Page 51 of Keeping It Professional

I felt almost dizzy. Lighter than air. So this was how it felt to have your heart soar. I was soaring, all of me, up in the clouds. Miles wanted to see my life, and be a part of it. He wanted this, wanted me, all he could get. Maybe I’d imagined him holding back. Built up the work thing into something it wasn’t.

He set down his basket and slid his arm around me, and I couldn’t remember when I’d last been this happy.

CHAPTER 19

MILES

The smell hit us first, smoke. Burning rubber. The chemical tang of firefighting foam.

Next came the heat, through the windshield. It shimmered in waves off the buildings on fire, melting the last of the snow in the street.

I shut down the siren and the sound was immense, the roar of the fire and pressurized water. Screams from all sides. The wail of a child. A saw whined through metal, and I clenched my teeth. FD was split between dousing the flames and chewing through a seven-car pileup.

“Six ambulances,” said Sophie. Her voice was small. Scared. I passed her a respirator.

“Here. Put this on.”

She fumbled it on as I caught my bearings. The cops were still struggling to contain the scene, separating the victims from unhurt bystanders. Setting up barricades to hold the gawkers at bay. Soot-covered figures boiled from the smoke, medics withstretchers. Someone on fire. A terrified dog ran around barking, and when a firefighter grabbed it, it bit his wrist.

We grabbed up our bags and stepped out into hell. A hot wind came blistering from the red wall of fire, steaming our goggles and flapping our pants. Ash blew around us in thick, cloying swirls. I trod in a scatter of windshield glass.

“Hold it right there,” said one of the cops. Sophie kept walking like she hadn’t heard. I grabbed her arm.

“Hey. Sophie.Hey.”

She half-turned. “What?”

The cop pointed into a flower shop on fire. “They’re bringing the owner out. He’s in pretty bad shape.”

Sophie started toward the burning display. The cop held her back.

“Don’t get any closer.”

She glanced at me, and I couldn’t tell if her eyes were glassy from panic, or if they were watering from smoke or sweat. Her respirator covered most of her face, making it impossible to read her expression. I realized she was saying something and cupped my ear.

“Huh?”

She leaned in. “I saidI can’t hear you!What are we doing?”

A car horn blatted out my response. The cop yelled instead, “Wait for FD!”

We stood and we waited, squinting into the flames, half-soaked already from the mist off the hoses. It wasn’t long before twofigures charged out, soot head to toe, a stretcher between them. The dog from before beelined straight for them, howling and yipping, tail tucked in tight. The cop made a grab for it and it dove through his legs. It jumped for the stretcher and got its paws on the side. One of the firemen kicked it away.

“Get that dog out of here!”

“Shoo, get lost!”

The cop grabbed its collar and dragged it away. It gurgled and snapped, and he shoved it into his car. Sophie stepped forward.

“What have we got?”

“Male, forty-five, smoke inhalation. Hit with some shrapnel during the blast.”

I leaned over the stretcher and caught my breath.Some shrapnel— more like an arm-length section of pipe. It had gone through his gut just over his hip, and out his back close to his spine. The firefighters had cut a hole through his stretcher, for the pipe to poke through when he lay flat.

“Gauze,” Sophie said.

I frowned. “Better not. There isn’t much bleeding, so?—”

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