Page 41 of Playing With Fire

He nodded, clearly impressed. Jodi firmly quashed any thought of former girlfriends and munched into her bagel, savoring the salty bursts of flavor from the tiny capers and the tang of dill in the cream cheese.

The café was busy at this time of day, and Jodi found herself relaxing into the warm cinnamon-scented ambience with the air of a woman who has no place she needs to be.

Not for the next hour or so anyway.

“So,” Ricky continued, his face alight, “there’s a great little café at the end of Beach Street, looking out over the water. From outside it looks kinda ordinary, but the first thing you see when you walk inside is this amazing Art Deco tile floor, black and white with pink. The matching stained glass panels didn’t last of course, but they’ve saved one and framed it on the wall.” He grinned. “Opens at three in the morning. Crazy.”

This was the boy Jodi remembered. Before Ricky Sharp became the hard-bitten firefighter who made instant life and death decisions. A man who sent firefighters into fearsome blazes and had to live with the consequences.

That same boy whose teeth got in the way of kisses, whose eyes had widened with wonder when their lips first met. She bit back a smile. Ricky had been a fast learner.

He ate a couple more bites. His mind was still in Far Rockaway.

“I go there a lot with my team, before or after a shift, sometimes just by myself. Magic spot to catch the sunrise.”

He stopped, a piece of purple blue potato on his fork.

“Here, try this.”

Jodi leaned forward. The taste was nutty and salty.

“So good,” she mumbled, closing her eyes.

She opened them to find Ricky’s gaze fixed on her face. His deep-set eyes were dark, intense. She froze, pinned down by a jolt of desire so powerful that her insides seemed to melt into a puddle of warmth and longing. Her heart thudded in her ears.

“Potato,” she managed. “Great.”

His narrow, serious face relaxed into a smile. An intimate smile that pierced the layers of professional no-bullshit calm with which Jodi armed herself each day.

A warm smile that said Yes, I felt it too.

Her mouth was dry. She picked up her water glass.

“And they serve meat pies there?”

“Pies?” Ricky took a second to refocus. He dug into the rich red heart of the tomato and ate a chunk.

“No, sadly. But they do a great breakfast. The full fat and salt and meat and dairy and gluten thing. Hungry firefighters need their fuel. Especially after a long run along the waterfront to chase away the cobwebs and the ghosts.”

Ghosts.

Of course there would be ghosts. Ricky’s job wasn’t like a movie set, where children and puppies got rescued in the nick of time. It was dangerous and dirty and heartbreaking.

Jodi experienced a moment of clarity, that elusive space when polite conversation is brushed aside to reveal a glimpse of the fragile, inner self. It would take only a false move, she knew—a wrong note, a laugh, an offhand comment, to make the door slam shut.

“You miss it,” she said quietly. “The job. Even though it takes a chunk of you that you can’t get back, you miss it.”

Ricky was silent, slicing into his pie as though it was the only thing on his mind.

Jodi took the hint and picked up the bagel. A few minutes passed, and she began to think she had messed up. Probed too deep, assumed a relationship that wasn’t there.

She took another bite. It was an okay bagel. Typical Jodi, going for the safe choice. Next time she would try the pie. She was Gen Z, flexible and adaptable.

Ricky picked up the conversation as though there had been no break.

“Yeah, I do miss the job. It’s more than jumping on the fire truck and roaring down the street with the sirens blasting, though I gotta admit that you never stop loving that buzz. Inside every firefighter there’s a little kid who never grew up.”

He met her gaze.

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