Betsy Amant - Fireman Dad

No, some things never changed at all.

Marissa drew a steadying breath. “Listen, I don’t expect you to understand. I just expect you to treat me with the respect I deserve as a mother—and not warning me about your men doing a presentation for Owen’s class feels disrespectful. Not to mention that one of your men crossed the line by turning a safety presentation into a personal recruiting session. I should have a say in who and what influences my child.”

“It’s the teacher’s job to notify parents about school demonstrations, not the department’s.”

“But you’re my father.”

He flinched, a movement so fast Marissa wondered if she’d imagined it. “Forget it. I shouldn’t have come.” She turned to the door and wrenched it open.

Chief coughed. “If it makes you happy, I’ll make sure you’re aware of any future presentations. Okay?”

Her back turned, Marissa nodded with little conviction. It was as much of an olive branch as her dad could offer right now.

And as much of one as she was willing to take.

Marissa plastered on a smile as she started down the hallway, stepping back into the comfortable, if not slightly worn, shoes of her role as Mommy. “Come on, Owen! Time to go home.” They were done here.

Jacob kicked his booted feet up on the coffee table, glad this wasn’t his night to cook at the station. They’d just gotten back from working a wreck involving an eighteen-wheeler, a flipped car and one severely dented guardrail. Two hours in the relentless sun doing hazardous material checks and getting the truck driver transported from mangled cab to gurney proved exhausting. Thankfully the driver of the car was all right and had gone to the E.R. as a precaution. Some nights, that wasn’t the case.

Some nights, Jacob possessed no appetite for dinner at all.

“Jacob, Captain said he heard there’s a chance to catch an overtime shift tomorrow. You interested?” Steve Mitchell, driver for their station, hollered from the kitchen, around the corner from where Jacob sat.

“If they hadn’t let six men go, they wouldn’t have an overtime shift to fill.” Regret coated Jacob’s tongue and he bit back any more negative comments. As much as he struggled to keep business and family separate, the city council was making it tricky. If Jacob wasn’t offended by their actions, then he felt guilty of not being a good brother. But if he clung to the guilt, then he grew afraid his work ethic would crash or his bitterness would be revealed to the chiefs—and then his own job would be at risk if there were more layoffs. But that train of thought carried him full circle back to a new guilt of caring for his own welfare when his brother’s was tossed aside.

He was getting sick of no-win situations.

“Couldn’t hear you.” Steve popped his head around the corner, wiping his hands on a dish towel. Whatever he was cooking already smelled burnt, and Jacob’s stomach protested with disappointment. If he had the energy, he would’ve taken over with the wooden spoon, but not tonight.

Jacob tugged the leg of his pants further down over his boot. “Just think it’s strange they’re offering overtime right now.”

“Well, they do have a sudden lack of manpower.” Steve disappeared back into the kitchen.

“Exactly.” It wasn’t the first time Jacob had questioned the political aspects of the department—though it was likely for the best not to know all the details. Maybe once his brother found a new job, Jacob could relax and work would once again be like it used to be. He raised his voice so Steve could hear above the hum of the oven range vent. “Count me out. If you want to sign up for the shift, go ahead.”

Steve’s head poked around the frame a second time, reminding Jacob of a prairie dog. “That’s weird. You used to always jump at overtime offers. What’s changed?”

“Nothing.” Nothing other than his meeting with Marissa tomorrow, that is. But that was none of Steve’s business, and if Steve knew, he’d definitely take it out of context. Jacob had his fill of department gossip a few months ago when a woman he took out one time decided to pop in the station the next day with two dozen brownies. Needless to say, she hadn’t taken his gentle rejection very well. He shuddered at the memory.

“There’s got to be something,” Steve persisted. “Another hot date?” The food on the stove splattered and hissed behind him, and he darted back into the kitchen. “Make sure this one brings brownies again.” He laughed.

“No date. Business.” But even though Jacob said they’d discuss the fundraiser and the birthday party for Olivia, more and more it seemed the only thing he really wanted to discuss was Marissa Hawthorne. Who was she? What did she like? What did she do in her free time? Something about her smile seemed infectious, and business or not, he was looking forward to tomorrow night probably more than he should.

Steve let out an exaggerated sigh from the kitchen. “Surprise, surprise. You never date—with the exception of the brownie girl.”

“Her name was Lisa.”

“You should have taken her out again. She could cook.”

It figured Steve found that one particular quality alone worthy of a long-time commitment. Jacob snorted and grabbed a motorcycle magazine from the coffee table. “Why don’t you worry more about our food in there and less about my love life, huh?” He flipped through the glossy pages. More like lack of love life. It was true he hadn’t dated a lot lately. To his regret, the last few women he’d taken out were like Lisa—overeager, clingy and more interested in the physical than getting to know one another. He might be a red-blooded male, but his faith came first. Besides, they hadn’t connected. It was simple—either the spark was there, or it wasn’t.

With Marissa, there were so many sparks his palm felt like the Fourth of July when they shook hands.

He turned another page. Not that it mattered. They were going to be planning a fundraiser together, so her beauty didn’t count in that respect. So what if she was sweet? He smiled. And funny. And had eyes that seemed to reach clear—

The smoke detector in the kitchen blared at the same time as the overhead distress alarms. Time to go. Jacob jumped up and tossed the magazine on the table, glad he’d left his boots on. Steve moaned from the kitchen as a lid slammed against a pot. “Figures! Right when dinner is almost ready.”

Captain Walker brushed past them toward the bay, snorting as he headed for the trucks. “We’ve had enough soot and ash today already, Steve. It’ll keep.”

“It wasn’t looking that bad.” Steve grabbed the broom they kept in the pantry and jabbed the smoke detector on the ceiling. The piercing shriek stopped, but the fire alarms continued to sound.

“Engine four, trauma four. Fire reported at 6500 Dudley Square. Flames and smoke visible.” The dispatcher’s tone echoed through the small living area. “First party report. All units advise.”

“House fire.” Adrenaline rushed through Jacob’s chest, overflowing his senses with the familiar combination of anxiety and excitement. He followed Captain into the bay, the scent of exhaust fumes and disinfectant assaulting his nostrils. He hoped this house wouldn’t be a goner like the last one his shift had worked a few weeks back. As often as he saw the destruction left behind by a fire’s greedy pulse, the sight of ruined memories and heirlooms never failed to burn something deep inside him. Jacob grabbed his bunker gear from the hooks on the wall and shrugged his arms into the sleeves before swinging up inside the backseat of the cab.

Steve took the driver’s seat and cranked the engine, his earlier joking set aside as professionalism took over. Captain buckled his seat belt as Steve flipped on the sirens. “Here we go.”