Page 54 of Set on You

You’re beautiful.

—Scott

I melted like a snowball in hell after reading that card. It’s probably the kindest gesture I’ve ever received. The message was simple, but the words were just what I needed to hear to snap me out of my spiral of negativity. This was physical proof that I was truly special to him. That I really mattered.

So when Scott mentioned in passing he’d forgotten to pack dinner today, I felt the overwhelming urge to come to his rescue.I’d already made myself a lemon poppy seed summer kale salad and turkey wraps anyway, so I figured I’d bring him my extras, lest he starve to death.

There are four massive garage doors open, housing three bright-red fire trucks. I step into the engine bay tepidly, entirely out of my element. It smells like a mechanic’s shop, ripe with oil, gasoline, and testosterone.

The last time I was at a fire station was for my second-grade field trip. One of my classmates, a girl named Alyssa, who galloped around the yard at recess under the delusion she was a horse, threw up her pizza Lunchable in the fire truck. According to Facebook, she’s married with two children now, living in a picturesque ranch bungalow.

As I let that thought soak in, I spot a tall, muscular guy with neatly trimmed dark hair and a full sleeve of tattoos adorning his right arm. He’s fiddling with some sort of contraption on the side of the truck. He flashes me a smoldering smile as I approach.

“Are you lost, ma’am?” He exudes a very overt brand of charm that’s probably an instant panty dropper for most women with the gift of sight.

My cheeks burn. I’m highly regretting my decision to show up without notice in the first place. I should have texted Scott first. But now that I’ve been spotted, it’s too late to turn back. “Uh, I’m looking for Scott Ritchie.”

He raises his brow with interest as he gives me a not-so-subtle once-over. “Scotty? He’s upstairs in the lounge.” I’m about to tell him I have no idea where the lounge is when he extends his hand. “I’m Trevor.”

“Crystal,” I say with a polite handshake as the name settles in recognition. Trevor is Scott’s roommate and godfather to Albus.We haven’t met yet, because every time I go to Scott’s, Trevor is either at work or with a lady friend. According to Scott, Trevor is a perpetual bachelor. In fact, he affectionately referred to him as a “cynical womanizer because daddy issues,” which strangely encapsulates the vibes I’m getting.

Trevor gives me an amused, cocky smile, as if he already knows who I am. I wonder how much Scott told him about me. Then again, how much would a guy tell his friend about a girl he’s cock-blocked from?

“Scott’s roommate,” I confirm.

“Sure am. I’m guessing Scotty’s told you all good things?” He casually leans against the side of the fire truck, arms crossed, tattooed biceps prominent, apparently in zero rush to usher me to Scott.

But before I can respond, a brawny, bald man with deep-set brown eyes comes barreling around the truck. “Word of advice, don’t look this guy directly in the eye. Most women don’t bounce back.”

I snort as Trevor punches him in the arm. “Duly noted.”

“Did you say you’re looking for Scotty?” the man asks.

I flash him an awkward smile and nod. He waves for me to follow him through a small door off to the side and up a narrow cement staircase. Trevor follows close behind.

“I’m Kevin. You Scotty’s girlfriend or something?” He glances at the Tupperware in my arms.

I snort again. “No. I’m a girl who happens to be his friend. My name’s Crystal.”

Kevin gives me a sly smile, obviously unconvinced. We pass through a minimalist boardroom adorned with photos commemorating firemen I assume have passed while on duty. Upon seeingthese photos, it dawns on me just how serious Scott’s job is. Every day, he rushes headfirst into all kinds of dangerous scenarios. Being a fitness trainer, my biggest worry is dropping a weight on my toe or pulling a muscle. Comparatively, Scott could lose his life at any time. He’s a hero. And yet, you’d never know it to talk to him, because he never brags about it.

Kevin leads me a couple steps down the hallway into an open area with a flat-screen television and a monstrous suede sectional sofa, sizable enough to seat at least twelve. Scott is lying on the couch, arms crossed, ball cap over his eyes. By the slow way his chest rises and falls, he appears to be sleeping.

Trevor gives me a funny look, as if to say,Wait for it.He grabs a random tennis ball from the table and launches it straight into Scott’s hard stomach.

Scott bolts upright, brows furrowed, disoriented, as Trevor, Kevin, and I snort with laughter. “What the fuck, man?”

“You have a very special visitor,” Trevor tells him, watching the tennis ball bounce onto the floor.

Scott leans forward, squinting at me as if I’m a mirage. “Crys?”

I give him an embarrassing jazz-hands wave, like that of a dad trying to be hip in front of his tween daughter and her friends. I make a mental note to never do it again as long as I live. “Looks like you’re working hard. Or hardly working, I should say.” I cringe. My uncool dad vibes are out of control right now.

Scott stands, rounding the couch toward me. “I just got back from a stressful call an hour ago, smart-ass.”

I avert my gaze from his gorgeous eyes to the Tupperware in my hands. “Brought you some dinner. So you don’t starve.”

“Seriously?”

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