Page 4 of Flirting With Fire
“Yeah, but it seemed to work. They’re happy, you know? They have five kids now, two sets of twins. I think he’s going for a football team.”
I was glad for Skip and Ginny, although I couldn’t contemplate the idea of five kids. I wanted children in an abstract way, but if it didn’t happen, it wouldn’t be the end of my life. Mom had never pushed me on the fact, for which I was grateful. Some of my friends hadn’t been so lucky, their moms asking them all the time when they were going to make them grandparents.
“Have you got any kids?” I asked.
I couldn’t avoid feeling the tension flood through him. “I’m sorry, have I said something wrong?”
“No, it’s okay. I just forgot…you didn’t….” He took a deep breath. “You’ve just returned to town.”
It was a jumble of words, and I was still no clearer. But now we’d turned into my mom’s street, and my attention was distracted.
“It never changes,” I murmured.
“No,” the man agreed.
If I closed my eyes, I could be nine years old, racing home from soccer practice for dinner. Even the aromas wafting from the houses seemed to be the same.
I’d grown up on this street, in and out of the crazy mixture of houses, from one-story to two-story, brick built to adobe. Next month the houses would be decorated with pumpkins in between the pots of plants decorating the stoops and long strands of fake spider webs in anticipation of Halloween. Fast forward another month and every houses would be festooned in fairy lights and fake snow for Christmas. My dad used to warn all the neighbors about fire hazards, but he was just as crazy for decorations as every other dad in the street.
“It’s Halloween next month,” I said.
“What made you think of that?”
“Memories,” I admitted. “I don’t get trick-or-treaters where I live. It’s all converted lofts.”
“Not really a place for families.”
“Some families live there, but most are owned by single people who work downtown. I think families like a backyard when they have kids.”
Dex nodded. “Your mom will be ready. She always buys candy early.”
I grinned because Mom was notorious for purchasing candy weeks before kids stood on her doorstep giving her gummy grins and lisping, “Trick or treat!”
“You know her well.”
“I do.”
Before I could demand to know his name, Mom rushed out of the one-story, brick-built home that I grew up in, crying “Meyer. You didn’t tell me you were coming home.”
The horse stopped, not spooked by Lindy’s excited yelling, and I slid off its back to sweep her into my arms. “Hey, Mom!”
She was a tall, imposing woman, dressed in a pale blue blouse and gray pants with a wrap-around cardigan, nearly six feet tall in the furry slippers I’d given her two Christmas’ previously. Under no circumstances could Lindy Jones be called delicate, and I could give her a firm hug, burying my face in her pale brown hair, smelling her lemon-scented shampoo. The citrus scent reminded me of my rescuer, and I looked over her head to where he waited patiently, his face creased into a fond smile as he gazed at my mom.
She was focused on me, her hands fluttering before hugging me just as tightly. “Oh, baby, why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”
“It was a surprise,” I said. “I only found out last week.”
She raised her head. “Found out what?”
Before I could spring my news, my ride joined us on the sidewalk, holding my pack. He was about Mom’s height, maybe an inch taller, but substantially leaner than me. “Meet the new assistant chief of Charming Butte Firehouse.”
Her eyes popped out. “What?”
I glared at him. That had been my news to give, and I’d been planning to break the news gently over a cup of coffee, not standing on the sidewalk before I’d taken one foot over the threshold.
“Whoops, sorry.”
He didn’t sound apologetic. In fact, from his twinkling blue eyes and wide grin, the asshat was very amused.
