Charming the Firefighter. Beth Andrews
She wondered if he was related to the people who ran Montesano Construction, a successful contracting firm in town. She assumed so, but hated to assume anything, and asking felt like prying. Small talk was part of the world, part of living and breathing and sharing the planet with other human beings.
It should be reserved for certain situations—workplace gatherings, social interactions such as parties and bridal showers that one couldn’t get out of, and horrendous first, second and third dates.
But small talk should not be a part of her day off.
“Look straight ahead for me.” He shone a light in her eyes. “How are you feeling?”
Stupid. Helpless. Both of which she hated. “I’m fine. Gracie is making it out to be worse than it was.”
“She was acting spacey,” Gracie said, peering around Leo’s arm, her mouth twisted in contemplation. “I think she may have been in shock.”
“I’m not in shock.” Penelope looked at the firefighter. “I’m not in shock. All of this fuss isn’t necessary.” Yes, she sounded a bit...strident...but it couldn’t be helped. “I did not almost die. I did not suffer any internal injuries or head trauma. All I want is to curl up on the sofa and relax.”
Her voice broke at the end, a low, desperate sound that could have been misconstrued as a sob. It was horrifying. Humiliating.
She simply wanted to be left alone.
Now a bubble of laughter rose in her throat. She clamped her lips together to make sure it didn’t escape. She’d lost her mind. That was the only excuse for her roller-coaster emotions. For wanting to be alone when she spent so much of her time on her own.
When she spent so much time being lonely.
The events of the past hour started pressing down on her, pushing on her chest, an unbearable weight forcing the air from her lungs. She felt her composure, her control slipping, sliding away from her grasp, faint as a wisp of smoke. Tears stung her eyes, made her throat ache.
“I think I left my cell phone on the deck,” she blurted, praying her phone—safely tucked in her pocket—didn’t ring. She looked at Gracie. “Would you mind looking for it?”
“No problem.” But she seemed reluctant to leave. “I’ll be right back.”
Gracie stepped outside and Penelope grabbed Leo’s hand and tugged him forward so their faces were only inches apart.
“Help me,” she whispered, her voice ragged and more than a little desperate. “Please, please help me.”
PENELOPE DENNING WAS DRUNK.
Leo wasn’t a detective, but it didn’t take a shiny badge or a degree in criminal justice to figure out she’d enjoyed one too many glasses of the wine on the island. Her amber eyes were glassy and slightly unfocused, her speech slow and careful.
He’d give her a five on his personal Levels of Intoxication Scale. Not pass-out, blackout or even fall-down drunk. Just tipsy. And obviously careless with it.
He could have warned her that too much alcohol and gas grills didn’t mix. Actually, alcohol didn’t mix well with any item that contained a flammable liquid—lawn mowers and those damned turkey deep fryers especially, included.
He patted her hand, but she continued clutching him, her nails digging into his skin. “That’s what I’m here for,” he said soothingly. “To help you.”
He tried to ease away but her fingers tightened on him and she leaned forward, scooting so close to the edge of the stool she almost slid off. She caught her balance, perched there like a bird about to take flight.
“No.” Her clear voice trembled; her eyes took on a wild glint. “Help. Me.”
She tipped her head to the left—and about toppled herself off the stool. He steadied her, then followed her pointed gaze out the door where his partner, Forrest Young, had been joined by fellow firefighters Casper Rhett and rookie Simon DePaul. The teenage girl lifted a chair cushion and said something that had Casper fighting a smile, Simon turning white and Forrest letting out one of his huge laughs.
The girl had a way with words—and wasn’t afraid to use as many as humanly possible.
“While I’d love to help look for your phone,” Leo said to Penelope, “my search-and-rescue training has taught me only how to find people.”
His tone was easy and he even managed a grin, though he was sure it was strained. But then, he wasn’t some damned bloodhound with nothing better to do than find lost personal items.
She frowned, looking so confused he bumped her intoxication score up to six. “Why would you look for my phone?”
He patted her hand again, both to reassure her and in the hopes she’d get the hint and let go. The woman had a grip like a spider monkey. “Because you lost it.”
“I did not lose my phone,” she said, all kinds of indignant. “I don’t lose anything. I’m a very careful, responsible person.”
He took in her disheveled dark hair, her pink face and wrinkled clothes. “That’s obvious.”
She nodded, her expression saying, damn right.
Finally releasing him, she shifted, lifting her hips off the stool in a pelvic thrust that was so awkward, jerky and unsettling, he shut his eyes and tried to erase the memory from his mind. No woman should ever, ever move like that.
“See?” she continued, dragging her phone from her pocket. She waved it at him and he was surprised she didn’t stick out her tongue and add a triumphant Ha! “I told you I didn’t lose it.”
“Then why did you ask that girl to look for it?”
Penelope stared at him as if he was as simpleminded as his siblings always accused him of being. “You’re a firefighter, right?”
“That’s what it says on my shirt.”
“Exactly. You’re a hero. A real live-action figure. No one has a body like that except firefighters. And maybe marines. I mean...” She gestured at him. “Look at you.”
The back of his neck warmed. He scratched it. He knew what he looked like. Hell, females had been hitting on him since puberty struck in full force at the age of fifteen. And while he’d admit to having a healthy ego, it wasn’t as big as most people—mainly Maddie—thought. “That’s a little hard to do at the moment. How about I find a mirror as soon as we get you checked out?”
She rolled her eyes then slapped her hand over them. “Oh, my...did I...did I just roll my eyes?” she whispered.
“Yep.”
She groaned, the sound way sexier than it should have been. It was totally inappropriate and unprofessional, but for a moment—a brief, heated moment—his body tensed. Interest, attraction stirred.
He pushed it aside.
He didn’t flirt on duty.
“I hate when people do that,” she said.
It took him a moment to realize she wasn’t talking about men flirting with her. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, the eye-rolling thing is irritating as hell.” And, luckily, not something Bree had perfected yet. Though a few of the boys he coached on Shady Grove High School’s football team had it down to a science.
“I’m sorry,” she said, finally lowering her hand. “But you were placating me when I’m trying to make a valid point.”
He lifted her wrist, pressed his fingers against her pulse, tried to focus on the steady rhythm and not on how soft, how warm, her skin was. “Which is?”
She