Page 78 of The Fire Captain's Unexpected Baby
I smile tightly as the drinks arrive. “About to get divorced, actually. But yeah, I have a kid. A daughter. She’s six.”
And if Anna thinks she’s going to get her claws into my girl, she’s got another thing coming.
It had been a hell of a day, to be honest, fielding funeral calls from caterers and florists, then signing off on my father’s replacement, who just so happens to be the man that my wife—soon to be ex—has been fucking. It won’t last, it never does, butI figure that three affairs is probably where I draw the line on being made a fool of. Staying for the sake of my daughter isn’t enough anymore; I’m taking my girl, this time.
I don’t tell Summer that, though.
“It’s been a while, huh?” I say instead.
She nods, her shoulders relaxing slightly, as she reaches for the glass of whiskey sour and passes the other to me. “It has.” She takes a sip. “You look good. I like the… uh… tattoos. You didn’t have so many last time I saw you.”
“You didn’t, either,” I reply, lightly touching the dove on her wrist.
She smiles and doesn’t pull her hand back. “I’m never getting another. I barely got through this one.” Her eyes seem to shine as she peers up at me. “How did you manage to sit through so many? Do they… I mean, do you have them all over?”
“Just the arms and across here.” I move my own hand over my chest. “A couple on my back. Have you been here all this time, then?”
“In this bar? No.” She gives that soft, breathy laugh again. “In New York? Mostly. I graduated, figured New Jersey didn’t have much to offer me, so bit the bullet and moved into a tiny fifth-floor walk-up in Williamsburg with two friends from college. I still have the friends, but I’m pleased to say I don’t have the tiny walk-up anymore.”
“New Jersey?” I frown. “I thought you went to college here in New York.” I almost say Mark’s name, but don’t want her to close off again, so I rephrase. “That’s what I was told.”
“You were misinformed by about fifty miles,” she tells me, that smile fading for a moment, before it transforms into a glitter of amusement. The kind that comes from a good memory, not a sad one.
I nod and sip my drink. It’s strong and it hits the spot. “So, what do you do? You’re dressed like you’re some high-flying professional.”
And I wouldn’t mind undressing you or seeing those tiny shorts again.She’s Mark’s little sister. I should remember that. He might be gone, and she might be right here looking like that, and it might be the previous whiskeys talking, but I should remember who she is. Should be careful of that fact, in case I get burned.
“Let me guess,” I continue. “Finance? No, you don’t look wired enough for that. Business? Fashion? Advertising?”
A full laugh ripples from her, her hand pressed to her chest as her neck arches back, and my lips itch to kiss that curve. “My accountant would probably like me more if that was true. Unfortunately for you and for him, you’rewayoff.”
“Film? Media? Law?” I rack my brain for city jobs, a world away from the sort of quiet work that goes on in Crown Hill. “You’re a PA? An assistant manager? Hell, a manager of something?”
Her smile is bright enough to hold back the shadows of the shitty day I’ve just had, and it feels good to be the reason she’s laughing. Honestly, when she saw me, I figured there wouldn’t be much laughter at all. Iamthe reason her brother isn’t alive anymore, after all, though everyone insists there was nothing else I could have done.
“A writer,” she says, putting me out of my guessing misery.
“A writer?” I raise an eyebrow. “Anything I might’ve read?”
She shrugs. “Depends how often you walk past The Briar Patch Bookshop.” A shy smile transforms her into a sultry creature that’s going to be hard to resist. “They’ve got my books in the window, on full display, all the time. I keep asking my parents to tell them to take them down.”
“I’ll be sure to drop in next time I walk by,” I tell her, meaning it.
“And you’re still at the… station?” she asks, her voice catching.
I lean in closer. “I think I answered that already.”
“Yes… yes, you did.” She bites her lip, and I know that if she does it again, I’m not going to be able to keep from kissing her.
I thought I needed a couple of drinks to unwind after the second worst day in my thirty-two years, but I’m starting to think it’s her that I need, instead. A night in her bed, getting lost in her, those long legs that I remember so vividly, wrapped around me, drawing me in.
If nothing else, maybe giving her something new to write about.
“How’s Crown Hill these days?” she says, shuffling a little closer on her bar stool, until her leg is touching mine.
“I don’t care about Crown Hill,” I reply. “Tell me more about these books. What do you write about? What stories do you tell?”
She clears her throat. “I mostly write non-fiction about fishermen in the Arctic, the history of the postal service, and biographies of Confederate leaders.”
