Charming the Firefighter. Beth Andrews
Not to mention highly unlikely. I would surmise that if they truly are as opposite as two people can be, their marriage will eventually crumble under the pressure of trying to hold up unrealistic expectations of success.”
Gripping both ends of his stethoscope, he leaned back. Tried to figure out what the hell was wrong with him. He should be put off by her prim and preachy tone, but he liked her light, clear voice too much, the way she spoke with such careful precision. And it was tough to get pissed at her haughty, patronizing expression when her hair was such a mess, her face pink.
Interest stirred again and this time, he didn’t fight it. Didn’t plan on acting on it, not at the moment anyhow. But that didn’t mean he could stop from finding her fascinating.
From wanting her to keep talking.
If only because, for the first time since he’d arrived at the accident scene last night, he felt...lighter.
Women had a way of doing that, of making a man forget his troubles and focus on other things. Things such as soft, sweet-smelling skin, lush curves and long kisses. All things he’d rather think about than what had happened last night to Samantha, the pain and grief her family was going through.
His sense of responsibility for their loss.
“I take it you’re not big on the theory that opposites attract,” he said.
“Hardly. Oh, people like to believe in that silly, romanticized notion, but in reality what holds a relationship together is commonality. Common interests.” She ticked the items off on her long fingers, one by one. “Common views on religion, politics, finances, child-rearing—”
“And sex,” he couldn’t help but add.
Her flush deepened, but she held his gaze, her chin lifted as if to prove he couldn’t fluster her. “Yes, naturally they should also have similar views about sex. What they shouldn’t believe is that simply because they have a satisfying physical relationship, they can work through other problems. For a relationship to succeed, a couple should have similar intellects in order for them to enjoy scintillating conversation, as well as interesting and intriguing debates. If they have similar tastes, they can share hobbies and enjoy the same types of film, shows and music. All of which will make it easier for them to want to spend time together.”
“That’s quite the theory,” he said, wondering about her romantic relationships. Was she in one? His gaze flicked to her left hand. No ring. No signs of a husband from what he could tell. But then, he’d seen only the hallway and kitchen. For all he knew, there could be a spouse lurking around somewhere, but something told him there wasn’t. “Most women believe in love and forever and happy endings.”
She snorted, then looked appalled, as if unable to believe the sound had actually come from her. “I’m all for love and forever. I also realize that happy endings require an immense amount of work and sacrifice, and if both people aren’t willing to pull their weight, none of it will be enough to make a doomed relationship last.”
She made relationships sound like a job, not something to be cherished and revered.
Like he’d said—fascinating.
She shook her head. “I don’t see what any of this has to do with why you’re here.”
“Not a thing.” But she was right. He needed to get back to work, focus on getting the details for his report, and make sure she really was as okay as she seemed and move on to the next case. He pulled out his notebook and pen. “Can you tell me what happened exactly?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”
He tapped the notebook. “Gives me something to write in here. If I come back with blank pages, my captain gets cranky.”
She slumped back and crossed her arms. “I had a glass of wine.”
He waited, but when she didn’t elaborate, he asked, “And the wine made the grill explode?”
She sent him a bland stare. “I was simply explaining the events leading up to the...the...incident.” Chewing on her bottom lip, she cleared her throat. “I may have had more than one glass, but definitely less than three. I think.”
Holding his pen over the paper, he raised his eyebrows. “You lost count?”
“Of course not. I’m an accountant. Counting is what I do,” she said in an aggrieved tone. “Counting and adding and subtracting and reading tax law among other things. The point,” she said, “is that I am not drunk.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
She sniffed. “You didn’t have to. I can tell by your face. You look all...smug. And amused.”
“Smug?” he murmured. “That hurts.”
“Let me tell you something,” she continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “While I may not be completely, one hundred percent sober, I am not inebriated.” She spoke with the slow enunciation of the drunk, but she handled the word with impressive skill. “I’d realized I should eat something and that was why I lit the grill in the first place. I’m not drunk,” she repeated, though way less vehemently. “I’m just...” Her voice dropped to a whisper, her eyes taking on a sadness that tugged at something deep inside of him. “I’m just having a really bad day.”
Compassion swept through him. Nothing new there. Taking care of others wasn’t just his job, it was his calling, one he was damned good at. He prided himself on his ability to sympathize with the people he helped, to understand what they needed most.
Penelope, with her sad eyes and that sexy mole, needed someone to make her day a little brighter, a little better.
She needed to know she wasn’t alone.
“Excuse me a minute,” he said before crossing to the French doors. He stepped outside and shut the door behind him. “Everything okay with the grill?” he asked Forrest.
“Hoses are still intact, no leaks or damage to them or the tank. Rhett and the rookie just left.”
“Good. Hey, can you give me ten minutes? Ms. Denning isn’t feeling well, but I think it’s only low blood sugar.” Low blood sugar. High alcohol content. Why split hairs? “I want to make sure she has something to eat, is feeling steadier before we take off.”
Forrest shook his head sadly. “You saving the world again, partner?”
“Not the whole world,” Leo corrected as he turned to go inside. “Just this one little corner.”
* * *
WITH HER HEAD resting on her folded arms on top of the island, Penelope shut her eyes. She needed a moment to get her bearings, to gather her thoughts, then she’d get on with her day.
Her awful, horrible day.
She could hardly wait.
A moment later, she jerked upright. Confused and disoriented, she glanced around, then frowned at the fuzzy image of Leo Montesano taking food out of her refrigerator. She must have dozed off. The thought of Leo witnessing her impromptu nap should have horrified her, but she had too many other things on her mind.
Such as why on earth he was still there.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Getting you something to eat.” He set the bowl of potato salad on the counter, reached back in for the caprese and taco salads. Carried them to the dining-room table, then crossed to her. “Let’s sit at the table.”
“This isn’t necessary,” she said, knowing she sounded ungrateful and prissy but unable to help it. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
“That’s clear enough to see, but everyone needs help once in a while.”
“You don’t even know me.”
“I don’t have to know you. It’s my job to make sure