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October
Assistant to the director of CCFD public relations, Francis Witt, entered the glass side door of Firehouse 15. She was followed by the city's photographer to the front desk.
Strangely, the front desk was empty, even though she'd sent an email to the captain about today’s agenda.
"Hello?" Francis's heels clicked on the tile floor. "Is there a bell?"
A blonde, White guy appeared. At least, Francis thought so since he was shirtless and covered in a shiny black substance.
Francis controlled her urge to gape. She worked full time at CCFD HQ and saw firefighters every day. Except they were usually clothed and didn't have miles of muscle pointing to their narrow waists. She didn't get to see a tight six-pack and happy trail leading to an unfastened belt on a pair of FD regulation navy uniform pants.
They definitely did not have dark soot covered faces and blue eyes staring at her from behind a pair of safety goggles.
He smirked when he noticed her examination of his physique. "Can I help you?"
"I'm Francis from HQ. Today is supposed to be the first day of PR for the chief's wedding. There was an email and an etiquette packet. Didn't it arrive?"
"Oh, we got it. Twenty-five pages of wedding etiquette including shitty grooming and appropriate language standards."
"You can't swear at weddingevents." Francis narrowed her gaze.
"I don't think my fucking rookie read it when she overturned the pan of oil on me during her firetruck maintenance education. She swears like a damn sailor,and she learned it from the bride."
"When you're in the public eye, inappropriate language or gestures are not acceptable," Francis said. Her boss, Fitzpatrick, had been super specific on her expectations.
"Then you're also responsible for the three-day mandatory sexual harassment retreat I had to go to on my weekend off?"
"It's important to have our bases covered."
"According to you, I can't scratch my balls in public, burp, fart, swear, or whistle at attractive ladies. Though definitely not you and whatever the fuck you're wearing."
"What's wrong with my outfit?" She straightened her bright pink blouse and turquoise skirt.
"Like my rookie trying to change the oil, one of us knows shit about the situation, and it isn't me, Princess. You wore four-inch heels and a pencil skirt to a firehouse. You haven’t changed a fucking bit since high school . . .”
Raj,
Cousin, I can’t take it anymore. Mom is driving me nuts. These endless women she keeps throwing at me are killing me. What did she do—put out an add in the Times of India to attract every Gujarati woman in six provenances?
It’s smart of you to skip the trip to the old country this summer. This may sound crazy, but as soon as I get back, I’m quitting my job and moving to Cleveland. Breaking up with my fiancee last year was the worst decision ever. I’m a dumbass for not realizing how awesome she was. I miss her like crazy, and it’s time I set things right.”
I was wrong. So wrong. And I hope Angela is willing forgive me.
Is it cool if I crash at your place when I arrive?
-Pravash
