Page 1 of Cinder
Chapter one
Wanted: one magical intervention
Evan
“What you need is a fairy godmother, bud.”
“Yeah,” Colt Lawson snorts from across the table. “That’s exactly what this place is missing. A little bibbidi-bobbidi backup on shift.”
“I’m serious,” Mason Fletcher fires back. “Man’s out here working full time, raising a kid, and what, sleeping occasionally? He needs a magical intervention.”
“Are you done?” I ask.
“Not even close.”
Fletch is tipped back in his chair, with one boot hooked on the rung, and a steaming coffee in his hand. If it weren’t for hisfire department tee tucked into his duty pants, he’d look like he belonged at Flora’s Café instead of about to start a shift.
I shake my head and drag a rag over the already clean edge of the table. “I’m doin’ just fine.”
“Mm.” Colt tilts his mug at the tabletop. “That why you’ve cleaned that same spot five times since you walked in?”
I glance down at the tabletop. The varnish is practically gleaming under the fluorescent station lights, catching the dull gold of the late winter sun.
“Six times,” a quiet voice adds before I can respond, and we all turn.
Luke Ryder—also known as Ghost because the guy moves like one half the time—doesn’t look up from checking his gear in the locker room.
Fletch’s grin spreads. “See? When Ghost’s keeping count, you know it’s getting weird.”
“It’s not weird.” I toss the rag aside and reach for my coffee. “It’s called staying busy.”
“Busy doing what?” Fletch leans forward to plant his elbows on the table and his eyes on mine now. “Because from where I’m sitting, it just looks like a lot of aggressive cleaning.”
“Leave the man alone,” Colt says, but there’s a laugh under it.
“I am leaving him alone!” Fletch shoots back. “I’m just… leaving him alone while also asking questions.”
“Meanwhile,” I snark, “you’re the guy begging to be kept busy every time your girlfriend disappears back to Toronto for work.”
“At least the city trips are worth it for the phone se—”
“If you finish that sentence before I’ve finished this cup of coffee, we’re gonna have a realbig problem,” mutters our captain, Beck Holloway, as he strolls in and moves toward the fridge.
There’s movement all around us—boots crossing the bay, a locker slamming shut across the hall, and the low murmur of aradio being tested and then clipped back into place. The smell of coffee hangs thick, strong enough to hide whatever the night crew reheated overnight.
Fletch snaps his fingers once in my direction. “So this whole cleaning spiral thing—what’s the deal?”
“There is no deal.”
“That’s disappointing.” He leans back. “I was hoping for something juicy.”
“Yeah, well,” I say, taking a sip of coffee, “try a podcast.”
“Rude.”
Beck settles at the table with his mug, eyes glued to the clipboard in his hands. “If you’ve got time to run your mouth, Fletch, you’ve got time to recheck the hose bed.”
The exasperated groan is immediate. “Cap, Ijustdid that.”
