The others welcome us with easy smiles and warm, “Happy New Year’s,” as if it isn’t strange to see the two of us holding hands and acting like a couple.
And maybe it isn’t, I think as I pull up a chair next to Mick’s and spend the next hour and a half inhaling the best breakfast I’ve had in years. Melody is a professional chef so the food is, of course, amazing, but it’s more than that.
I feel free to be myself in a way I usually don’t.
I’m sitting next to a guy who, despite the fact that I vomited in his presence mere hours ago, thinks I’m “cute.” A guy who laughs at my jokes, passes me the salt and pepper before I ask, and seems to really listen when I talk. He truly seems to like me for me, no modifications required.
And hasn’t that always been the number one item on my “List of things I want in a partner?”
Growing up, I swore I’d never be like my mom, that I wouldn’t change to please a man who didn’t think I was good enough or do anything else to risk becoming a serial victim like Prissy Miller.
My mom has been used up and tossed out so many times her skin looks thin, like a dress washed so often the flesh shows through underneath. But what shows through on Mama is pain, hopelessness, and the growing certainty that she’s going to live the rest of her life alone.
And alone is her nightmare.
Mama’s been waiting her whole life for a man to come along and make her dreams come true, but her fiftieth birthday’s come and gone and still, not one loser in her long line of frogs has turned into Prince Charming.
Before I was even old enough to read fairy tales on my own, I decided I had no interest in Prince Charming—I don’t need anyone to save me, and I refuse to put the power to decide when, or if, I’m happy in anyone else’s hands.
But…that’s doesn’t mean I don’t get lonely sometimes.
I could use a special friend, especially one who kisses the way Mick does, and whose hand feels so easy in mine.
“I don’t like the idea of not seeing you for three days,” he says later, after we’ve thanked Melody and are wandering through the cool winter air toward the fire station.
“You’ll see me,” I tease. “I’ll be right across the street. You can shoot googly eyes my way whenever you want.”
He shrugs, a hint of shyness in the gesture that’s undeniably cute. “Yeah, yeah. But you know what I mean.”
“Well, there’s no reason we can’t hang out,” I offer after a moment. “I’m allowed to have visitors. A lot of the guys have their families come for dinner when they’re on duty.”
“Are you asking me to family dinner?” he asks, clearly pleased.
I bite my lip, examining the anxiety shivering across my skin.
Family dinner isn’t just firefighter lingo to me. The guys at the station and their wives and significant others are as good as family—better really. None of them ever make me feel like I’m a burden or a disappointment or only useful when they need bailing out of a bad situation.
I’m open to dating Mick, but am I ready to introduce him to my family?
“How about we have lunch,” I say, hating to walk back an invitation but needing to honor the knot forming in my stomach. “Or you could come work out with me one afternoon. If we don’t have training or maintenance that needs to be done, I usually start around two.”
He nods. “Cool. That sounds like fun. I’ve been lifting in the garage at my parents’ house, but it’s freezing in there.”
I stop next to him on the sidewalk, across the street from where my truck is parked. “Great. I’ll text you tomorrow as soon as it’s safe. I have to make sure Jamison isn’t around, or he’ll tease the shit out of me for having a boy over.”
Mick grins. “Am I the first boy you’ve had over?”
“Yes, but don’t start feeling special,” I say, as I back away.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, still grinning.
“I don’t date, remember?” I add with a laugh.
“You do now,” he says with a wink so disarming I can’t think of a snappy comeback.
So, I simply roll my eyes and say, “Whatever, Whitehouse. Smell you later.”
“Not if I smell you first,” he calls after me, making my lips quirk up in a goofy grin that feels weird on my face.
Weird, but in a good way.
So far the new year isn’t shaping up as expected, but I can’t deny I’ve had more fun this morning than in the last month of mornings combined.
And the reason for that is watching me unlock my truck and swing up into the driver’s seat with a smile on his handsome face.
Chapter Six
Mick
I like working out. I do. But it’s not something I get excited about anymore, the way I did when I was first bulking up and putting on muscle. It’s something I do to stay in shape.
But today?
Today, I can’t fucking wait to hit the gym.
Or to see my workout buddy.
I jog down the stairs leading from my apartment the next afternoon with a spring in my step and a smile on my face.
A smile that vanishes as my oldest sister, Naomi, dashes across the bakery to block my path to the front door.
“You’re not going anywhere!” She throws out her arms in a dramatic “none shall pass” gesture. With her honey-streaked brown curls pulled into a ponytail and a bright pink “Show Me Some Sugar” apron on over her clothes, Naomi looks sweet enough to be hosting a children’s baking show, but the expression on her face is all business.
“What? Why?” I ask, wondering what I’ve done this time.
I’m glad Naomi and Maddie are coming out of their respective funks, but as their spirits have improved, my sisters have reverted to picking on me like they did when we were kids. I’m trying to be a good sport about it, but I’m nearly twenty-four years old, for God’s sake. I’m not a child, and I can be trusted to live by myself and cook my own meals without setting the apartment above the bakery on fire.
“You’re staying right here,” Naomi points a threatening finger at my chest. “And that’s final.”
Lifting my hands in the universal sign of surrender, I back away, my workout towel hanging from my fist like a white flag.
Evidently, it’s going to take longer to get across the street to the fire station than the five minutes I just texted Faith.
“What?” I ask again. “I swear I didn’t touch anything in the bakery kitchen, not even when I really needed milk for my cereal.”
“Liar!” Maddie, my middle sister, pops up from behind the glass display case, her cheeks flushed and her brown ponytail frizzy from spending the morning in the kitchen. “I caught you on the nanny cam I hid in between the flour sacks. You are a milk thief, Mick Whitehouse!”
I shoot her an incredulous look. “You were spying on me?”
“I was checking up on you,” she says in a tone that makes it clear she feels zero remorse for setting up video surveillance on a family member. “And my checking reveals that you are a big, hairy liar.”
“It was three tablespoons,” I mumble, rolling my eyes. “Seriously. I was careful not to take enough to cause any recipe fallout. My cereal was barely damp. I don’t know why you two are so stingy with the milk, anyway. You have eight to a dozen gallons in there at any given time.”