Which is not good. After I recovered—or didn’t—from the shock of her asking if I would have followed up after that first night, I’d said the only thing I could.
Probably not.
Because what would be the point of telling her otherwise? Of giving any hint that but for our current employment situation I would probably have been in her bed at that very moment, sliding into the hot, wet heart of her while my fingers tunneled through that gorgeous red hair and my body lost itself in the mindless joy of fucking hard and deep.
No. Better to cut off that avenue of thinking altogether. This way, we can both move on to other people.
Hopefully, for her, that won’t include anyone at the firehouse. Danny Acosta is definitely interested, and while relationships between co-workers on the same shift technically should be reported, they happen all the time on the down low. Anything between a supervisor and his direct report is trickier, and usually requires a shift or house switch so there’s no impact on operations or accusations of favoritism—or even retribution if it goes sour.
Not that it would ever get to that point, but it’s good to think through the logistics and how it would affect my job and the life I’m trying to rebuild if I were to think about taking it further. So yeah, good thing it went no further than a kiss.
Shaking the screws loose, I leave the path and head up Foster to Clark, but because it’s busy and I want to maintain my pace, I cut down Catalpa. Which is how I find myself outside Fern’s Diner.
Pie after a run is probably a really bad idea, but coffee? The Starbucks on Clark is just a couple of blocks away but I like the idea of sitting at the diner’s counter for a few minutes. I could say I’m doing it to support a local business or because the place has good memories for me. But really I’m doing it as a warning: messing with Abby Sullivan could turn everything you’re trying to build to rubble.
I should go home and shower first but once I do that I’ll be back in the real world and I won’t want to come back here. It’s a little cooler today and I’ve barely broken a sweat, so I’m probably not offensive to anyone in the fragrance department. While weighing these decisions, I hear a voice I’d previously been imagining in my more illicit fantasies.
“You trying to decide if it’s too early for pie?”
I check the reflection in the window: Abby is standing there with that crooked half grin and those blue eyes, big in her pale, freckled face. She’s wearing an open running jacket and shorts, and one of those cropped tanks that shows amazing cleavage, the existence of which I should not even be acknowledging. For a moment, I wonder if I conjured her out of my dirty imagination.
Bravely, I pivot to face her and avoid looking at her legs, which are long and toned. I bet she has freckles on the soft skin of her inner thighs. I bet my tongue would love to find out.
“I was trying to decide if I’m too sweaty for company.”
She looks me up and down, then steps in closer. “You’re probably good. Or I could bring something out for you, like water for a dog.”
“So kind. Think I’ll risk sitting at the counter and trying not to offend anyone.”
“Or have breakfast with me and we get to score a booth!” Her lean-in is conspiratorial. Unlike me, she smells fantastic, like pears or something. Maybe her shampoo, but probably all her. “Fern doesn’t allow singles in the booths. Only two or more.”
“You want to use me like I’m the car pool lane of diners?”
She shrugs. “Maybe I can pick your brain about my supervisor.”
I stuff a smile down to where I’m currently repressing my lust. “Asshole, is he?”
“The worst. You probably know exactly how to handle that type.”
“Takes one to know one. Could probably give the new kid some of my hard-earned wisdom.”
It was the best of ideas, the worst of ideas … but it didn’t have to mean anything more than two co-workers chatting about their jobs.
A couple of minutes later we’re seated in a booth, perusing menus. The same server who waited on us a week ago stops at the table and grins.
“Well, well, well, what do we have—”
“Nope,” Abby cuts her off. “We have nothing.”
The server—her name tag says ‘Ethel’ but I’m guessing that’s supposed to be funny—screws up her mouth. “We don’t?”
Abby shakes her head. “This is Roman. He’s my boss at the firehouse. Roman, you remember Tessa, instigator and pie purveyor?”
Tessa’s expression assumes a knowing look. “And the other night, you two—”
“Were unaware that this was in our future,” I finish for her. In case she thinks to say something that hints at what could have happened after we left the diner. I don’t need to be reminded of that kiss or all the lost potential because if I think about it too hard, I’ll go fucking crazy.
Or crazier.
“Coffee?”
“Coffee,” we both agree, relieved that we’ve navigated that slice of awkward. We order breakfast—me the huevos rancheros, her the three-egg skillet.
I stir my coffee and wait a second to let things settle.
“How was your run?”
“Unsatisfying.”
She looks up. “How come?”
“I thought I could let off some—it doesn’t matter. I’ll probably hit the gym later to finish what the run couldn’t do.”
“Yeah, I know we’re expected to put in a couple of hours working out on each shift. I usually run as well on off days.”
There’s just one Splenda packet in the sweetener caddy. I dig it out and pass it across. “Let me know the next time you’re out. If you’re looking for a running partner.”
I’m clearly on a death wish for my balls.
“Think that’ll make your runs more satisfying?” She grins and my pulse booms.
Jesus, what am I doing here? She’s giving no hint that I upset her the other night at the bar when I told her I wouldn’t have called her. We’ve worked a couple of shifts since and she’s adjusting well, working in sync with the crew, chatty when she needs to be, listening when appropriate.
In other words, she’s definitely over the awkward hump created by whatever energy existed between us before. I need to find a way to scale that mountain as well.
She wants advice. I can do that. “So, how did you find your first week on the job?”
We chit-chat about the work, our firehouse colleagues, city politics that affect CFD, and the differences between Chicago and New York. Tessa arrives with our food, so we spend a couple of minutes taking first bites and commenting on our excellent meal choices.
After a moment, I ask, “Tell me how you got here. To Engine 6.”
She wipes her mouth with a napkin. “It’s in my blood, I suppose. My parents—well, you know.” She touches that pendant around her neck, a reflexive gesture.
“You get that from your mom?”
“Yeah, I did. She was wearing it the night she died.” She bites her lip. “It’s strange to be stationed at her house.”
“You asked for that assignment?”
“I did. Maybe that’s putting too much pressure on myself but I feel like it’s another way to stay closer to her. Once she died, my dad didn’t really like to talk about her.”