Page 7 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Firefighter

Me: I’ll tell her.

I intend to share the news right away. But the second I step inside, the aroma of a freshly cooked meal drifts to me, and my stomach growls as though I haven’t eaten in a week. Aries lets out a long meow that seems part welcome home, part you’re late. As I drop on the bench to kick off my boots, he attempts to weave himself around my calves.

“You’re happy,” I say to him, holding out my hand so he can walk beneath it, arching his back against my fingers.

“I hope you like spaghetti,” Heather calls from the kitchen. “It’s all I know how to make. And really, all you had ingredients for since I still don’t have a car. Has Gage had a chance to check it out?”

Fuck, I forgot about her car.

“I’ll check with him.” I mean to pull my phone out right then, but when I shrug out of my jacket and it falls behind the bench, I don’t have the energy to dig it out. Dinner first. Then I’ll reach back out to Gage to check on her car.

I’m so fucking tired I could fall asleep on the bench, but I force myself to my feet and shuffle toward the kitchen.

“Aries had a really exciting day involving a Cheerio,” Heather says from the stove, stirring a saucepan. Though I much prefer the sight of her in my T-shirt and bare legs, the neon pink leggings accentuate her perfect ass in the best way. Fuck, I can’t tell if my mouth’s watering from the food or for her.

Get a grip, man.

“He’s obsessed with Cheerios,” I say. Fighting a long yawn, I sink into a chair at the kitchen table.

“That clocks.” She still hasn’t turned around to look at me once, and I don’t know what that means. Fuck, I hate this tension between us.

For years, I was the one Heather called when she couldn’t figure out how to program a new TV or if she needed a cabinet door hinge tightened. Even when she was dating someone else. I miss our interactions, however brief they might’ve been. Out of respect for her family and my little sister, I’ve never acted on the feelings I’ve been harboring for Heather since she moved back to town. I didn’t want to make things awkward at the gatherings our families so often find excuses to hold should things not work out.

Her reaction to that Christmas kiss only cements the thing I feared most: she doesn’t feel the same.

“Does Aries know what a toy is? I tried to get him to play, but he just looked at me like I was stupid.” I watch as Heather plates our meals. I should get up to help her, but I’m not sure my legs are stable enough to stand.

“Toys are beneath him,” I say, running a hand through my hair. I showered off the worst of mess at the station, but I can’t get past the irrational feeling that there’s soot crawling all over me. As soon as I eat, I’m taking another shower.

“I guess you’re right, because I tried all of them,” Heather says, fishing forks out of the silverware drawer.

“You didn’t have to make dinner,” I say, yawning again.

“I figured it was only fair since you slept on the terrible couch last night.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“I tried to sit in today. Didn’t last an hour before my back was screaming at me. Trust me. It’sthatbad. But if you’re going to let me sleep on the cloud of a bed, I’m not going to complain.” She lifts the two plates from the counter and spins around, looking at me for the first time since I walked through the door. “What the hell happened to you?”

“I showered,” I counter.

“Was there a fire?”

“Yeah.” She sets the plate in front of me, then hands me the fork. Our hands graze gently, and the sensation sends warmth up my arm. I swear she feels it too, because she hesitates for a beat before taking her own seat. But I dismiss it, certain it’s just the exhaustion playing tricks on me. Wouldn’t be the first time.

“Was it bad? Was anyone hurt?”

“Yes. No.”

I inhale the spaghetti, so fucking thankful there was a warm meal waiting for me instead of another soggy microwave dinner. I do love to cook, but it hasn’t seemed worth the effort for just one. And on days like the one I had today, I have no energy to make a mess in the kitchen.

“You’re a pasta man?” Heather guesses, smirking.

I almost say I’m a Heather man, but where would that leave us?

“I appreciate this,” I say, pushing out of my chair and nearly stumbling as I stand.

Heather’s on her feet instantly, and I catch my arm around her shoulders. If I had more energy, my pride wouldn’t allow this. I don’t fucking accept help from anyone. I don’t like to appear weak. But right now, I’m in no shape to argue as this angel I don’t deserve guides me down the hall.