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CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

A

Sunday’s quiet at the firehouse. I’ve tried to occupy myself, but I can’t stop listening for Brock’s truck. And looking at my phone for a text. Nothing comes.

At the end of the day, I head out to cruise around looking for an apartment. With Gunnar’s release date coming, I have to find somewhere for us to rent. Unfortunately, it’s late. And it's Sunday, so I can’t exactly get a showing.

Plus, rent is a lot more expensive in Lynn’s Cove than I thought. Months ago, when I started looking, the prices were a lot better.

My savings won’t go nearly as long as I hoped they would.

I’m feeling tired and blue when I crawl into bed. Sighing, I try to get comfortable, but my head is spinning.

My eyes are open, staring into space when the room lights up. I sit up. My phone, laying on the table across the room, is lit up with an incoming call.

My heart skips when I see who it is.

“Hey,” I say, sounding far too breathless.

“You sleeping, sweetheart?”

“Trying.”

Brock sighs, I hear the rustle of cloth and immediately think about the soft navy blue comforter on his bed. He says, “Me too.”

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s been a long couple of days.”

“I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

That’s when I hear his feet padding on the hardwood floor. More rustling.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting dressed.”

Puzzled, I crease my brow and ask, “Why?”

“Because I’m coming to see you.”

For a split second, I smile. “As lovely as that sounds, is that a good idea?”

“Terrible idea.”

A loud beeping sound suddenly rings through the line. I’m about to ask what it is when the station alarm goes off. The siren wails through the building.

Brock shouts on his end, “Hang on.”

In the background, the radio intel he’s receiving is loud enough for me to hear. “Restaurant fire. Fully involved. Other buildings are at risk.”

I’m scrambling for my clothes when he comes back on the line. His breathing is hard. His boots are hitting the pavement as he runs. I can picture him storming toward his truck.

“Brock. I’ll go with the others.”

He bellows. “Don’t you step foot outside that station! Do you hear me?”

“I can help!”

“No. That’s an order. Do not leave the station.”

I yell, “Brock, please.”

The engine on his truck is loud in the background. The tires squeal on the road. His voice is softer when he speaks again. “I know you hate this, but stay safe, sweetheart. Let us do our job. You stay there. I’ll call when we’re done.”

Deflated, I sag down onto the bed. “No. Please don’t make me.”

“Just do this for me. Until your exams.”

“You’re killing me here.”

“I just want you safe. That’s the only reason. Trust me on this.”

“I’m not feeling too friendly toward you right now.”

“I’ll call as soon as I’m done and you can yell at me all you want.”

Growling, I say, “I’m going to, so get ready. I know a lot of words to yell at you.”

“I’m counting on it, babe.”

He disconnects. The siren wails in the firehouse. The tension inside of me is unbearable. Throwing on my clothes, I sprint to the bay. “What can I do?” I ask Reeves as he jumps into his turnout gear. “Chief won’t let me go.”

“Sorry, kiddo, I don’t know of anything.” He pulls on his coat, and opens the door of the big ladder truck. “Maybe make some food for when we get back. I know we’ll be starving.”

That hits me like a kick in the gut. I’ve never felt the exact sensation before. I’ve also never been relegated to cooking for the station because I’m on restricted duty. I stiffen my shoulders. Reeves looks down at me. Realization suddenly hits him. It must be because he recognizes the fury he sees in my eyes.

“Oh Jesus. I didn’t mean because you're a woman.”

“It’s okay. I’m going to act like that’s totally unrelated.”

“It is. I swear. I’d have told Frank, or Mark, or Tim, to do the same thing.”

I take a step back. “It’s okay.”

He slams his door, the driver throws the truck in gear, and they roar away.

I kick the closest thing. Reeves’s boot goes flying. I could care less if he has to hunt for the damned thing when he gets back. Fuming, I head toward the kitchen. Determined to do something with my clenched hands.

On the way, I start dreaming up every dreadful, mushy, overcooked vegetable recipe I can come up with.