“What’s up, boss?”
“You need to vent and I’m here to listen.”
“I screwed up. I know that. Woz probably could have survived another minute. I shouldn’t have given him my air, I should have trusted you’d be there, and then I should have listened when you told me to go. I thought I was taking the initiative.”
Those dark eyes take my measure. “You pushed the envelope but for what it’s worth, I think you did fine. Wozniak shouldn’t have put you in that position.”
Okay, this is what I need to hear. Sure, Roman was telling me all this earlier, but I was too pissed at my father to absorb his words.
“I can’t believe my father got involved. Or that he even knew so fast.”
Roman does that scowly thing and he looks like he has something to say but decides against.
Dread fills my chest. “Did—did you tell him?”
“You think I’m on check-in terms with your father? Nah, sounds like we have a chatty Kathy at the firehouse.”
“A spy?”
“If he wants to keep an eye on you, he’s going to have a mole in the house.” He moves in closer, and my nostrils are filled with him. “Abby, this is not the end of the world, just a slight setback. You’re going to be a great firefighter one day.”
“It doesn’t feel like that right now. It feels like I’m pushing, trying too hard because …”
“Because …” He leans in. A door down the hallway opens and Mrs. Dumont puts her head out and gives me the nosey parker nostril twitch.
“Would you like to come in for a second?”
“Sure.”
I stand back to let him in, and get the full spicy effect of just-showered male. I’m obviously in a vulnerable state right now because it makes me weak. Time to buck right up.
I gesture toward the sofa, really to send him away from me. “Take a load off, Lieutenant.”
“Roman. Outside the firehouse, call me Roman.” He settles in the corner of my sofa, elbows on knees, hands clasped, his face turned toward me in expectation. “You said you felt like you’re trying too hard. Why is that?”
“I want to impress you.” Taking a seat on the opposite end of the sofa, I quickly add, “The team. My father. Anyone who’s ever said a woman can’t do this job. That I can’t do this job. I realize it’s self-inflicted pressure—”
“Partly. You’re representing your gender in a traditionally male-oriented job and that’s a heavy load to carry, but it’s not yours alone. Have you talked to Alex Dempsey?”
“Not yet. I don’t want to go running to her with my problems.”
“Then come running to me. I need to hear it when you’re feeling overwhelmed or unsure about your place at Engine 6. In CFD. All of it.”
That offer sounds seductively dangerous, a warm pit I would gladly sink into. It’s one thing to talk about your professional problems with your supervisor. With our dynamic—and let’s face it, blistering chemistry—the capacity to cross the line is all too real. But if I’m to succeed in this career, I need to set all those reservations aside. I’m a pro. I can do that.
“You know my background. And you know my dad doesn’t want me to do this. Then the fact I’m Chuck Sullivan’s daughter places a target on my back.”
He hums his encouragement, so feeling encouraged, I go on.
“People think I got a leg up, which is not true. I’ve had to work harder because I’m a woman and harder again because I’m the daughter of the Commish. There can’t be any perception of favoritism or giving me a pass because of either of those things. So now I’m here and it’s not like Fire Academy. Now every decision determines fates. I’m good at this job, or at least I know I can be, but I don’t want to be a distraction.”
He steeples his hands together over his lips and gives me every iota of his attention. I remember that look from the diner, the way he considered my words carefully before he spoke. There’s nothing sexier than a man who listens.
“I don’t want you to be a distraction, either.”
I bite my lip, which sends his gaze in a dark, delicious dip there. Knowing that he’s similarly affected eases something in my chest. Like we’re in this together, fighting the good fight to not jump each other’s bones. It’ll take two to tango and as long as one of us remains strong, we should be able to push through this.
He clears his throat. “You did really well at the Academy. Wyatt Fox says you were one of his best students and that guy never gushes about anything.”
“You talked to him about me?”
“He tends bar over at Dempseys’ some nights and it came up.” He flashes a wisp of a grin, so fast I almost miss it. “Okay, I asked him. I needed to know what you’re capable of and he told me you were top of the class in practically all areas. So you have to get out of your head and stop second-guessing your instincts. You have good ones. That call was out of left field because you don’t usually have to cover the ass of a more experienced firefighter. His mistake put you in danger.”
He sounds quietly angry, and I’m suddenly very aware of how hot that is. How attractive having a man like Roman in my corner might be.
How dangerous.
“I’m sorry I pushed back. On the call and then later when you tried to explain. I was just so angry about my father’s interference.”
“I didn’t like how he talked to you. That wasn’t right.”
I wanted Roman to hear me and now that’s he listening and empathizing—well, be careful what you wish for. “He’s getting his dream, to sideline me. I appreciate you standing up for me, though.”
His eyes warm. “I want you to succeed, not because you’re a woman or have had a rough go being the daughter of some big shot. But because my crew needs you to succeed. I’ll always have your back.”
“You will?”
“Of course, Abby,” he says so gently it makes me want to cry.
“I—I appreciate it. I’ve already learned a lot from you. I want to continue learning.”
He studies me, which means I’m stuck—gloriously stuck—returning his heated regard because any other option would mean I have to back down. I can’t do that because anything less than toe to toe with this man will signify weakness.
He unfolds from the sofa, which is really for the best because I was about to do something incredibly stupid there, like climb all over him.
“My offer still stands,” he says.
“Offer?”
“Breakfast.”
That text seems like ten years ago instead of ten minutes. Can I do the friends and co-workers thing? I might be brave in a working fire but I’m not sure I’m brave enough to spend time with Roman Rossi, pretending I’m not dying to stick my tongue down his throat. Pretending I don’t want to feel his strong arms around me and all the wonderful comfort that comes with that.
“Maybe another time,” I say.
He nods again, understanding in his expression. He knows the sparks between us are likely to ignite if we spend any non-work time together. By common instinct, we move toward the door, sadness dogging my steps. This feels like the end instead of a brand-new beginning to the story of us.