“I’m okay.” The last thing Matt needed today was to worry about me when he was focusing on Lena and the imminent arrival of my niece or nephew. He’d had a lifetime of managing my need for accuracy in all things ever since seven-year-old Matt was presented with a baby brother. But not today because Lena was his priority right now. “I’m going to run and not focus on time.”
“Right.” He nodded. “Keep an eye on the door.” He pointed at said door, which had sheetrock leaning against the wall next to it and coils of wire, the job half done. “Let the guy in. He knows what he’s doing. I’ll be back by lunchtime at the latest.”
“I know.”
“And if… ” He stopped again, tension pulling tight across his shoulders. “If you need me, you could call?—”
“Go,” I said. “I can handle an empty gym and one electrician.”
“I know you can.” He seemed annoyed that I’d even suggest otherwise. Some people underestimated my abilities in social situations, but Matt wasn’t one of them.
He hesitated for half a second, then stepped in, gripped the back of my neck in a quick squeeze and let go just as fast. On the way out, he bent to Sable again, one last fuss. “Look after him,” he told her.
“She will,” I said because Matt needed to know I was going to be okay.
“You’re the best brother,” Matt said, already moving. “Even if you are a pain in my ass.”
I didn’t answer that. It wasn’t a question. He was teasing me, and it made him smile. I loved it when Matt smiled.
I locked the door behind him, and the gym settled back into quiet. After turning the sign to CLOSED, I set a reminder alarm on my phone for the electrician and put on my headphones. The first track dropped in, bass steady, predictable, one of the five I listened to on repeat every time I was in a gym.
Sable circled once, paused where her usual spot was blocked by stacked plates, then lay down by the front desk instead, chin on her paws, eyes on me.
“Good girl,” I said, and her ears pricked. “Such a good girl.” She wagged her tail and huffed in that doggy way she had of relaxing. Then I started the belt and began a slow jog to warm up.
Chapter 2
Dane Rourke
Damn onions.
I loved them. Cooking without them would be bland. But my eyes were watering so hard I was now getting comments from my brothers and sisters at RFD Station Eight. Well, mostly my brothers. Okay, one brother. My lone sister here at the station, Courtney, was trying to ignore the teasing as she read a book while we lounged in the large kitchen area. I wished we had more female firefighters but so far we only had one, and she could do the work of three men while not flapping her gums about my choices of television viewing.
“Aww, Dane, did you watch that hockey romance show again?” Knife still in hand, I swiped at my leaky eyes with the back of that hand to deliver a glare to Timothy Pegg, the biggest asshole to ever swing an axe. “I’m sure they’ll be okay once they get more lube.”
Tim was a homophobe. He’d learned not to say anything boldly hateful out loud after being called into the captain’s office about six months ago. Station Captain Sullivan “Sully” Wright, a dear friend of my late father’s, had torn Tim a new one, suspended him without pay for two weeks, and instructed him to attend a month of sensitivity training. The training haddone little other than to teach Tim not to blatantly be a prick. He blamed me for the suspension and everything else that had fallen on him. Which was rich since he was the one who had called me the F word with Sully standing right next to him. I disliked Tim, obviously, but until he was terminated or transferred to one of the other fifteen fire stations in Rochester, I was stuck with him.
“At least the gay hockey players are getting some, Tim. When was the last time you came within twenty feet of a pussy?” Courtney flung out without even lifting her gaze from her cozy mystery. If I were straight, I’d marry Courtney Pearce. Not that she would have me. She didn’t date other firefighters.
Morgan, the eldest of the crew, snorted in amusement. Morgan and I were friends on and off the clock. He’d been here for fifteen years and had also known my father. You couldn’t swing a hose in Station Eight without hitting a reminder of Lawrence Rourke. My father had been a firefighter for twenty-five years before losing his life in a factory fire in the Eastman Business Park along the Genesee River. I’d been ten when he died, leaving my mother, my younger brother, and me to try to carry on without him. To honor him and my grandfather, who had also been a firefighter, I’d gotten my BA in Fire Science, then my certifications, and joined the RFD. Devon, my younger brother, had chosen law enforcement. Mom had been both delighted and terrified, but she knew all too well that the children of respected firefighters or police officers often followed the same or similar career paths.
“I have a girlfriend,” Tim fired back, grabbing a chunk of green pepper from my cutting board. I went to stab him with my favorite dicing knife—playfully mostly—when he jerked his hand back.
“Those AI chicks you talk to don’t count, Peggy,” Courtney fired back. Morgan and I both snickered. Tim despised thatnickname for the obvious sexist reasons. He had no poker face at all, which always led to him losing to us when we played cards during our twenty-four-hour shifts. It also made him an easy target for Courtney.
“I don’t talk to AI chicks, Pearce. I talk to real women. Women who like real men, not women like you who like books and socks.”
“I like her socks,” Morgan interjected over the rim of his coffee mug. “Nothing says love like warm wool socks in the winter.”
Courtney smiled at him then returned to her mystery. Tim walked on eggshells around Morgan. He’d pushed the tall Black man a time or two with some jokes that were borderline racist and had been verbally beaten into goo. As the station lieutenant, Morgan carried some clout. Clout that he wasn’t afraid to use.
“Socks are her love language like cooking is mine,” I interjected and dumped my onions into the pot of garlic, ground beef, and mild jalapeños cooking away on the stove. Since I enjoy feeding people, I was the one who did the cooking when I was on duty. “Morgan likes to make soap for people he likes.”
I inhaled the aroma wafting from the tall steel pot. Dane’s Famous Chili would be done in a couple of hours. It was nearly ready for the slow simmer, then we could dive in. I’d even brought a loaf of Italian bread from Geno’s Ristorante down the block for dipping.
“He never makesmesoap,” Tim said as Sully sauntered into the kitchen, dressed in station wear, flame-resistant work pants, a tee with the station logo, and black steel-toed boots, smiling at the banter. Silver-haired fox that he was, he always commanded attention from male and female eyes. But his gaze was only for Betty, his wife of twenty-two years.
“Maybe he knows you won’t use it,” Courtney flung out like a dagger. Morgan tapped his nose then pointed at Courtney as Tim scowled.
