Page 82 of Hot Shot

As we head over to the ladder truck the guys are washing, I bounce Cricket a little. She giggles.

“It’s gonna be fun,” I promise her. “All the firefighters in the nearby towns are going to come here to Roseville and play games and compete.”

“Like field day?” she asks.

“Exactly like field day. And there’s gonna be food and carnival rides and everything.”

Cricket pops up off my chest and stares at me excitedly. “Would you win me a giant toy?”

“Heck yeah, girl. You pick one out and it’s yours.”

Again she giggles, tucking herself back into my chest. I know they had the meeting with the kid’s mom today to try and work out whatever was going on between them, and I know it probably wasn’t easy. They were stressed, but now that they’re in my arms, they’re happy and sighing. I can practically feel their worries melting into me.

I’ve never felt so powerful in my whole fucking life, knowing I can shoulder their pain, take it away, replace it with something soft and easy and good.

Tate grins at Cricket and makes a show of stalking over like he’s going to tickle her, hands out like claws. Already, she’s squealing and squirming, and when he reaches us, he gives a growl and attacks her ribs with wiggling fingers. I pass her over to him when he goes to take her.

“Heya, squirt.”

“Heya, punk,” she answers, calling him by her favorite nickname.

“How was school?”

“Kinda dumb.”

“Well, that’s just because all school’s dumb.”

“Hey,” Cass says, “I happen to love school.”

Tate cups a hand to his mouth. “Nerrrrrrd.”

And Cricket giggles on eternally.

“Come on, wanna help us wash the truck?”

She shouts her affirmation and wiggles until he sets her down, then takes his hand and drags him toward the truck, asking a million questions includingCan I hold the hose?To which he answersAbsolutelywith a mischievous look in my direction—the answer should have been a resounding no for fear that he shoots her off into oblivion from the force of the pressure, though I know he’d never hurt her.

I want to deck him anyway.

Cass is still under my arm, hers around my waist. She sighs again, and with the hand cupping her shoulder, I pull her a little closer.

“How’d it go?” I ask simply.

This sigh is noisy, touched with frustration. “We didn’t talk at all.”

I frown. “She didn’t show?”

“Oh, she showed. But all we did was argue.”

“You? Argue? Never.”

She pinches my side, and I pretend like it hurts.

“That’s part of the problem. I insisted on being there, but she was mad because Cricket’s mine.”

My heart skips a painful beat at her easy declaration. “Yours, huh?”

She doesn’t look up, just says, “Mine. I love her, Wilder. How could I not? And I would fight a bitch for her, hand to God.”

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