Charming the Firefighter. Beth Andrews
in town almost eight months. Long enough, she would think, to stop feeling like a tourist. An outsider. “But I lived here for six months when I was in middle school.”
Many, many eons ago.
Out of the dozen-plus places she’d lived during her lifetime, the six months she’d spent in Shady Grove had been, by far, the happiest. She’d felt a sense of peace, of belonging she’d never experienced before. She wanted that for Andrew.
Was it so wrong to want it for herself, as well?
“Since you’re new to town,” Leo said, “let me show you how we take care of our own.”
He helped her off the stool, kept his hand on her elbow, solicitous and polite, as he led her to the table. She sat, mainly because she had no idea what else to do. When he headed into the kitchen, she slid her hands to her lap, hid them under the table and pinched her forearm.
Yes, it hurt. This was real. She was wide-awake, sitting at her table while a man handsome enough to give a movie star a run for his money searched her cabinets.
What on earth had happened to her life?
“I hate to repeat myself,” she said, “but what are you doing now?”
“Looking for...ah...” He pulled a plate from the cupboard. “Found it. Silverware?”
“Are you certain you don’t want to open and shut every drawer?” she heard herself ask, then was appalled, not only that she’d say something so blatantly rude and antagonistic, but that she’d sounded so petulant doing so.
But she’d already had one stranger rummaging through her personal items—as personal as kitchenware could be. Her patience was threadbare.
“I could,” he said, not sounding the least bit bothered by her rudeness. “But it’ll save us both time if you just tell me.”
“Next to the dishwasher,” she muttered. Where else would they be? It was the most convenient place for them.
He pulled out a fork, knife and serving spoon, then walked toward her. He set the plate in front of her, laid down the silverware and began opening containers.
Maybe she was still in shock. Or tipsier than she’d originally thought, because she sat there like a helpless idiot and let him pile food onto a plate. Noticing that the potato and taco salads were touching, she grabbed the plate and pulled it out of his reach. Used the fork to separate her food.
“Thank you,” she said stiffly. “But you really don’t have to do this.”
“That’s what neighbors do. They help each other. Good neighbors, anyway.”
Which let Penelope know, in a quiet yet still scolding way, that she was not being a good neighbor. Or, at least, a polite one. Shame filled her. See? She was horrible at this, this whole...social interaction thing. “I prefer to handle things on my own.”
It was safer that way. No one could let you down if you didn’t depend on them. And you couldn’t disappoint them, either.
“Today,” he said quietly, “you don’t have to.”
A lump formed in her throat and she dropped her gaze. She was being rude. Rude and inconsiderate and, worse, ungrateful, while he treated her with nothing but kindness.
She shouldn’t want his sympathy. Surely she shouldn’t be soaking it in, but it wasn’t so horrible, letting someone else take the lead. Especially when she was so far out of her element. At work, she was fine dealing with people. She had her position and behaved accordingly. There were clear rules and guidelines of what was and wasn’t acceptable behavior.
Personal relationships—whether casual or intimate—were different. It was too difficult to discern her role.
“Why are you doing this? I mean, beyond the good neighbor reason. This—” she gestured toward the food “—seems to go beyond the boundaries of your job description.” She didn’t consider herself a suspicious person, but she was old enough, and wise enough, to realize good deeds often came with strings attached.
“Because I’m a nice guy. And because it really is my job to make sure you’re okay.”
Of course. What did she think? That he wanted to spend more time with her? That he was flirting with her?
She was way too pragmatic for such nonsense. While she didn’t underestimate her physical charms, she wasn’t a great beauty by any means. Nor did she possess the type of overt sexuality that inspired flirtatious banter, longing looks or heated seduction. Especially from a man several years younger and at least three steps above her on anyone’s looks scale.
Not that it bothered her. Much.
“Go on,” he continued with a nod toward her plate. “Take a few bites for me.”
Her eyes narrowed. She could do without that condescending tone, but if the only way to get rid of him was to eat, she’d gladly lick the plate clean.
“Would you care to join me?” she muttered, sounding about as ungracious and inhospitable as one could get. Sounding, she realized with an inner sigh, like Andrew.
Leo sent her a lethal grin and she couldn’t help but think he was laughing at her. “Thanks, but I ate earlier at my folks’ place.” He rubbed the pad of his thumb over the slight bruise at the corner of his mouth. “Besides, my jaw’s still sore. I’m not sure I’m up to chewing at the moment.”
“Were you injured in the line of duty?”
“Nothing that dangerous. Or exciting. My sister punched me.”
In the act of slicing a neat piece of tomato, Penelope froze. “Excuse me? Did you say your sister hit you?”
“Punched me,” he said, as if that made a difference. “Don’t worry. It wasn’t the first time, and knowing Maddie’s temper, it won’t be the last.”
She couldn’t wrap her head around his words—or how nonchalant he was about the whole thing. What sort of woman physically attacked her own brother?
“Do you have any siblings?” he asked.
“A brother. Patrick.” She couldn’t imagine ever resorting to violence against him. She and Patrick respected each other, gave each other their space. Easy enough to do when they hadn’t seen each other in two years...or was it three? She couldn’t even remember the last time they’d spoken. Knew she hadn’t talked with her parents since Christmas.
Did they ever miss her? Did they regret not having her in their lives?
She stabbed a chunk of potato, any appetite gone.
“Hey,” Leo said, frowning at her in concern. “You okay?”
She couldn’t even muster up a decent lie. Just shook her head. “I had all these plans for today,” she heard herself admit, and blamed her uncharacteristic desire to confess on the wine. “And they’re ruined.” She swallowed, but it still felt as if she had a pebble stuck in her throat. “Everything’s ruined.”
Leo touched the back of her hand, a gentle, reassuring brush of his fingers. “I’m sorry your day didn’t turn out the way you wanted.”
The sincerity in his tone undid her. Her throat closed as tears threatened. Tears. She hadn’t cried in years and had welled up several times today. But tears were useless. They didn’t solve anything, only left her blotchy, red-faced, and feeling silly and pathetic. Giving in to them, in front of a stranger no less, was a weakness she couldn’t afford. She had to stay strong. Control, of her life and her emotions, of her actions and reactions, was all she had.
She couldn’t give it up. Not even for a moment.
Her lower lip quivered and she stood quickly, pushing back her chair with such force it wobbled precariously before settling on four legs again. “Excuse me, please,” she murmured, already hurrying