Page 7 of Christmas with Three Firemen

“Wes, my guy!” bellows Mateo on our way across the bay toward the spiral staircase leading up to the mezzanine.

I can’t tell who he’s yelling at until a pair of strong legs protruding from underneath one of the trucks bend at the knees, the heels of steel-toed boots braced against the concrete floor to wheel himself out from under the fire engine.

A man with unruly chestnut hair, the kind of tint that might turn auburn in the sunlight, straightens up. There’s a streak of black engine grease across his left cheekbone, and much more of that grease staining the thin fabric of his white tee.

I halt in my tracks, embarrassingly affected by this man’s rugged good looks. He’s bulkier than Mateo, his veiny forearms and large hands covered in tattoos.

He’s kind of a mess, and unfortunately it’s the one thing to send my heart skittering into a reckless rhythm for the first time since I set foot in here.

“Investigator Meadows, this is Wes Kane,” Mateo says, gesturing between me and the man on the ground, who rests his elbows on his knees and stares up at me with a stoic but non-threatening expression.

“Noelle,” I tell them. “You can call me Noelle.”

Wes nods at me. “Welcome.”

“Wes is a genius,” Mateo informs me. “If you have any questions that require someone with more than half a brain to answer, he’s your guy.”

I lift a brow. “Not your captain?”

Mateo snorts. “Cap’s a busy man.”

I turn my attention to Wes. “And you’re not?”

Wes merely shrugs, but I don’t miss the way his measured gaze sweeps down the length of my body.

For some reason, Mateo laughs. I feel a gentle nudge between my shoulder blades and take that as my cue to keep going. Wes rolls himself back under the engine without another word.

“Man of few words, that one,” Mateo says, leaning in conspiratorially as we approach the stairs. “Studied engineering at MIT or something, then worked for the military for a little while.”

“Oh. Interesting.”

“More interesting than me, I’m afraid.” He punctuates this with a mischievous grin tossed over his shoulder as he leads his way up the steps to the mezzanine.

Thankfully, I don’t have to endure much more chatting from Mateo, though I have to admit that his effortlessly friendly demeanor is kind of endearing.

He leads me to a dorm room at the far end of the hall, explaining that I’ll have the space all to myself and that, despite his captain’s commentary, it should be clean and equipped with the basics.

I’m the recipient of one last sparkly-eyed wink before he departs to rejoin his crew downstairs, and I’m left alone in my new temporary home.

I stand in the center of the room and slowly turn in a circle. My stomach has plummeted with dread, and it’s not necessarily because this place looks like a prison cell.

There’s a dresser, a desk, a bookshelf that contains a stack of old magazines, and a single window overlooking the alley behind the station. A small lamp occupies one corner and a folded blanket rests at the foot of the bed.

None of those things are the problem. The problem is the strand of blinking Christmas lights someone has decided to tape up over the headboard.

I stare at them, and the lights blink cheerfully back.

They transform the otherwise ordinary room into something that looks vaguely festive yet deeply unsettling.

I set my duffel bag on the bed and immediately reach up to begin removing the lights.

Thirty seconds into the process, however, Mateo returns.

“Sorry to interrupt, but I forgot to tell you—oh, you don’t like how I decorated the place?”

I turn toward him, one end of the string lights gripped in my fist, and try not to look guilty.

“They’re a little distracting.”