“A rainbow-farting unicorn. Just what I’ve always wanted.”
“Daaaad!”
He angles a hand around his daughter’s neck, pulls her in for a full body hug, and kisses the top of her head. Those blue-tipped nails, symbols of the perfect love of a dad for his daughter, run through her dark hair. I love how tactile he is, how there’s no pretense about how he feels. Maybe it’s an Italian thing. When I first met him, I thought he was a repressor of emotions. Boy did I have that wrong.
Who wouldn’t love to be under Roman’s wide wing?
He smiles at me, and the answer thrums in time with my heartbeat.
No one.
Thirty
Roman
I kept my word and convinced Venti to cut Abby’s desk duty short so now we’re back, fully staffed and ready to rock every callout. It’s been a week since the Dempseys’ barbecue, and each night after putting my daughter to bed, I’ve been heading over to Abby’s to put her to bed—and that beautiful body to use.
The sex is phenomenal and we’re having fun. I’ve stayed away from serious topics so as not to spook her. I’m not sure casual is in my wheelhouse but with a woman like Abby, I’m willing to take whatever she can give me.
It’s this or nothing, and I can’t go back to nothing.
“Nice dinner tonight, Lieutenant.”
I look up at the visitor to my office sanctuary, those bright blue eyes glinting with sexy intent. Not that either of us could act on our intentions at work, sexy or otherwise.
I don’t usually cook at the firehouse—I used to at my old station in New York but I’d lost my appetite for it. Tonight I’d taken it upon myself to serve up my meatball special for the crew at 6. I know Abby likes my cooking, and if she won’t let me close in any other way, I’ll find another way in.
“Glad to serve. How’s Baby Thor taking it?”
“The poor guy’s pretending he enjoyed the break from the stove but I saw him on the Bon Appetit website planning how to take you down.”
“This is exactly why I didn’t want to get into this.”
She leans against the doorjamb. Something is on her mind and I have patience in spades. After a few beats, she asks, “Have you heard about the memorial service at the end of the month?”
“I have.” The CFD will be honoring the fallen with a service dedicated to all firefighters lost in the line of duty. “I understand they plan to do it here.”
She wrinkles her nose. “I thought they’d use the Quinn. That’s what they did ten years ago for the first major anniversary.”
“That must have been tough.”
“Yeah. I was sixteen, just a kid.”
“You’re still a kid. Her kid. You don’t suddenly turn into a robot because now you can drink and vote.” I’ve seen her stop by the Wall of the Fallen regularly and offer up a prayer to her mom. The vulnerability in that small thing always checked my heart hard.
Knowing that Abby won’t be led, I let the silence linger for a moment, giving her the space to take this conversation in whatever direction works for her.
After a moment, she finds her way. “I remember her, coming home, smelling of smoke and perfume. It’s a really weird combo that you don’t ever forget. It was like she wanted to step into womanhood, into being my mom again, before she crossed the threshold of our house. That night—the night it happened—I was awoken by a bad dream. It was like I was sinking into something hot and sticky, and I reached out for Mom, but we kept missing each other. When I woke up, I heard voices and I crept downstairs. My dad was there, crying on my aunt’s shoulder. The two of them were hugging each other and I asked what was wrong.” She shrugs, shakes her head. “But I think I knew. In the dream, she should have pulled me out but she couldn’t.”
She looks so damn lost that every cell in my body itches to comfort her.
“You miss her like hell.”
“I do. You lost your parents, so you know what it’s like. How you have all this emotion, all these things you want to tell them.”
I nod. “Someone once said that grief is a kind of unexpressed love, stuck inside you with no place to go. But you can find an outlet for it, Abby. Honor her every day on the job with what you’re doing. Be happy in your choices.”
Her eyes are wide, pulling me deep. “You think that’s enough?”
“That’s for you to decide. But I do know that she’s watching over you, here in this firehouse and out there in the field.”
“God, I hope not. Because …” She waves between us and lets loose a nervous giggle.
“I’m sure she shuts her eyes when you get naked and busy. Like God does.”
That brings out that dirty-sexy laugh I can’t resist. After a moment, she goes quiet, then looks over her shoulder and steps inside my office. “They want me to say something at the memorial. Make a speech.”
I lean forward in my chair, straining toward her in this small space where we can’t touch, and clasp my hands together. “And you’d rather not?”
“I don’t know. My dad did the honors last time and now, if I do it, it would be because it’s a PR move and I’m following in her footsteps—”
“Which you are to a certain extent.”
Her fingertips stray to the pendant around her neck. “But also, blazing my own trail, or trying to. My father looks at me and sees her. Sees what happened to her, not the potential I have to do a good job.”
I stand, dying to take her in my arms though we both know that’s not possible. One touch will spark to a flame that neither of us can control. But hauling my body upright brings me a little closer to her which I hope is some comfort.
“You’re not your mom, Abby. You are an individual with hopes, dreams, and ambitions all your own.” I squeeze her arm because the words out of my mouth need a physical expression. It’s supposed to make her feel better, but instantly I steal some solace in being able to touch her.
“I wonder what she would have thought. Would she have encouraged me or would she have been worried sick?”
“Likely both. Take it from a parent. We want our kids to go out there, shoot for the stars, leap over chasms, and do amazing things. We also want them to stay locked in their rooms, wrapped in a comforter, letting us love and protect them. Parenting is one long series of mixed messages.”
She laughs. “Remind me to never get into the mothering game.”
“That doesn’t interest you?”
“Actually … I was being flippant. One day, I’d like it, after I’ve made my mark.” A pretty flush suffuses her cheeks and now all I can think of is Abby with a baby.
Abby with my baby.
I try to swallow back the image of that beautiful body of hers transformed with something we create together, but it’s stuck, playing on repeat in my dumb brain. Like Gage Simpson incapable of unseeing his HEA.
“You looked like a natural with Alex Dempsey’s newborn at the cookout,” I say.
“Sure. Did you happen to notice all the women drooling when you held that stinky little bundle? It was like a collective panty-drop.”