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The room falls silent. Everett, one of our old-timers, leans forward to get a better look at the heart. “What is that?”
“Cut it out,” I grumble. “I’m not in the mood.”
The guys exchange looks.
“Seriously, Thorne,” says Corey. “That wasn’t us.”
I study their faces. They all seem genuinely innocent. But that doesn’t make me feel any better.
“If it wasn’t any of you,” I say, “then who put that on my pillow?”
The guys exchange another round of looks. They all look stumped. Then, suddenly, Zeke bursts out with a laugh.
“I think I know who did it,” he says. “I bet it was that woman who came by yesterday asking for a tour.” He glances around at the guys. “Remember?”
“Oh, yeah,” someone else says. “That’s right. Must’ve been her.”
“What? Whowasshe?” I demand.
Zeke thinks for a second. “I think her name was…Sandy, maybe? I don’t know. Sorry, man. I was distracted and thinking about other stuff. She showed up out of the blue, saying something about how she’s always been curious about the firehouse and was wondering if she could have a tour. She must’ve snuck into your room and put that there. That’s my best guess.”
Sandy? I rack my mind, but I don’t know anyone named Sandy.
“What did she look like?” I ask.
“Erm…” Zeke gives me a sheepish look. “Red hair, I think? And she was probably in her twenties? Like I said, I was distracted.”
I scrub a hand over my face. The more information I get, the more baffling this is. “Okay. Look, if any of you remember anything else, will you?—”
An alarm interrupts me mid-sentence, alerting us to an emergency call. Instantly, we all jump into action. Within minutes, we’re geared up and on a truck. As I drive us out of the station, sirens blaring, I’m focused on the details being fed through the radio by my side.
But my mind is still consumed with my mystery valentine.
2
SUNNY
Iclose my eyes and draw in a deep breath as I lean out my apartment’s second-story window.Mmm. Yum. Whatever they’re cooking over at the fire station tonight, it smells amazing. It smells likehome.
The microwave in my apartment beeps, and I duck back inside. A cloud of steam puffs out when I open the microwave door. Carefully, I remove the plastic tray and peel off the thin plastic sheet.
Well, it’s not exactly a home-cooked meal, but it’s food.
I carry my dinner over to my small dining table and set it down on the woven placemat I previously set out. Before I start eating, I light the candles on the table. The other half of the table is messy with bills that I need to pay, but I try to ignore that for now.
I hope that someday I get to sit down at a big dining table, a husband by my side and our children filling up the rest of the chairs. That’s the ultimate dream. Actually, sometimes I literallydream that my fantasy has come true. It’s always hard to wake up from those dreams.
I pierce a piece of slightly mushy pasta with my fork and pretend that it’s more delicious than it is as I eat it. As I’m taking another bite, a gentle breeze carries in the delicious smells coming from the fire station across the street, and for a moment—just a brief moment—it’s like I’m enjoying their food instead.
An image fills my mind of what it must be like over there when all the firemen are eating together. I imagine them convivially gathered around a table, all of them wearing dark blue station tees or sweatshirts with the fire department’s emblem on the back. There’s laughter and joking around, their voices interweaving as they talk over each other.
And at the end of the table sitsmyfireman.
I know I shouldn’t think of him like that. And I really shouldn’t let myself fantasize about him like I do. A few months ago, I forced myself to stop spying on him and stop thinking about him at night, but the ache got so bad that I had to give in.
And then yesterday…well, I was just in one of those moods. You know, the hopelessly romantic kind. I kept thinking about how Valentine’s Day was in just a few days, and the idea of making my fireman a valentine became lodged in my mind. Before I could stop myself, I was making one for him from scratch with the craft supplies I had on hand, and then I was walking across the street and knocking on the fire station’s big red front door.
When a fireman answered the door—a fireman, notmyfireman—I politely asked if it was possible to be taken on a tour of the station. To my delight, he obliged. As he showed me aroundthe firehouse, I soaked it all in, searching for any little piece of information that would help me accomplish my secret plan.
