Page 67 of Knot Baked Out For This
"Watching the show?" The elderly Beta woman grins knowingly. "Can't say I blame you. If I was forty years younger..."
If she was forty years younger, she'd still have to get in line behind the apparently endless queue of people who want Rowan Cambridge.
I make her change with fumbling fingers, very aware that my face is probably the color of my burgundy sweater. My hands won't stop shaking, and I'm fidgeting with my apron strings like they hold the secrets to the universe.
Do something. Anything. Stop standing here like a horny teenager at her first firefighter calendar shoot.
Lemonade. I'll make lemonade. That's helpful and productive and requires me to focus on something other than the way Rowan's uniform pants sit low on his hips when he's not wearing his shirt.
I gather supplies from my booth and head to the station kitchen, grateful for the excuse to move, to do something with my hands that isn't reaching toward him. The kitchen is mercifully empty, everyone either outside watching the drills or manning their own fundraiser stations.
I find lemons, sugar, and a massive pitcher that's probably seen a thousand station dinners. The familiar routine of cooking—even something as simple as lemonade—calms my racing pulse. Squeeze, measure, stir. Add just enough sugar to balance the tart. A pinch of salt because that's the secret nobody knows. Fresh mint from the herb garden someone maintains behind the station.
Focus on the lemonade, not on the fact that Rowan left a successful career in the city to come back here. Not on wondering why. Definitely not on the way he looked at you like you were worth protecting.
By the time I emerge with a tray of cups and the pitcher, the drills are winding down. The firefighters converge on me like dehydrated wolves, grateful and sweaty and exhaustingly enthusiastic.
"Oh my god, you're an angel!" "This is perfect!" "Marry me?" "Get in line, she's marrying me!" "Best lemonade I've ever had!"
Their compliments wash over me in a wave that makes me blush and stammer. After years of Korrin's criticism—my food was always too salty, too sweet, too much, not enough—this open admiration feels foreign. Dangerous. Nice.
"It's just lemonade," I protest weakly.
"It's perfect," Martinez says, apparently having recovered from his earlier scolding. "Perfect balance of sweet and tart. Like you."
"Did you just compare her to lemonade?" Jenkins asks incredulously.
"It's a compliment!"
"It's weird, dude."
"Your face is weird."
"Your mom's weird."
They're actual children. Tall, muscled children who save lives, but still.
"That's enough."
Rowan's voice cuts through their bickering as he approaches through the group, still shirtless, still glistening, still devastatingly attractive in that unfair way that makes me want to simultaneously climb him like a tree and run away to Peru.
"I'm taking Hazel for a moment," he announces, and the way he says "taking" shouldn't make my stomach flip but it does.
The crew explodes:
"OHHHHH!" "Chief is in LOVE!" "GET IT, CAMBRIDGE!" "Finally making a move!" "Twenty bucks says he chickens out!" "Fifty says she throws something at him!"
My face burns hotter than the bonfire crackling in the corner of the yard. But there's also something warm unfurling in my chest—pleasure at being claimed, even temporarily, even just as a conversation partner.
Rowan guides me away with a light touch at my lower back, his hand barely making contact but somehow I feel it through every layer of clothing, straight to my spine. The crowd's teasing fades as he leads me to a quiet spot beside one of the fire trucks, where the headlights create a private pool of light separated from the fundraiser chaos.
"Sorry about them," he says, finally pulling his shirt back on, which is both a relief and a disappointment.
"They're enthusiastic," I say diplomatically.
"They're idiots. But they mean well."
We stand there in our improvised sanctuary, the sounds of the fundraiser distant and muffled. The headlights turn everything silver and gold, like we're suspended in amber.
