Page 15 of The Flames Between Us

I instinctively shrink back into my booth, a ridiculous reaction given that I've done nothing wrong. Seeing patients in public is an occasional occurrence, especially in a town of this size. The ethical protocol is simple: acknowledge politely if acknowledged, but otherwise, respect privacy and avoid initiating contact.

But my reaction isn't about ethics. It's about how seeing him affects me physically—the quickening pulse, the flush warming my cheeks, the sudden awareness of my body beneath my casual sweater and jeans. In his firefighting gear, with soot streaking one cheek and his hair mussed from his helmet, Ollis Crawford is even more compelling than in my office's controlled setting.

The turnout coat emphasizes his broad shoulders, while the suspenders of his protective pants draw attention to his strong chest. The gear is designed for protection, not aesthetics, yet somehow it only enhances his masculine presence.

I lift my coffee cup with fingers that aren't quite steady, scolding myself for this entirely inappropriate reaction. I'm a professional. A doctor. A woman approaching thirty-five who should be well beyond this kind of adolescent response to an attractive man.

Lou directs the firefighters to a booth on the opposite side of the diner, and I allow myself to breathe. Perhaps they won't notice me. Perhaps I can finish my breakfast in peace and leave with my dignity intact.

But just as my pancakes arrive, Ollis looks up, scanning the diner while saying something to his companions. His gaze passes over me, then snaps back, recognition dawning in those hazel eyes. For a moment, he simply stares, clearly as surprised to see me as I am to see him.

Then, to my astonishment, he excuses himself from his colleagues and heads directly toward my booth. There's no hesitation in his stride, no awkwardness in his expression—just purposeful movement that parts the diner patrons like water around a boulder.

I set down my coffee cup carefully, suddenly hyperaware of every movement. My clinical brain kicks in, reminding me to maintain appropriate boundaries while acknowledging the coincidental meeting politely.

"Dr. Morgan," he says, stopping at my table. Up close, I can see that what looked like general sootiness from across the room is actually a specific pattern of smoke residue on his face and gear. A small burn mark on his shoulder catches my eye.

"Ollis," I respond, proud of how normal my voice sounds. "Good morning."

He gestures to the empty bench across from me. "Mind if I join you for a minute?"

Every professional instinct tells me to politely decline—to maintain the boundary between our clinical relationship and personal space. But the diner is public, a brief conversation is hardly inappropriate, and refusing might draw more attention than simply accepting.

"Of course," I hear myself say.

He slides into the booth, his large frame making the space seem suddenly smaller. Up close, I catch the scent of smoke clinging to him, mixed with something more elemental—sweat, adrenaline, the aftermath of danger.

"I didn't know you came here," he says, his voice lower than in our sessions, more intimate somehow.

"Not usually," I admit. "Just needed a change of scenery this morning."

He nods, then glances back at his colleagues, who are watching with undisguised curiosity. "Lewis keeps asking who the pretty woman I abandoned them for is."

The compliment, casual as it is, catches me off guard. "Your brother, right? And the other gentleman?"

"Grant," he confirms. "We just came from a car fire on Route 16. Nothing serious—engine fire that spread to the cab, but we got it contained quickly. No injuries."

I find myself studying the burn mark on his coat. "Are you alright? That looks recent."

He follows my gaze, a hint of surprise crossing his features. "This? It's nothing. Spark jumped while we were opening the hood. Didn't even feel it through the gear."

The casual dismissal of potential injury strikes me as so characteristic of him—of all first responders, really, but especially Ollis with his stoic self-sufficiency.

"So," he says, shifting slightly, "is this weird? Running into each other outside of... you know."

"A bit unexpected," I acknowledge. "But it happens in a town this size. I've bumped into patients at the grocery store, the movie theater, the park."

"And does professional etiquette dictate anything specific in these situations?" There's a hint of amusement in his eyes now.

I smile. "Generally speaking, I follow the patient's lead. If they want to acknowledge me, I respond appropriately. If they prefer to preserve privacy, I respect that."

"And what's your personal preference?" he asks, the question more perceptive than it first appears.

I consider my answer. "In this context, a normal, friendly interaction seems appropriate. But I'm mindful that our professional relationship requires certain boundaries."

He nods, understanding the subtext. His gaze drops to my untouched pancakes. "I should let you eat before those get cold. Lou would never forgive me for interfering with a proper appreciation of his cooking."

"They do look delicious," I admit.

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