“When did you get your first tattoo?” I ask through a sticky bite.
“When I graduated high school. I moved to Arizona for a while for college. I was missing home when I got this one.” He pulls back the sleeve to reveal an artfully designed compass on the inside of his wrist.
“You were in college?”
“Yup. Had a scholarship for rugby.”
More breaking news. Yet another major detail about Trevor Metcalfe I was unaware of. I try to ignore the press of our knees together as the truck slants downhill. Trevor doesn’t seem to notice or care, because he doesn’t shift away.
“I had no idea you played rugby at the college level.”
“I dropped out after the second year.” He catches my concerned-mother reaction and quickly adds, “Came home and joined the BFD.”
“Why did you leave?”
He lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “Lots of reasons. I got injured after the second season. But mostly because I hated being away from home. And Angie was born during my second year. I knew my brother wasn’t stepping up, so it didn’t feel right to be so far away,” he says. “My grandma passed away in that same year too.”
“She must have been really proud of you for getting a scholarship.”
His jaw tics, and he averts his stare to his lap, clearly done with the conversation.
One layer at a time with Trevor, I remind myself as we arrive at our first stop. It’s a local grocery store. The owner and staff wait in the entrance as Trevor and the crew retrieve the food donations. A reporter in a vibrant emerald jacket hovers on the sidelines, snapping photos. Trevor blinks away the flash as he squats down to lift a box of canned soup.
“You don’t like the paparazzi?” I prod.
He passes the box to Kevin, who grumpily agreed to take on the role of stacking the boxes in the truck. “Nah. I’d rather do it without all the fanfare—” He pauses when a stout, balding man approaches, his hand extended.
“I was told you’re the man in charge here. I’m Yoni, the store owner,” he says.
Trevor meets his handshake. “Good to meet you, Yoni. I’m Trevor.”
“I just wanted to thank you guys before you head out. It means a lot.”
“We couldn’t do it without the donations. So thank you,” Trevor tells him.
Yoni nods, casting a proud gaze at the stack of boxes in the truck. “The food bank is a cause close to my heart. As a young boy, my family relied on it. I do what I can to give back.”
Trevor gives him a terse nod and a slap on the back. “Mine did too, man. Full circle, huh?”
I bow my head at the revelation as we return to the truck. I feel terrible for all the times I teased him for being cheap. An apology is necessary, though now doesn’t seem to be an appropriate time.
We repeat the pickup at five more locations. One is another grocery store, while the other four are random neighborhood checkpoints. And by the time our route is over, the truck is stuffed to capacity with donations. With each pickup, Trevor’s mood lightens. At one point, I even catch him mouthing the words to a Bon Jovi classic. It’s not much, but I’ll take it.
The last stop is to drop the boxes off at the food bank. Even I partake in the labor, taking mostly the boxes with pasta and other light goods.
By the time it’s all over, Trevor and I are flat-out exhausted. In the car, I find myself lazily studying his profile. I never noticed before, but the man has a beautiful nose. Perfectly straight. Proportionate to his face. It’s slightly pointed, almost pretty boy, contradicting the rest of his gruff exterior.
When he side-eyes me, I blink, stopping myself from staring at him.
“Hot tub when we get back?” he asks, moving a hand over his right shoulder. He winces slightly as he reaches for his seat belt.
“Yes. I need it. Is your shoulder okay?”
“Yeah, all good. It acts up once in a while. I dislocated it in rugby, and again a couple of years back during a fire call. It hasn’t been the same since.” He reaches over the console and nudges my arm. “Hey, thanks for coming today.”
“Thanks for bringing me, even if I annoyed you.”
He pins me with a small smile as we pull out of the parking lot. “Not at all. Everyone loves you. Especially Cam,” he adds, his expression unreadable.
I snort at the memory of Cameron flirting with me when we reconvened at the food bank. He strategically positioned himself next to me while we unloaded the items. And while he’s a little too bro-ish for my liking, the attention was kind of nice, especially after my shit dating luck. “You think?”
“You make everyone smile.”
I beam like a child in a toy store. I shouldn’t get such a soaring high from a simple statement of affirmation from a friend, but I do. Mel and Crystal compliment me on the regular. But praise from noncomplimentary Trevor feels hard-earned, like junk food after working out versus junk food after lazing about on the couch all day.
We drive a couple of miles in silence. The steady squeak of the wipers nearly soothes me to sleep. With every swipe, my lids grow heavier. When my eyes close completely, his voice snaps me back to full consciousness. “My mom died when I was thirteen. In a fire.”
I pause for a moment, so as to ensure I’ve heard him correctly. “What?”
“You keep asking why I became a firefighter.”
I sit up in my seat, pin straight, cracking the window for some much-needed fresh air.
His face flickers with annoyance when I open the window, so I savor the blast of cold air for a brief few seconds before closing it again. “Summer going into eighth grade. My mom was napping inside after a double shift. My brother and I were outside with some neighborhood kids. A woman who lived in our building came running out, screaming about smoke in the building. The fire had blocked all the exits. Two firemen had to go in through the window to get her. She passed away later that day from the smoke inhalation.” His tone is emotionless, but his face is pained.
My gut clenches, unable to imagine. “I’m so sorry, Trevor.”
“It’s fine. It was a long time ago,” he says, his eyes on the road. “Logan and I went to live with my grandma after that. The one who taught me how to bake.”
“Were you close with your grandma?”
“Yeah. That woman was no bullshit. We always joke that Angie is her reincarnation,” he says with a small smile. “When she took us in, she had to take on another job to support us. She was always worried about how we’d get through the month. I felt like shit about that. Sometimes I wonder if it’s our fault she kicked the bucket early, you know? Like maybe all the extra stress caused it.”
“I doubt it. And even if it did, I can guarantee she wouldn’t have had it any other way.” I pause, turning toward him. “That must have been really hard. Losing your mom and your grandma.”
“It was,” he admits. “Anyway, was that personal enough for you?”
“I don’t want you to feel pressured to talk about things like that. Especially if it upsets you,” I tell him. I let a few beats of silence go by before speaking again. “Congratulations, by the way, on your promotion. Scotty told me.”
“Thank you.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Just didn’t think it was that big a deal,” he says.
“It is to me,” I assure him. I rest my head back against the seat, cursing myself for the shit timing of my fatigue.
“You get one more question, and then no more talking, okay?”
This perks me up momentarily. I rack my brain for a juicy one. “Okay. If you could picture any woman to break your non-relationship spell, what would she be like? Hypothetically.”
He goes stiff as a board. “I dunno, Tara. What do you think she’d be like?”
My lids close as I visualize. “Hmm . . . Beautiful. Probably the type who would watch sports with you. Eat a burger. Drink beer. One of the not-like-the-other-girls.”
“What’s that?”
“Exactly how it sounds. The girl who doesn’t care what anyone thinks. Isn’t needy or anything like a stereotypical girl. Like Seth’s girlfriend, Ingrid.”
He chuckles. “So . . . the opposite of you.”
“Basically. You know how in How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, supercool Kate Hudson pretends to be a clingy, emotional, fern-obsessed girl to make Matt McConaughey dump her?”
He clears his throat. “No, but go on.”
“I always hated that movie because that girl was me. I was the annoying one that no guy would ever want to date. Anyway, I think that’s the kind of girl you’d be with. The cool one.”
He watches me for a moment. “You’re tired. You should take a nap. Save your voice before you talk my ear off,” he instructs, giving me an unexpected yet gentle squeeze on the forearm.
I can barely even register the delicious scorch of his touch. His eyes ensnare mine unexpectedly, and for some reason, I can’t look away. His small smile is the last thing I see before my lids flutter to a close.
* * *