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She realized immediately that he would read that as jealousy. It wasn’t.
Well, not really.
Maybe. A little.
About a job.
Oh.
“Hannah! Are you coming down?”
Crap! She shoved the phone in her pocket.
Her mother was talking when Hannah got to the bottom of the stairs, in that engaged-yet-distracted tone she used when she was doing four things at once. “So you’re interested in becoming a fire marshal?”
“Yes, ma’am. That’s part of why I transferred to this area.”
Hannah stopped short before turning the corner. She knew that voice.
She wondered if she should go upstairs and scrub off any trace of makeup.
Or maybe she should go up there and slap on a bit more. “Hannah, is that you? Could you please fill water glasses for the table?”
Damn it.
She slipped into the kitchen, hoping her cheeks weren’t pink. Her mother was chopping lettuce for a salad. Her father was reaching for something in the refrigerator.
And Irish was standing by the counter, looking almost as good as he had this morning.
When he’d been shirtless and shaving.
She smacked her brain into submission—but now she had no idea what to say.
He smiled when he saw her. “You look like you just woke up.”
Oh. Nice. “You look like a man who wants me to spit in his water glass.”
“Hannah!” Her mother sounded horrified. “That’s disgusting!”
James came bursting into the kitchen. “Do it, Mommy! Do it!”
Irish lost the smile and glanced between her and James. His face went from pure amusement to pure shock.
Hannah knew that look. She was used to that look. She’d been getting it since she was seventeen, and it stung just as much now as it had then. She wondered if it would ever go away. Maybe when she was thirty. She ruffled James’s hair. “Irish, this is James.”
Her son leaned into her and looked up at Irish. “Are you a fireman?”
Irish still looked shell shocked. “Ah . . . yeah.”
“Do you want to see my Lego house?”
“Um—”
“Maybe later,” Hannah said. “Go wash up for dinner.” She gave James a kiss on the forehead. “Especially this sticky face.” He took off.
Her father held out a bottle of beer to Irish, keeping one for himself. “All I have is light.”
It seemed to break through Irish’s surprise. “No. Thank you, sir.” He shrugged. “I’m still on call.”
