“Maybe we’re both worried!”
“She’s doing her best, bless her heart.” Sam stops in and helps himself to a rosemary-spiked bread roll. “Chatting up strangers over pie and discussing pretentious movies by text.” He laces an arm around my neck and kisses my cheek with a crumb-laden mouth. “She just can’t seem to get any further, Kat. No follow through.”
“Snitch.” I push him away. “At least, I’m not ‘looking for the one’ in every bed in Chicago.”
“Abigail Josephine Sullivan! Don’t be so crude.” My aunt slaps Sam’s hand as he goes for another roll. “And you need to stop stuffing your face with bread, Sam Killian. You’ll ruin your appetite.”
“What can I do to help?” Sam asks before his gaze alights on the sink. “Hey, did Johno not fix that faucet?”
Sam roots around for the toolbox under the sink and starts getting handy with a wrench and a washer.
Kathleen circles back to the Great Question. “So why aren’t you seeing anyone?”
I give Sam a death ray glare for telling tales out of school. Before I can answer, not that I have a response that will work, he weighs in. “She says it’s because she’s too tough for any guy. But that’s not it.”
“It’s not? Enlighten me, oh wise one.”
He tightens something with a grunt. “No guy is alpha enough for you. At this rate, your best bet is a cop or another firefighter but we all know your opinion of them.” He winks at Kathleen. “I’ve heard ten-foot pole mentioned and she’s not talking about what he’s packing, Kat.”
“Samuel Killian, that’s very naughty!”
The woman loves it.
So I don’t want to date firefighters. I’m open about that and I don’t see what the big deal is.
“Statistically, firefighters are the men you’re going to meet.” My aunt looks at me. “What’s wrong with firefighters?”
“Yeah, Abs, what’s wrong with firefighters?” Jude has just walked in because I don’t have enough people telling me who to date.
“All the ones I know are cocky, arrogant womanizers. Or man-izers,” I concede for Jude’s sake. “I’d love to dip my toes in that cesspool.”
Roman’s not, though. He’s only recently started dating after his divorce, and the way he cares for his family—while not completely antithetical to tomcatting around—shows he’s a guy with values.
I’m a whore for a guy with values.
With the faucet fixed and my love life dissected, the boys head out to watch the Rebels hockey game on TV.
Kathleen assesses me. “There are womanizers everywhere. And your father wasn’t one. Neither was your uncle.”
My uncle Frank, God rest his soul, was also a firefighter. He died of lung cancer three years ago, and it nearly destroyed my aunt. I’ve seen how a love lost crushes a person. I’ve felt it.
“So there are exceptions.” My boss seems to be an exception to every rule I have. The last thing I need is to be thinking of more reasons to want him.
“You think this is the way to protect your heart, Abby?” She runs a hand over my cheek. “Your mother wouldn’t want you to be afraid of love.”
No, she wouldn’t. But she’d expect some level of self-preservation. And where Roman Rossi is concerned, protecting myself is absolutely key.
Sixteen
Abby
It’s about 4 a.m. when our truck pulls up outside a warehouse on Elston. This area is a mix of residential and industrial, and right now a couple of people are on the street looking at the smoke billowing from a third story window.
CPD are already on site and one of them approaches us.
“Building’s currently not in use but it’s been known to house squatters.”
Roman nods and turns to us. His eyes flicker over my face before moving away quickly. It’s the first shift we’ve shared since that connection at the fire truck wash-down, and I’m trying to be cool.
“Simpson and Brooks, hit the hydrants and get us connected. Wozniak and Sullivan, start the room to room on the second floor. Acosta and I will head up to the third.”
If I’m disappointed about not getting the extra attention I so obviously seek from the LT, I try my best to hide it. Easy enough to do as we mask up.
“Remember to take it slow on the air,” he says, mostly for my benefit, no doubt. “Nice, even draws.”
I nod and pull the mask over my face.
Once inside, it seems eerily quiet. No sign of life, not even of a fire, except for the fact we saw that smoke coming from the window above. The first floor looks like a reception space that’s never been occupied. Gage feels for light switches, but when he tries something the space remains in darkness. Following the glow of my flashlight, I check the corners, looking for the stairs. Roman is already moving toward the northeast corner, where he wedges the door open.
We head up the stairs, our pounding boots creating tinny echoes against the corrugated steel. The second floor is one long corridor with doors leading off it.
“Wozniak, you and Sullivan are here. Head downstairs as soon as you’re done and check on basement access. Stay frosty.” And then he’s off to the next floor with Danny in tow, and I’m left with Wozniak.
“Okay, Sully, let’s do this.”
Still no sign of fire on this floor, so this seems like a pretty standard room check to ensure no one is trapped inside. We open doors and scout rooms before reaching the back of the floor. Nothing behind the last door but a couple of old desks and a swivel chair.
“All clear here,” Wozniak says. “Come on, let’s check the basement.”
We head back toward the exit, where the air feels warmer than before. Something else is odd, a crackling sound, that’s loud enough to get my attention.
“You hear that?” I ask.
Wozniak turns but before he can say anything, a shower of plaster rains down on our heads. I move back against the wall just as chunks of the ceiling fall into the corridor.
Burning chunks.
I look up, worried that Roman and Danny are close to that damage.
“Come on, Sullivan, let’s book it!” Wozniak yells just as another flood of ceiling crashes into our path. Flames are licking the edges and then suddenly it goes up in front of us, blocking our exit.
Or almost blocking it. There’s a narrow path through so I shove Wozniak and yell, “Go! That way!”
He yanks my arm and pushes me ahead. Seniority, I suppose, rather than a nod to my gender. The fire has now taken hold and I’m praying that (a) the ceiling will remain intact until we get out and (b) this turnout gear is as fire-resistant as they say.
That’s when I hear a thud behind me.
Wozniak is down, felled by another ceiling drop. The debris is on fire as it falls and whatever hit Wozniak has knocked the wind out of him.
“You okay?” I tug his arm, then look ahead, planning the next few moves on the chess board. Would Roman and Danny have heard or seen what happened or is this just in the space between the floors?
“Yeah, fine. Make sure your air is on, Sullivan.”
“Got it.”