Page 95 of Rising Heat

I find a spot near the corner of Columbus just before the parade reaches my block. The city is already loud before it even starts—music spilling out of bars with their doors propped open despite the cold, green everywhere, the collective energy of a population that has apparently been waiting since February for permission to become unhinged outdoors.

Then the pipes and drums round the corner.

The sound rolls down the street before the musicians do, deep enough that I feel it in my ribs. People surge toward the curb, cheering as marching bands, veterans, neighborhood organizations, and enough Irish flags to qualify as a second invasion make their way past. The air smells like coffee from the café behind me, something greasy and delicious from a market down the street, and whatever questionable life choices are already happening inside the bars opening early for the day.

I get distracted watching a troop of tiny Irish dancers somehow manage to look both adorable and aggressively competitive before the first firetruck comes into view.

The crowd cheers louder, and a second later I understand why.

Dress blues have absolutely no business looking that good. Brass buttons catch the late-morning sun. White gloves. Polished shoes. Firefighters walking beside the trucks with the easy confidence of people who somehow make ceremonial uniforms look effortless.

More companies follow, the crowd surging and settling around each one until, somewhere in the middle of it all, I finally spot the Station 37 crew.

My eyes find Tyler first. Or maybe he finds me.

Either way, as soon as I spot him, his head turns, his grin is bright enough that I catch it from across the street. He says something to Mack without ever taking his eyes off me and Mack looks over a second later.

He doesn’t smile right away, just finds me in the crowd with that same unwavering look that’s been doing something to my blood pressure—and my vagina—for weeks, equal parts confidence and challenge like he already knows what I’m thinking.

Then, almost as an afterthought, the corner of his mouth tips.

Thousands of people line the parade route and yet somehow they’d found me.

I lift my chin in their direction and smile. The older woman beside me following my gaze and smiles knowingly enough that I briefly consider moving cities again.

By the time the parade breaks formation, the sidewalks have dissolved into disarray. Families spill into the streets, kids weaving between adults with tiny Irish flags, everyone trying to decide whether they’re headed home or straight to the nearest bar.

I’m waiting near the corner when I hear Tyler before I see him.

“Look who made it out to their first St. Paddy’s Day in Boston.”

He appears through the crowd with Mack a step behind him, wrapping me in a quick hug that smells faintly of aftershave and cold air.

I laugh.

“Told you I’d come.”

“I know.” His grin doesn’t falter. “Still nice seeing it.”

My pulse thumps at that.

“Knew you would.”

Mack’s gaze slides over me as he says it, unhurried enough that my suddenly very self-conscious brain starts wondering exactly what he’s looking at before his eyes settle back on mine.

“Green suits you.”

Before I can think of anything coherent to say, a couple in their early sixties catches up behind them.

They look like the kind of people who’ve spent their whole lives in Boston and are exactly where they’re supposed to be. The woman notices me first. She’s shorter than I’d expected, with Tyler’s lighter green eyes, Mack’s dark hair and olive skin, and the unmistakable vibe of someone who misses nothing.

“Mom,” Tyler says. “This is Darcy. She lives on the third floor.”

“Darcy.” She reaches for my hand with both of hers. “Carmela.”

She smiles.

“I’ve heard your name.”