Page 1 of Love Again

Chapter One

Devon

Normally, I’d pull on my running shoes and do a sprint up to the fire station. It’s an easy five miles. But today, I’m lugging two gallons of paint, a new package of rollers, a pan, a roll of painter’s tape, a small tub of Spackle, and two brushes to cut in around windows, doors, and baseboards.

So, I take my red Corolla.

Chief David Keller commands a tight fire crew. To show his appreciation, he renovated the interior three years ago with a block grant. At least that’s what the guys tell me. Unlike most stations this size, we have two refrigerators, two stoves, three microwaves, a long prep counter, and a freezer in the back for donations of bulk meat. The cabinets hide three blenders, a complete set of baking utensils, pots, pans, fancy garlic presses, and what I’ve learned is a “zester.” The Saxton’s Bay Fire Department is unlike most fire stations. It’s oddly aesthetically pleasing, with open spaces, thoughtful storage, and a sense of style wedded to utility.

But after three years, the interior paint is wearing thin. There are seventeen men besides me to cover three shifts of five-man teams, a paramedic during the day, and the chief. I double as an AEMT or Advanced EMT. The other paramedic, Carter Ellis, and I trade off being on call.

As the only female, I’m allowed my own sleeping quarters. The room is set up with two bunk beds, shelf space for gear, and a closet. I’m fairly neat. But the guys? Jesus. Other than keeping track of their gear, they’re slobs and not easy on the building.

I get a picturesque view of the Maine coast from my little triangle window upstairs, and I’ve kept the room nice in case I end up with a roommate one day, but the common space is starting to look tattered. The guys love to throw their sooty clothes around and not pay attention to where they sit or put their hands before showering. It suddenly dawned on me yesterday, when I left for my two days off, that the place looked dingy.

Last month, my sister, Laurel, moved out with her son, Cory, from the apartment we shared above Weaver’s Grocery store. Though I still see her and my nephew all the time, my days off are no longer filled with factoring in their needs. I’ve been spending a lot of time at The Inn visiting with my two other sisters, working out, and reading.

I’m bored.

Thus, the painting supplies.

The fire station is not an architectural wonder. But it’s a tidy brick-and-concrete structure, with three large bays to the left and a parking lot to the right. As I pull in and cut the engine, Keller comes banging out the front glass doors and waving his arms as if shooing a fly. He’s tall, with the very beginning of salt-and-pepper in his hair, and he’s built like a tank. His legs are like tree trunks, so to watch him scurry to the top of an aerial ladder sixty feet in the air is a sight to behold. That’s when the guys call him “Godzilla”—when he’s safely out of earshot.

“What are you doing here, Devon? You’ve got two days off. Go. Scram.”

I stare at him. He’s a homegrown Mainer from Wayne, and he says the weirdest things sometimes.

“Scram? Clearly, I don’t scram.” Undeterred, I open the passenger door and start hauling paint and my gear from the front seat to set on the ground. “You want to help carry these in?”

“You’re not going in.” He starts texting someone as he’s talking to me.

“Hey, it’s my time off. I’m volunteering. Think of this as a gift.”

“I understand what volunteering is,” Keller says, making an attempt at sarcasm.

He does. He took this fire station from a cinderblock structure manned by volunteers, and in a dozen years, turned it into a fully functional fire station. So kudos to him, but he can also be a jerk.

We go way back. I know how much of a jerk he can be.

“Chief.” I set my hands on my hips. “I know you’re all about work-life balance, but honestly, I need to get in there to paint. I thought you, of all people, would appreciate the effort.”

Taking a step back, he starts texting. Again.

I reach down and grab a gallon of “Burnished Brick.”

“Wait a minute,” Keller says. “This”—he points a finger at the paint—“is not happening right now.”

I can tell by his face, he’s serious. It’s his command face. Unreadable.

Incredible.

“Are you kidding me?”

As the words leave my lips, the station front door opens behind him, and a man steps into my line of vision. Two things then occur at once: Keller turns around in time to say, “Oh, fuck,” and the gallon of unopened paint slips from my fingers.

Standing there on the granite step in dark-blue chinos, a white shirt, and an unzipped blue sweatshirt is the man I dream about nearly every night. The man I was in love with—am still in love with, probably—and can’t dare to love again.

Shit.