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“I know—I’m sorry. I’m not saying it’s right. Just trying to explain where I was coming from. I’ll work on it. Promise.”
The waitress shows up and asks what we’d like to drink.
“Do you drink wine?” I ask Lia.
“Yeah, sure.”
“White or red?”
“White.”
I order a bottle of white. I’m usually a beer guy, but I’m trying to do this right. After the waitress has served it, Lia leans forward. “So, is this a date?”
“No,” I say, too abruptly. Her expression turns blank again and I hurry to say, “I mean,this”—I point between her and me—“isn’t happening at all. As far as anyone else knows.” I cock a brow. “Right?”
Her reluctant smile appears. “Absolutely. Nothing happening.” She locks her lips and mimes throwing away the key. She’s cute as hell when she’s not trying to prove something.
“Listen, I know I shouldn’t be here. I broke a million rules yesterday with you, and I could definitely lose my job over this.”
“But here you are.”
“Yeah. I sure as hell couldn’t let that ride without…” I hesitate, trying to make sure the words come out right. I’m not good with this shit. “—without connecting with you again. In private.”
She takes a sip of wine and grimaces.
I laugh. “Is it bad?”
She smiles. “Just not used to it.”
“It’s not really my thing, either. Next time I’ll take you out for wings and a beer.”
She grins and lifts her glass to clink mine. “Cheers to that.”
We order our food and she steals glances at me over the top of her wine glass. “Do you always feel like you have to take a girl out after you spank her ass?”
I choke on my water and cough, hiding my mouth with my napkin.
I’m saved from answering by the waitress bringing our food—her chicken, my steak. I watch her eat, enjoying her healthy appetite. She may be small, but her metabolism must be off the charts, because she cleans her plate in about five minutes flat.
When we finish, I insist on ordering dessert, because of the way she perked up when the waitress mentioned it.
Finally, I broach the subject I’ve been toying with since yesterday. “So, Lia. About the pyromania.”
Her fork, loaded with flourless chocolate torte, freezes on the way to her mouth.
“I could propose a theory that you chose to be a firefighter because you’re enamored with flames, but I think it’s something else. Something deeper.”
She sets the fork down, the morsel of dessert uneaten.
“I used to work over on Staten Island. Ladder number 153.”
* * *
Lia
Oh God.
I’m sure all the blood drains from my face. My dinner I so enjoyed turns into a rock in my belly.
