—and dropping with such careless abandon—didn’t crash through the ceiling onto her head.

There was more clanging followed by a loud thump, which had her praying he hadn’t dinged the hardwood flooring.

Again.

Pressing her lips together, she carried the salad to the fridge and tucked it alongside the heaping bowl of fresh-cut fruit. She wouldn’t worry about the floor. She’d ignore the fact that she’d told him, at least one hundred times, not to drop his weights.

How hard could it be to set the dumb things down gently?

That was what her life had come to. Ignoring the parts she couldn’t control, couldn’t fix. Andrew constantly texting, even during dinner. His spending most of his time in his bedroom. How he took three showers a day—and there was no way she was even going to think about why, or what he was doing in there for so long. His new fixation with lifting weights and getting—as she’d overheard him tell one of his friends—cut, when he should be focusing on his schoolwork.

And, of course, his surliness, rudeness and out-and-out bad attitude.

The joys of motherhood. Someone should have warned her about this.

Not that she’d change anything, she assured herself quickly, kneeling to retrieve her favorite serving platter from a lower cupboard. Her son was going through a stage. A two-year-long stage that seemed to have no end in sight.