Charming the Firefighter (5 page)

Like...she lifted her head, her eyes wide. Sirens.

“You called 911?” she asked, incredulous and horrified at the very idea, even as the small part of her brain that was still functioning logically wondered why it had taken the emergency responders so long to arrive. Definitely something she needed to take into account if something ever happened to Andrew.

Gracie, in the act of eating yet another brownie, dropped the spatula guiltily. Nodded. “When I was outside turning off the gas to the grill.”

Penelope checked her watch, squinting to make out the numbers. Approximately eight minutes for them to get here from across town. Not bad, she had to admit. Though five minutes would have been better.

The siren got louder. And louder. Closer and closer.

She did a mini twirl, her mind telling her to escape, her feet having no idea what she was doing. No. No, no, no. The last thing she needed was everyone in Shady Grove knowing she’d done something so completely stupid. And they would. She’d lived here for less than a year, but she already knew the paper was notorious for printing things like this, usually smack-dab on the front page.

Oh, dear Lord, she could imagine the headlines: Local Accountant Left Heartbroken and Alone After Son Refuses to Spend Time With Her. Almost Blows Her Own Head Off to End Her Grief.

She’d die of embarrassment.

No. She definitely did not want the fire department here, parked in her driveway for the entire neighborhood to see. Did not want them trying to help her. She was fine. Slightly charred, yes, but overall no real harm done.

The sirens were close now, the sound incredibly loud. Gracie hurried toward the front door as if she owned the place, her flip-flops slapping in the most irritating way.

“This way,” she told someone.

A moment later, she returned followed by a tall, darkly handsome firefighter—in boots, a heavy jacket and even a helmet—looking as if he was ready to battle a raging inferno instead of dealing with a now stone-cold grill.

“This is a nightmare,” Penelope whispered, shutting her eyes. “A complete and utter nightmare.”

“Are you kidding?” Gracie asked breathlessly, her eyes dreamy as she stared at the good-looking man. “If I’d known the local firefighters looked like that, I would’ve let that stove fire keep burning last year instead of putting it out with the extinguisher.”

Penelope doubted all the firefighters in town looked like the one approaching her. He was one of
those
guys. Too handsome, with dark, wavy hair visible underneath the helmet, deep brown eyes and a charming, boyish grin.

One that said,
why yes, I do know I’m God’s gift to women. Drink it in, ladies. Drink it in.

The worst kind to a woman’s sense of self, willpower and virtue.

Not her, of course. Other women. She was too old for him. Had too many responsibilities and more important things to focus on in her life other than dating or, heaven forbid, a relationship.

Especially when she’d already proved she wasn’t any good at them.

“Ma’am,” he said, “I’m Leo Montesano with the Shady Grove Fire Department. Could you tell us where the grill is?”

Ma’am.
See? Even he knew she was too old for him.

Why she was disappointed and a little ticked off, she had no idea.

It must have been that disappointment that had her taking a moment to realize what he’d asked—and that he wasn’t alone. A huge bear of a man, his wide face as ordinary as the dark-haired one’s was extraordinary, stood behind the younger firefighter.

All she could do was lift her hand and point to the door.

“I’m on it,” the second fireman said, heading out the French doors.

“Could you tell me what happened?” Firefighter Montesano—or whatever title he went by—asked, taking his helmet off.

Even mussed, his hair was perfect, dark as night and waving sinfully, almost artfully, around that sculpted face.

“I was reading in my room,” Gracie blurted, stepping between them. “I had the window open because it’s such a nice day, when Leighann—that’s my best friend—called. She was upset, again, over her boyfriend. I was talking her through yet another romantic crisis—I mean, it’s obvious he only wants in her pants so I’m not sure why she’s so shocked each and every time they’re alone and he tries something and then he gets mad and storms off when she says no.” She frowned at the firefighter. “Are all guys like that? Or is it just a teenage thing? Because most of my friends have the same problem.”

Shedding his jacket, the firefighter raised his eyebrows at that overload of information, but didn’t seem embarrassed by the question. “I’m going to respectfully decline to answer that.”

She sighed as if in resignation—or else she was simply taking in the firefighter in all his six-foot-plus glory. And what glory it was. Broad shoulders, narrow waist and biceps that proved the man spent a great deal of time in the gym.

“Fine.” Gracie shrugged. “I’m only trying to get some insight into the inner workings of the adolescent male brain.”

He grinned and yes, it was even more potent than Penelope would have imagined.

“Believe me,” he told Gracie. “The last place you want to go poking around is a teenage boy’s mind.”

“Amen,” Penelope muttered so fervently she wouldn’t have been surprised to see a choir of angels drift down from the heavens to sing it with her.

Then again, if she could see into Andrew’s head, she might have a better idea why he hated her so much.

Sending that devastating grin her way, the firefighter helped her sit.

“Anyway,” Gracie said, “I was telling Leighann she needed to dump him when there was this big boom—”

“It wasn’t that big—” Penelope interjected.

“It was! It shook the windows. I hung up on Leighann and hurried over. By the time I got here, Ms. Denning was awake but like, stunned. The grill wasn’t burning or anything so after I helped her inside, I shut it off and called 911.”

“Smart thinking,” the firefighter told her.

“When you have five brothers under the age of eight, you learn the ins and outs of fire safety. The twins especially are fascinated with anything that burns. Or explodes,” Gracie said, helping herself to another brownie. “Still, I was terrified I’d find poor Ms. Denning dead or in flames when I got here.”

Poor Ms. Denning?

Penelope shut her eyes. She’d been called many things in her life—smart, reserved, aloof. Cold. But never poor Penelope. Not when she’d been a child and had moved ten times before her fourteenth birthday, forced to attend a new school almost every year, always the new, awkward girl no one wanted to sit with at lunch. Not when her marriage had fallen apart and Todd had found comfort in the arms of another woman. Not even when her son was so sick that many people, including his doctors, feared he wouldn’t make it.

She wasn’t someone to be pitied.

“I’d offer you a brownie,” Gracie said to the firefighter, “but I can see you take your physical health very seriously and probably don’t eat sweets or junk food or anything that, you know, tastes good. How many hours a day do you work out?”

Penelope caught his gaze. “Make it stop,” she whispered. “For the love of God, make it all stop.”

His grin broadened and he knelt in front of her. “I take it you’re Ms. Denning?”

“Yes. Penelope Denning.” She’d gone back to her maiden name a few months ago when her ex-husband had remarried. She hadn’t felt right being Mrs. Freeman anymore. Not when another woman also claimed that title.

She held out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Montesano.”

A look of bemusement in his dark eyes, he shook her hand. His grasp was firm and warm. “You, too, Ms. Denning. And Leo is fine.”

She wondered if he was related to the people who ran Montesano Construction, a successful contracting firm in town. She assumed so, but hated to assume anything, and asking felt like prying. Small talk was part of the world, part of living and breathing and sharing the planet with other human beings.

It should be reserved for certain situations—workplace gatherings, social interactions such as parties and bridal showers that one couldn’t get out of, and horrendous first, second and third dates.

But small talk should not be a part of her day off.

“Look straight ahead for me.” He shone a light in her eyes. “How are you feeling?”

Stupid. Helpless. Both of which she hated. “I’m fine. Gracie is making it out to be worse than it was.”

“She was acting spacey,” Gracie said, peering around Leo’s arm, her mouth twisted in contemplation. “I think she may have been in shock.”

“I’m not in shock.” Penelope looked at the firefighter. “I’m not in shock. All of this fuss isn’t necessary.” Yes, she sounded a bit...strident...but it couldn’t be helped. “I did not almost die. I did not suffer any internal injuries or head trauma. All I want is to curl up on the sofa and relax.”

Her voice broke at the end, a low, desperate sound that could have been misconstrued as a sob. It was horrifying. Humiliating.

She simply wanted to be left alone.

Now a bubble of laughter rose in her throat. She clamped her lips together to make sure it didn’t escape. She’d lost her mind. That was the only excuse for her roller-coaster emotions. For wanting to be alone when she spent so much of her time on her own.

When she spent so much time being lonely.

The events of the past hour started pressing down on her, pushing on her chest, an unbearable weight forcing the air from her lungs. She felt her composure, her control slipping, sliding away from her grasp, faint as a wisp of smoke. Tears stung her eyes, made her throat ache.

“I think I left my cell phone on the deck,” she blurted, praying her phone—safely tucked in her pocket—didn’t ring. She looked at Gracie. “Would you mind looking for it?”

“No problem.” But she seemed reluctant to leave. “I’ll be right back.”

Gracie stepped outside and Penelope grabbed Leo’s hand and tugged him forward so their faces were only inches apart.

“Help me,” she whispered, her voice ragged and more than a little desperate. “Please, please help me.”

CHAPTER FOUR

P
ENELOPE
D
ENNING
WAS
DRUNK
.

Leo wasn’t a detective, but it didn’t take a shiny badge or a degree in criminal justice to figure out she’d enjoyed one too many glasses of the wine on the island. Her amber eyes were glassy and slightly unfocused, her speech slow and careful.

He’d give her a five on his personal Levels of Intoxication Scale. Not pass-out, blackout or even fall-down drunk. Just tipsy. And obviously careless with it.

He could have warned her that too much alcohol and gas grills didn’t mix. Actually, alcohol didn’t mix well with any item that contained a flammable liquid—lawn mowers and those damned turkey deep fryers especially, included.

He patted her hand, but she continued clutching him, her nails digging into his skin. “That’s what I’m here for,” he said soothingly. “To help you.”

He tried to ease away but her fingers tightened on him and she leaned forward, scooting so close to the edge of the stool she almost slid off. She caught her balance, perched there like a bird about to take flight.

“No.” Her clear voice trembled; her eyes took on a wild glint. “Help. Me.”

She tipped her head to the left—and about toppled herself off the stool. He steadied her, then followed her pointed gaze out the door where his partner, Forrest Young, had been joined by fellow firefighters Casper Rhett and rookie Simon DePaul. The teenage girl lifted a chair cushion and said something that had Casper fighting a smile, Simon turning white and Forrest letting out one of his huge laughs.

The girl had a way with words—and wasn’t afraid to use as many as humanly possible.

“While I’d love to help look for your phone,” Leo said to Penelope, “my search-and-rescue training has taught me only how to find people.”

His tone was easy and he even managed a grin, though he was sure it was strained. But then, he wasn’t some damned bloodhound with nothing better to do than find lost personal items.

She frowned, looking so confused he bumped her intoxication score up to six. “Why would you look for my phone?”

He patted her hand again, both to reassure her and in the hopes she’d get the hint and let go. The woman had a grip like a spider monkey. “Because you lost it.”

“I did not lose my phone,” she said, all kinds of indignant. “I don’t
lose
anything. I’m a very careful, responsible person.”

He took in her disheveled dark hair, her pink face and wrinkled clothes. “That’s obvious.”

She nodded, her expression saying,
damn right
.

Finally releasing him, she shifted, lifting her hips off the stool in a pelvic thrust that was so awkward, jerky and unsettling, he shut his eyes and tried to erase the memory from his mind. No woman should ever, ever move like that.

“See?” she continued, dragging her phone from her pocket. She waved it at him and he was surprised she didn’t stick out her tongue and add a triumphant
Ha!
“I told you I didn’t lose it.”

“Then why did you ask that girl to look for it?”

Penelope stared at him as if he was as simpleminded as his siblings always accused him of being. “You’re a firefighter, right?”

“That’s what it says on my shirt.”

“Exactly. You’re a hero. A real live-action figure. No one has a body like that except firefighters. And maybe marines. I mean...” She gestured at him. “Look at you.”

The back of his neck warmed. He scratched it. He knew what he looked like. Hell, females had been hitting on him since puberty struck in full force at the age of fifteen. And while he’d admit to having a healthy ego, it wasn’t as big as most people—mainly Maddie—thought. “That’s a little hard to do at the moment. How about I find a mirror as soon as we get you checked out?”

She rolled her eyes then slapped her hand over them. “Oh, my...did I...did I just roll my eyes?” she whispered.

“Yep.”

She groaned, the sound way sexier than it should have been. It was totally inappropriate and unprofessional, but for a moment—a brief, heated moment—his body tensed. Interest, attraction stirred.

He pushed it aside.

He didn’t flirt on duty.

“I hate when people do that,” she said.

It took him a moment to realize she wasn’t talking about men flirting with her. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, the eye-rolling thing is irritating as hell.” And, luckily, not something Bree had perfected yet. Though a few of the boys he coached on Shady Grove High School’s football team had it down to a science.

“I’m sorry,” she said, finally lowering her hand. “But you were placating me when I’m trying to make a valid point.”

He lifted her wrist, pressed his fingers against her pulse, tried to focus on the steady rhythm and not on how soft, how warm, her skin was. “Which is?”

She exhaled in exasperation, her breath washing over his cheek. “You’re trained to do heroic things, like run into burning buildings when everyone else is smart enough to run out.” She edged closer and under the cloying, lingering scent of propane, she smelled sweet, like lavender. “Leo, I want you to play hero for me.”

Though her words were throaty and cajoling, he doubted, very much, that she meant it the way it sounded. Which was fine. He wasn’t interested in her. Yeah, she was pretty enough with her dark complexion and light eyes and that little mole next to the right corner of her mouth.

Okay, maybe he was a little bit interested. He wasn’t dead, after all. And the image her words created in his mind—one of him, shirtless in only his uniform pants and suspenders, standing next to a bed where she reclined in a fire-red teddy that ended high on her tanned thighs—took hold and rooted deep.

He let his gaze skim down her legs to her bare, narrow feet, the toes painted a pale pink. She had great legs, curvy and muscular.

“I’m flattered,” he told her, unable to count the number of times he’d said that to a female while on call. “But it’s against regulations for me to fraternize with women while I’m working.”

Or at least, it was highly frowned upon.

He wouldn’t do so even if his captain gave him a notarized note telling him to go for it. His family thought he was a dog, some playboy who took any and every opportunity to make time with women. Not completely untrue, but he had his standards, whether they believed him or not. He didn’t hit on women under his care.

“Flattered? What are you...” Her eyes widened and she blushed, the color staining not only her cheeks but also her throat and the sliver of skin on her chest visible in the vee of her shirt. “You think I...that I want...” She shook her head, then reached up and held both sides of it as if afraid it would fall off her shoulders. “I’m not...I’m not flirting with you.”

He pulled his stethoscope from his bag. “My loss.”

She twisted her fingers together. “I do not flirt with men.”

“No? Just women?”

She laughed, a surprised, light burst of sound that washed over him, sweet and warm, like a ray of sunshine. He wanted to absorb that brightness, soak it into his skin, into his bones. Wanted it to dispel the coldness inside of him, to erase his memories of last night.

“I’m not gay. I just...I don’t flirt with men
or
women. I don’t flirt with anyone.” Her voice trailed off in resignation. Or disappointment. “At all.”

“That clears it up,” he murmured, his voice inadvertently husky. He skimmed his gaze from her long, side-swept bangs to her prominent cheekbones, then lingered on that mole. “Like I said...my loss.”

Her mouth opened on a soundless
oh,
her eyes wide.

He bit back a grin. Technically his comment, his demeanor, could be considered flirtatious, but he wasn’t big on technicalities.

“I couldn’t find it,” the teenager said as she stepped into the room. She pulled her own phone from her pocket. “Do you want me to try calling it?”

Penelope blanched; her guilt over her little white lie couldn’t have been clearer on her face if she’d written out a full-blown confession on her forehead in red marker. “Isn’t it silly? I had it in my pocket all along.”

The kid, a pixie in hippie clothes with hair to her waist, lifted a shoulder. “No problem. Are you sure I can’t fix you something to eat? Or I could do your dishes,” she said, crossing to the sink. “Maybe throw in a load of laundry for you?”

Penelope glanced at Leo. “Oh, I don’t need you to—”

“And when I’m done, I’ll grab a couple of movies from my house. You probably shouldn’t be alone.” The kid turned to Leo. “She shouldn’t be alone, right? If she has a head injury?”

Penelope’s sigh was as close to a whimper as Leo had ever heard from a human. She sent what could only be described as a long, yearning look at the bottle of wine.

And Leo finally got it.

Why the hell hadn’t she just said she wanted him to get rid of the kid for her? Women. Always wanting a man to read their minds, know their every thought and react accordingly.

Only to give the poor sap hell when he didn’t.

Wrapping his stethoscope around his neck, he stood. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name when I came in.”

“Gracie Weaver,” she breathed. But when she shook his hand, she made eye contact and didn’t send him any underage come-hither looks or step closer in order to brush against him. Unlike what a few of the bolder cheerleaders had done after their first scrimmage last week.

Thank you, sweet Jesus, for small favors and for young girls who didn’t hit on him. Amen.

“Weaver?” he asked. “Wes’s daughter?”

“The one and only.”

Far as Leo knew, she meant that literally. Last he’d heard, Wes and his wife, Molly, had enough sons to form their own basketball team.

He took the girl by the arm and led her toward the door. “You did a great job,” he told her. “Calling us, shutting off the grill and helping Ms. Denning inside. But HIPAA rules state that unless you’re related, or a legal representative of the patient, you can’t be present at this time.”

All bullshit, and if he wasn’t mistaken, something Gracie suspected, but unless she called him on it—and whipped out a copy of the HIPAA regulations—he was standing by his words.

He opened the French doors, avoiding Forrest’s smirk as he deposited Gracie on the deck. “I’m sure Ms. Denning is grateful for all your help.”

And he shut the door.

“You were a little rude to her.”

He crossed back to Penelope, who was giving him the time-honored death stare of doom.

Some days, a guy couldn’t win.

“Sometimes playing hero means being the bad guy.” He unwound his stethoscope and put the ear tips in. “Just going to listen to your lungs, make sure they’re clear.”

She sat rigidly, her hands on her thighs, her fingers curled. Everything sounded good.

“Gracie meant well,” she said.

“I’m sure she did.” He wound the stethoscope around his neck and straightened. “But it seemed to me you could use a break from her good intentions.”

“She was very helpful,” Penelope said, glancing nervously to the deck as if worried Gracie was going to return. “But she was quite...chatty. And pushy.”

“That can be a lot to take in. Especially when someone is having a rough day. She seems like a sweet girl, but it was obvious she was wearing out her welcome.”

“I think she’s lonely,” Penelope said softly. “Her parents went to some picnic and left her home by herself.”

“Wes—that’s her dad—is a good guy. And Molly, his wife, is as sweet as they come. I’m sure they didn’t abandon her. They love their kids.”

Her ill-natured shrug told him she was firmly on Gracie’s side in this imaginary battle she’d concocted between the teen and her folks—no matter that the kid had bugged the hell out of her. “So you’re close friends with them?”

“Nope.”

“Then how could you possibly know what emotions they do, or do not feel, toward their children?”

“I don’t,” he said simply. “But Shady Grove’s a small town with all sorts of ties among the people who live here. Some of those ties are personal—friendships, marriage, family. Some are professional. But even if you don’t know someone personally, chances are someone you know does. In this case, that someone would be my eldest brother and his wife. They went to school with Molly, hung out in the same crowd. And Wes is good buddies with my captain. So I know them well enough to say they wouldn’t ditch their kid. They’re decent, hardworking, caring people. And about as opposite as two people can be, which must be why their marriage works so well.”

“That is ludicrous. Not to mention highly unlikely. I would surmise that if they truly are
as opposite as two people can be
, their marriage will eventually crumble under the pressure of trying to hold up unrealistic expectations of success.”

Gripping both ends of his stethoscope, he leaned back. Tried to figure out what the hell was wrong with him. He should be put off by her prim and preachy tone, but he liked her light, clear voice too much, the way she spoke with such careful precision. And it was tough to get pissed at her haughty, patronizing expression when her hair was such a mess, her face pink.

Interest stirred again and this time, he didn’t fight it. Didn’t plan on acting on it, not at the moment anyhow. But that didn’t mean he could stop from finding her fascinating.

From wanting her to keep talking.

If only because, for the first time since he’d arrived at the accident scene last night, he felt...lighter.

Women had a way of doing that, of making a man forget his troubles and focus on other things. Things such as soft, sweet-smelling skin, lush curves and long kisses. All things he’d rather think about than what had happened last night to Samantha, the pain and grief her family was going through.

His sense of responsibility for their loss.

“I take it you’re not big on the theory that opposites attract,” he said.

“Hardly. Oh, people like to believe in that silly, romanticized notion, but in reality what holds a relationship together is commonality. Common interests.” She ticked the items off on her long fingers, one by one. “Common views on religion, politics, finances, child-rearing—”