Page 6 of Falling For You

"Same thing I said to the last one. I've been here thirty years and I'm not going anywhere." He picked up another glass and started drying it. "Guy said I should think about it. I told him I already did."

Lockwood Development Group had been circling the block for months, buying up parcels for a hotel project. Half the businesses on this stretch had already sold. Gus hadn't returned a single call. This bar was where he'd built his life.

"You think they'll back off?"

Gus shrugged. "They'll have to. I'm not selling."

"Good afternoon, Selena!" Daphne came in through the side door carrying a crate of flowers, the unsold ones from her shop two blocks over. She brought them to the bar every week rather than let them go to waste.

"Excuse me a second." Gus wiped his hands on his apron and walked over to help her. I watched him take the crate, say something that made her laugh, and start setting the arrangements on the tables.

"Are the boys coming in tonight?" Selena set my plate in front of me.

"Some of the guys owe their wives a night. Friday might work."

"Alright. I had Terrence order an extra case of the Belgian beer. You boys drank us dry last time."

"Thanks, Selena."

That was the bar. Gus behind the counter, Selena running the floor, Terrence in his corner, Daphne's flowers on the tables. The fire crew's second home. Half the guys on my shift spent more time here than they did in their own kitchens. Our group photos were framed on the wall. Every time someone graduated the fire academy or made a promotion, they came to Gus's for a beer.

Lillian used to meet me here after her shifts at the hospital. Gus poured her a glass of wine every time without being asked. He kept a photo of Birdie's first visit behind the register. Lillian never saw it, but Birdie was there, tiny and screaming, and Gus put the picture up like she was his own granddaughter. No developer with a checkbook was going to take that from him.

"Are the fish tacos any good?" A woman sat down two stools over from me. I'd seen her before. Dark hair, nice smile, a regular on the weekday lunch crowd.

"Gus's fish tacos are the best in the city."

"Do you come here often?"

"Most days."

She was pretty. She was direct about it, too, leaning in just slightly. It took courage, and I respected that.

"Would you want to grab a table? I hate eating at the bar alone."

"I'm actually just grabbing lunch before I pick up my daughter," I said. "But the tacos really are good."

She smiled and turned back to her menu.

I'd been on dates. Three in the last year, all arranged by members of my crew who believed it was their professional obligation to fix my personal life. Each one ended the same way. A nice woman across the table, a decent meal, and the moment about twenty minutes in when she'd ask what I did for fun and I'd say well, mostly I read to my daughter. I could see her adding it up while her eyes glazed over. A six-year-old and a 24-hour shift schedule. The equation didn't work for most people. I couldn't blame them.

I left Gus's around two-fifteen after helping him rehang the TV at a better angle before the weekend games. Gus on a ladder was a conversation neither of us wanted to have.

I was a few blocks from Birdie's school when I saw her. A head shorter than her partner, her braid catching the sun. Andy Walsh was standing between two drivers who'd clipped each other at the intersection. A fender bender, both cars still running, neither driver happy about it. Doug was directing traffic around the scene.

I thought about rolling down the window and saying something just to see that look she'd give me. There was a small chance Andy Walsh would actually handcuff me for being a nuisance. But however fun that mental picture might be, she was working and Birdie was waiting for me, so I drove past. I caught myself glancing at the side mirror until she was out of view.

CHAPTER 3

Lace

ANDY

The apartment was on the twelfth floor of a glass tower downtown. The door was closed when we arrived. No damage to the frame, no marks on the lock. Inside, the place was tossed. Drawers pulled open, closets emptied, cushions lifted off the couch and left leaning against the wall.

The tenant Gino Stasio was a man in his mid-thirties, well-dressed, and very agitated. He walked us through every room, pointing at the mess and talking very fast. I wrote down what he told me and catalogued what I could see on my own.

"Is anything missing?" I asked.