Page 12 of Falling for My Grumpy Fireman

It doesn't go far.

He jerks his chin toward the equipment room. "Come on. Let's get you outfitted."

Turnout gear, boots, helmet. He walks me through it like I've never seen bunker pants, and I let him, because it's his house and that's how it's done. The gear smells new. Grant money, he says. Some billionaire married into town a few years back.

"Radio protocols are posted, shift board's in the kitchen, and Tater'll ride you through your first calls." He stacks the gear in my arms. "One more thing."

He picks a paper off his desk and lays it on top of the pile like he's dealing a card he knows is bad.

It's a flyer. Fancy one. String lights and stars printed across the top.

STARLIGHT HALL. FUNDRAISER FOR ENGINE 1. And under that, in letters big enough to read from a moving truck:

BACHELOR LUNCH-DATE AUCTION. SATURDAY NIGHT.

I read it twice. It doesn't improve.

"Chief."

"Every unmarried man in this department is on that stage, son." He's already walking back to his office. Doesn't even turn around. "Chief's orders."

Chapter four

Do No Harm, Take No Orders

NELLIE

Debbie Sue's living room smells like candle wax and queso, and there is a glass of wine in my hand that I did not pour and cannot seem to put down.

"Okay," Debbie says, folding her legs up under her on the couch. "House rules. What gets said at girls' night stays at girls' night, unless it's good, in which case I tell Tater and he tells the whole shift."

"Those are terrible rules."

"They're the only rules we have."

There are four of us. Debbie, me, Carmen from radiology, and a labor and delivery nurse named Pris who brought a dip with three kinds of cheese and the moral authority that comes with it.

I like them. That's the problem. Not even a month in and I like them, and liking people is how a town gets its hooks in you.

"So," Carmen says, scooping dip like she's being paid by the pound. "Nellie. Thirteen-week contracts. You ever renew?"

"Never."

"Never once?"

"Not once."

Debbie's watching me over her glass. She does this thing where she looks casual and isn't. I've seen her do it to patients who say they're fine.

"Why not?" Pris asks.

I could give them the resume answer. Better pay, new skills, keeps me sharp. I've given that answer in eleven states, in scrubs and in a white coat both.

Instead, the wine gives them a different one.

"My mama moved us a lot," I say. "New town, new boyfriend, new version of herself to match him. Wayne liked church, so we were church people. Rick raced dirt bikes, so suddenly I owned a helmet. Eleven schools in twelve years."

Nobody says anything. Pris stops mid-scoop.