Below my mom’s picture is Sean Dempsey, Luke Almeida’s adoptive father, who died fourteen years ago. He and his foster sibs at 6 had to pass these photos every day. Did they ever get used to it?
We arrive at a suite of offices a few corridors in. The name plate on the one Almeida knocks says ‘Lt. Roman Rossi.’ As far as I know, he’s a relatively recent addition as a lieutenant but other than that I have no intel. He doesn’t even have a photo on the CFD intranet.
“Roman, got your candidate here for you.” Luke pushes the door open and I have a nanosecond to absorb broad shoulders, dark, lustrous hair, and a strong tanned neck just as the man inside turns.
This can’t be right.
The look in this man’s hazel-green eyes tells me it might not be right but it’s happening anyway. Diner Dude is staring back at me.
At which point I throw up all over Luke Almeida’s boots.
Six
Abby
I take another look in the mirror, pinch my cheeks, and try again.
Still as pale as the ghost of my dear departed mother.
I’d have thought I didn’t have anything left to spew after I got sick once already but the stomach, it keeps on giving. How could I now be working with—for? under?—Diner Dude? I wouldn’t have pegged him for CFD at all.
So he had a military air to him, but that didn’t mean anything. Lots of guys have that ramrod straight bearing, the squinty stare, the hard-to-crack demeanor. But crack it I did. We had vibed, and it was weird to think that if I’d known he was a firefighter we would have had even more in common.
That’s not the moral of the story, Abby.
The moral of the story is that this is really fucking bad. There are rules about fraternizing with your co-workers, and especially with your superior. Life and death decisions are being made on callouts and no one needs the distraction or the drama. Not that this was even an option, but I knew the shape and taste of his mouth.
We would have to report it to the higher-ups. My father would hear all about it and feel vindicated in trying to steer me away from the path my mom took. My shift hasn’t even started and I’m already screwing up.
I open the door, expecting that Lieutenant Almeida will be waiting, but no. It’s him. Diner Dude.
Lieutenant Roman Rossi.
Something sparks in those gorgeous—nope, not gorgeous—eyes on seeing me. Probably disgust. At least I’d missed his boots.
“You okay?”
I nod. Slowly shake my head.
“Not okay?”
“Physically, fine.” I touch my forehead and offer a comical grimace. Diner Dude would have smiled, I’m sure of it. But that guy has left the building.
In his place is a hard ass with a CFD-issued tee and navy pants that should look like dog poop but don’t. I didn’t see his arms the other night, only felt them as I clung like a dinghy battered by a storm. They’d been strong, muscled, solid.
Now I’m seeing them, bare, tanned, and in the flesh, and I’m revising the Braille abilities of my hands. What I felt the other night had been wonderful, but these in-my-eyeballs beauties are absolutely breathtaking.
While I’m losing myself in the glory of his forearms, he’s started to speak.
“…the last person I expected to show up in my firehouse this morning. I probably should have been a bit more nosey about your graduation.” He’s lowered his voice to an intimate volume, which sounds nice except that intimacy has nothing to do with it. Trying to ensure no one is clued in to our previous connection, no doubt.
“What happens now?”
He raises an eyebrow. Stories are told with that eyebrow but I’m suddenly illiterate.
“Is there some paperwork I need to fill out to, uh …”
“To …”
I wave between us, impatient now because he’s either being deliberately obtuse or making fun of me. “Tell someone about this. What happened.”
“We don’t usually report when the probies vomit, even if it’s on an LT’s boots.”
Now that has to be a joke. I cover my face with a hand, embarrassment overcoming me once more. With my pale Irish skin, I tend to flush more than the average human. “I can’t believe I did that. I was so nervous this morning and I’d already puked at the diner and—”
“That was a repeat?” A strong grip curls around my shoulder and I’m led down the corridor to the office where we’d been ten minutes ago. Someone has cleaned up the vomit, though the tang of Pine Sol remains. I’m shoved gently into a chair. An uncapped bottle of water is thrust not so gently into my hand.
“Drink.”
I down about a third of it. The coolness helps. Sort of.
“If you’re that ill, you might be dehydrated. Either go home or lie in the bunk room for a while.”
“I’m not going home.” I look up at him. He’s half sitting on his desk which showcases the man’s thighs to perfection.
Have mercy, I’m still trying to recover from the arms!
He’s also clean-shaven, that sexy beard no longer on display. It only highlights how strong and sensual his jaw and lips are, though, so I’m still in a state of inappropriate lust for the boss. Fantastic.
Determined to get ahold of myself, I grind out, “I get that I’ve screwed up here, but I’m not leaving.”
Something in my tone must have resonated with him. There’s the slightest kick to the corner of his mouth.
“How are you feeling?”
“Better. I’m sorry about getting sick.”
“Not as sorry as Almeida.”
Back with a hand over my reddening face. At least I’m no longer deathly pale, right?
“Hey, it’s okay.” He sounds concerned, maybe a little sorry for the teasing. Good. “He’ll get over it.”
I groan behind my palm. “I wish I could have seen his face. But I was too busy doubled over.”
His lips twitch, and something in his expression softens. It makes him seem younger and quickly passes.
“We need to talk about the elephant in the room,” he says soberly.
I nod, feeling nauseous again. “That’s what I meant about paperwork. I figured we’d need to … report it to …” Not a jot of help from his quarter. I finish with, “Someone in authority?”
He crosses his arms. “Like Commissioner Sullivan?”
I supposed there was no keeping that a secret. After all, this engine must have hated hearing that Abby Sullivan, daughter of the Fire Commissioner, was posted here.
“That’s not who I meant,” I say. “But I suppose he’d eventually find out.”
“Pretty by the book, are you?”
“I just want to get off on the right foot.”
“And you think reporting the fact you were making out with your superior officer the night before reporting for duty—”
“Two nights,” I whisper because I’m by the book.
“Is the way to start your career at CFD off right?”
I don’t know anymore. Isn’t it his job to figure out the plan? “I’ll take my lead from you.”
He blinks, like that statement clarifies something, though I don’t know what. “I’m sorry, you’re right. It’s just … a surprise to see you here. I don’t want to ask you to lie. Of course you should report it if the idea of working here”—he pauses—“with me, makes you in any way uncomfortable.”