Page 6 of The One Who Risked it All

A dizzy swoop rolled through my middle. Carla.

She was tucked away at a corner table, her dark hair catching the morning sunlight streaming through the window. I froze, one foot still halfway to the next step, as if I’d stumbled into an invisible wall.

I could play it cool. I was a firefighter, for crying out loud. I had faced down raging infernos. This was just... Carla.

But even as I thought it, I knew it wasn’t true. Carla Putnam had never been “just” anything.

I shifted my weight, suddenly hyper-aware of my uniform. Was my hair sticking up? Did I remember to shave this morning?

I had to get a grip. I wasn’t in high school anymore.

My eyes darted to the safety of the counter, where Taylor, the ever-cheerful waitress, was already reaching for my usual order. It would be so easy to retreat, to grab my coffee and bolt. But something kept my feet rooted to the spot, my gaze inexorably drawn back to Carla.

She hadn’t noticed me yet, her attention focused on grading papers spread across the table. Even from here, I could see the little furrow between her brows that always appeared when she was concentrating.

I could go say hi. What was the worst that could happen?

Images of our last disastrous encounter flashed through my mind, followed swiftly by the memory of my father’s disapproving scowl.

Right. That’s what could happen. This was Minden, and if anyone saw us talking, word would get back to my dad. For all its small-town charm, this place was brutal if you wanted to keep anything on the down-low. Scratch that. There was no such thing as down-low in Minden. Only the… up-high. Was that a thing?

I took a deep breath, squaring my shoulders. I was Eli Wells, for crying out loud. I ran into burning buildings for a living. I’d proven that I could get a date with any girl in town in five minutes flat. Surely, I could handle a simple “good morning” to the girl who’d stolen my heart in study hall all those years ago.

Couldn’t I?

Let the town biddies say what they wanted. There was nothing wrong with a conversation, whatever my dad thought.

I plastered on my most charming grin and sauntered over to Carla’s table. “Well, if it isn’t Minden’s favorite teacher,” Idrawled, leaning casually against the chair opposite her. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Carla’s head snapped up, her eyes widening in surprise. For a split second, I caught a glimpse of something soft in her expression before her walls slammed back into place. “Eli,” she said, her smile guarded. “I didn’t realize the fire station was giving its employees such long coffee breaks these days.”

I opened my mouth to reply, but before I could get a word out, Taylor appeared at my elbow, coffee in hand. “Here’s your usual,” she said with a wink, sliding the cup onto the table. “Black coffee.” As she turned away, I caught sight of a string of digits scrawled on the side.

Mentally, I groaned.

I watched as Carla’s gaze flickered to the cup, her eyebrows lifting slightly. The warmth in her eyes cooled, and she turned back to her papers. “Don’t let me keep you from your... admirers,” she said, her tone clipped.

Frustration bubbled up inside me. Of course, Taylor would choose today of all days to make a move. Despite the fact that I had already told her I wasn’t interested. I considered explaining, but the words died in my throat. What did I care what Carla thought about my love life?

Sure, I would keep telling myself I didn’t care.

Instead, I pulled out the chair across from her and sat down, ignoring her startled look. “Actually,” I said, leaning forward with a conspiratorial grin, “I was hoping you might save me from the hordes of adoring fans. It’s exhausting being this irresistible, you know.”

She scoffed, apparently not finding me half as amusing as I did myself. I leaned back in my chair, trying to exude confidence, but my fingers tapped an anxious rhythm on the table. Carla’s eyes darted between me and her coffee cup, which she twisted nervously in her hands.

“So,” I said, desperate to break the tension, “I see you’re still addicted to those cavity-inducing monstrosities.” I nodded toward the half-eaten cinnamon roll on her plate.

Carla’s lips twitched, fighting a smile. “That cinnamon roll is a Chef Norm special. Worth all the calories and then some. And don’t act like you don’t want one. It wouldn’t kill you to indulge a little now and then, Mr. Black Coffee.”

“About that...” Smirking, I leaned in, lowering my voice. “Can you keep a secret?”

She raised an eyebrow, curiosity replacing some of the guardedness in her expression. “I’m listening.”

“This”—I tapped my cup—“is actually a pumpkin spice latte. Extra whipped cream.”

Carla’s eyes widened, and then she burst out laughing. The sound sent a warmth spreading through my chest that had nothing to do with caffeine.

“Are you telling me you have the waitress label your girly drinks as black coffee?”

---