Page 16 of Embers in Autumn
“Appreciate the encouragement,” I muttered, hanging the gloves on a hook.
He smirked. “What’s eating you? Don’t tell me the rookie messed up again. I told you, Connor is like a Labrador. You haveto praise him for fetching the hose or he’ll sulk for days.”
“It’s not Connor,” I said, trying to keep my voice even.
Mike’s eyes narrowed. “Then what? You’re quieter than usual, and that’s saying something.” He elbowed me lightly. “Spit it out.”
I busied myself with adjusting the straps on my gear, but he just waited. Patient in his own needling way. Finally, I exhaled.
“I met someone.”
His head snapped around. “No kidding.” His grin spread slow and wicked. “Who is she? Where? When?”
“Bookshop,” I said. “Downtown. Took Lana in the other day.”
Mike barked out a laugh that bounced off the truck’s steel frame. “So that’s why you’ve been putting up with Lana’s obsession with books. You’ve got ulterior motives.”
“Ulterior motives would mean I had a plan,” I said dryly.
He folded his arms. “And? Tell me about her.”
I shook my head, the words reluctant. “Her name’s Amber. Runs the bookstore. We had coffee.”
“Coffee,” Mike repeated, drawing the word out like it meant more than it did. “And?”
“And nothing.” I shrugged. “We talked. She’s… different.”
“Different how?”
“Gentle. Sharp. The kind of person who looks at you like she actually sees you. Not just the uniform. Not just the job.”
Mike studied me for a beat, his grin fading into something more thoughtful. “That sounds like a hell of a thing. So what’s the problem?”
I pulled my damp jacket tighter, the memory of Amber’s smile flickering in my mind. “I didn’t get her number.”
Mike groaned, throwing his head back. “Jesus, Dean. What are you, fifteen? You talk about her like she’s got you hooked and then tell me you walked away without a way to reach her?”
“She has a bookstore,” I said flatly.
“Yeah, and?” He spread his arms. “You gonna stand outside like a creep and hope she notices? Go in there. Buy a damn book if you have to.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It’s exactly that simple.” His grin came back, sly and knowing. “Unless you’re scared.”
I gave him a look that shut most men up, but Mike had known me long enough not to care. He leaned closer, his voice dropping. “Dean, you’ve been carrying the world on your back since your wife left. Nobody’s asking you to drop it, but maybe you could share it with someone for once. If she’s half as good as you say, don’t let her slip by.”
The radio crackled then, pulling us both back to the work at hand. Another flooded basement. Another address. Mike slapped my shoulder before heading for the rig.
“Think about it,” he said over his shoulder. “And next time, get the damn number.”
I grabbed my helmet, shaking my head, but inside, his words stuck. The sound of Amber’s laugh lingered in my memory, soft and warm, even as we stepped back into the storm.
The day dragged on, one call bleeding into the next. The rain had turned every dip in the town into a reservoir, and pumps roared in half a dozen basements at once. We waded through ankle-deep water that smelled of mildew and old paint, hauling boxes onto higher shelves, coaxing panicked homeowners to stay calm. By the end of it, every one of us looked like we’d been through a swim meet in full gear.
Inside the firehouse, the garage floor gleamed with puddles. Jackets dripped from hooks, boots lined up in neat but soggy rows. Steam rose from the dryers running non-stop, a low whir humming like background music. The air was heavy with damp wool, rubber, and the faint tang of smoke that clung no matterhow hard you scrubbed.
“Christ,” Mike muttered as he wrung out his shirt and tossed it into a bin. “I didn’t sign up to be a plumber.”
