“Sure you do.” He snickers. “Why don’t you declutter your room? Or better yet, burn the Ex-Files items of the dudes already crossed off the list?”
I perk up, perching my elbows on the back of the couch. It might be therapeutic to get rid of some of it. “Like burning them in a cleansing ritual? Would you help me?”
“No. I’m just kidding. I can’t support open fires. Why don’t you go sit in a coffee shop and talk to people?” he suggests.
“That’s a possibility. I do like coffee shop people. They’re always willing to spill the tea.” I drum my chin, considering. “What are you up to today? I tried texting Mel and Crystal, but they’re both busy.”
He cocks his thick brow. “Sounds like I’m your third choice.”
“You’d be my first choice if you didn’t give me so much attitude.” I give him a pointed look. “Picture this: We people-watch on the Common. Maybe go to the plant store for a new succulent. I could even buy you a snack, as long as it’s under five dollars. I’m broke.”
“Whoa, you’re really threatening me with outright fun,” he says dryly.
“Oh, come on. You need fresh air too. You’re going to poison us both with chemicals if you keep cleaning.”
He finally lifts his gaze from the countertop. “I’d love to freeze my nuts off with you outside, with no snacks, but I have to get to work soon.”
I point to our side-by-side schedules posted on the fridge. “You’re not on the schedule tonight.”
“I know. I have the food drive tonight.”
“Food drive?”
“We do it every year at the firehouse. Go around in the fire trucks and pick up donations around the city.”
That sounds heaps more appealing than lying on this couch, staring into the void. Then again, just about anything trumps that. “Can I come?” I ask meekly.
“You really want to come to work with me?” He squints, confused.
I barrel-roll off the couch and shimmy onto the stool in front of the island. “I swear, I won’t get in the way. Manual labor isn’t my strength, but—”
“We leave in an hour.”
* * *
? ? ?
MY TOES TAP in my boots as I endeavor to find a half-decent radio station. Trevor is laser focused on the snowy road. I’m tempted to prod him a little, ask what he’s thinking about, but I refrain, recalling how annoyed Seth used to get when I asked him that same question.
Curiosity aside, I’m hesitant to disturb the peaceful ambience. Trevor’s quiet brings me a sense of comfort. In the presence of anyone else, I usually feel an unspoken obligation to maintain lively conversation. But with Trevor, I don’t feel the pressure to do anything but just exist.
The silence can no longer be sustained when Shania Twain’s “Any Man of Mine” filters through the speakers. Without permission, I crank the volume and belt the intro with abundant soul, church choir–style.
Trevor casts me a concerned side eye. His mouth is fixed in a stern line, but his knee is bouncing along with his fingers drumming the steering wheel. Even a macho dude like Trevor isn’t immune to the mood-boosting magic of a Shania Twain classic.
“You like this song,” I conclude, pleased with my discovery. “You’re tapping your knee to the beat.”
He purposely stops tapping like a miserable curmudgeon. “Nope.”
I reach over the console to shake his biceps. It’s more like a pathetic attempt at a shove, because my palm doesn’t come close to spanning that solid mass of muscle.
My head tilts like an eager puppy listening to the sound of kibble trickling into an empty dish. I expected him to defend this until the end times. “Can I ask—” I stop myself before he can cut in and say no. “Why do you hate when I ask if I can ask a question?”
“Because it freaks me out.”
“Why?”
“There’s no question more anxiety-inducing than Can I ask you a question? It could be anything. You could be asking me to divulge all my darkest secrets, or what I ate for lunch.”
“Nine times out of ten, I’m asking what you ate for lunch. Anyways, I was going to ask, why don’t you sing songs you like? You only hum your T. Swift shower song. Why not belt the lyrics too?”
He lets out a single laugh, checking over his shoulder before seamlessly merging into the lane. “Yeah, that’s not my thing, sweetheart.”
I ignore the way my stomach flips when he says sweetheart in that thick, sexy, I-just-woke-up voice. Logically, I know it’s pure sarcasm. But that has no bearing on my physiological response. I’m very aware of the many layers I’m wearing underneath my peacoat. My cream-colored, chunky-knit sweater suddenly scratches against my skin like an itchy heated blanket. When I reach to close the vent, Trevor notices and promptly turns the heat down two notches. He also turns off my seat warmer.
The rest of the drive is silent, save for my singing. I think he’s grateful to escape the car when we pull into the parking lot of the redbrick firehouse. It’s wide with four massive garage doors, each housing a red truck. As I step out of Trevor’s car, I’m hit with the scent combination of gasoline, rubber, and a faint hint of smoke.
Scott comes marching around the corner of the engine bay, fully suited in fire gear, his helmet tucked under his arm. He double-takes when he spots me, running a hand through his thick, overgrown hair, which he’s very proud of. “Hey, what are you doing here?”
“She needed some sun. She was slowly turning into a vampire,” Trevor tells him nonchalantly. “I’m just gonna go gear up. Be right back.” He gives me a playful nudge to the back of the shoulder.
Scott waits for Trevor to be out of earshot before giving me a quizzical expression. “That was weird,” he mutters under his breath.
“What was weird?”
“Oh, nothing.” He drops his eyes to his boots, quickly changing the subject. “Hey, did you know Trevor got promoted before the holidays?”
I slow-blink. “What? A promotion?” Why wouldn’t he tell me?
“He’s the new lieutenant.” Scott’s expression softens. “Don’t take it personally that he didn’t tell you. He doesn’t tell anyone anything.” Before I can respond, he ushers me along. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to the rest of the crew.”
Meeting the team distracts me from angsting over Trevor’s secrecy. Notably, there’s Kevin, who is the first to tell me that under no circumstances will he lift a finger today, due to a back injury. Paula is one of three women at the station and is grateful for my presence. She even insists I need to ride in her truck to debrief about the latest season of Euphoria. Everyone is laid-back, boasting friendly demeanors that hit me like fresh ocean air, compared to the polluted smog that is the hospital, with its endless drama.
And then there’s Cameron. He’s built like a lumberjack, towering over even Scott, who’s well over six feet.
Cameron introduces himself with a burly handshake. “How you doin’?” he asks in a Joey Tribbiani New York–style accent. “You’re Scotty’s sister-in-law, huh?”
“Soon-to-be sister-in-law,” I correct, shooting Scott a look. “Although they’re eloping to tropical paradise without me. Leaving me behind in the dead of winter.”
Cameron gifts me with a Calvin Klein model smile. “Hey, it’s not so bad. I’m here in Boston.”
Before I can react to his blatant confidence, Trevor materializes behind me. “Ready to go?” he asks, eyeing Cameron.
I go to respond, but the visual of Trevor suiting up changes life as I know it. Men in uniform have never sparked the fanny flutters, until now. Even in a completely shapeless jacket, his sex appeal has skyrocketed to new heights. The whole thing plays out in my mind in slo-mo. Flexing tendons, strained forearms, all dipping and twisting like art in motion.
The corner of his mouth quirks up when he notices me blatantly ogling him like a tiger awaiting a hunk of raw, bloody meat to be tossed into its enclosure. I think I may have just ovulated.
“Why are you staring at me like that?”
My cheeks burn, and I do a one-eighty to beeline for the first available truck, which happens to be Cameron’s.
As I take my first step, Trevor gives the collar of my peacoat a soft tug. “Nope. Not that one. You’re my responsibility today.” His tone is neutral, although I can’t help but feel as if I’m burdening him. Like he’s obliged to babysit me.
I shrug it off, following him into the correct truck. There are two face-to-face seats on either side in addition to a row along the back. He promptly points me toward a face-to-face seat, taking the backward one. Kevin is our driver. Sadly, I’m not in Paula’s truck, or Scott’s. But the other two guys, Ernie and Jesse, are supportive of my suggestion to crank the music.
Everyone but Trevor belts a Queen song as the truck barrels down the city streets toward the first pickup location. Ernie even offers me a red Twizzler. I thank him, peeling one out before passing the bag to Trevor. When he reaches for it, I catch the tail end of a tattoo that extends to his wrist.