Page 53 of Love Again

All I knew as they wheeled me into the hospital was that he and I went off in two different trajectories and that I would probably never see him again.

This was why I was so surprised when I opened my eyes and saw him sleeping in that blue plastic chair.

His hair was a sandy light brown—a lovely mix of blonds from light to dark—and wavy, a little scruffy around the ears and blending into his beard, which was a couple of days old and a dark brown.

Luke had a tiny cleft in his chin, deep enough to force a shadow. His jawline was straight, his forehead high and wide. He stirred as he slept, and I closed my eyes.

When I opened them again, he was leaning forward, elbows on knees and looking directly at me.

I think I gasped slightly.

His eyes were an amazing hazelly green and brown. But more importantly, I felt that they saw me. All of me.

The way he was sitting, I could see the gap in his shirt. The buttons gathered at the top, then were open. I could make out the outline of his pecs, and then they disappeared under his shirt.

Again, this was disconcerting.

He took my hand. It’s funny when I remember that afternoon, evening, or whatever time of day it was. I do remember him reaching forward and taking my hand and holding it. At one point, he made a fist and draped my fingers over his hand.

I don’t know if it was the sedative they gave me or the fact I was exhausted from all the coughing and lack of oxygen, but whatever that competitive piece of me was, the piece that never lets me rest or never lets me just be me, it vanished.

I let him hold my hand. I didn’t think I had anything to prove. I didn’t make it into a thing, laden with meaning. It was simple and beautiful, and even on that day, it felt like love. Like he loved me.

΅

I glance at him now, on our way to the warehouse fire site. His face is in profile once more, focused on the road, hands on the wheel.

Sexy.

Heavy suit zipped, gear strapped on.

Hot.

I know what’s under that suit.

I glance out the window to cool off.

I love him too.

“Have you ever met Chief Turrow?” I try to shake thoughts of his neck, his arms, the feeling of his thighs under my fingertips. It’s hard.

I shake my head. “No, but I hear he should have retired a decade ago. That he won’t leave. They say he’s a spitfire, no pun intended.”

Luke laughs. “What does that mean?”

As we pull up to the abandoned warehouse gutted six months ago by fire, there’s a brilliant white SUV with a nice rack of lights on top, a beautiful seal painted on both front doors, and serious tires for serious work.

“I guess we’re going to find out,” I say.

But when Turrow climbs out, the illusion is broken. Fire Chief Alec Albright Turrow’s name is about as long as him and his title, if each word were a foot high. The guy is maybe five foot six, at the most, and a ball of leathery, kinetic energy. His eyebrows are so thick, they’re like two graying shelves above pale-blue eyes that have seen it all.

Luke’s fire pants and jacket are still damp, and it’s pretty cold. The breeze is cutting. Slimy mud lies splayed in large swaths over broken concrete from last night’s storm. We’re afraid we’ve kept him waiting, but Turrow doesn’t care.

“I keep trying to bump this up to state. The feds really need to look into this, and no one ever listens. As yoozh,” he says and starts squinting at me so hard I think he has a facial tic. He means “as usual.”

“I’m Luke Walker,” Luke says, extending a hand.

I step forward. “And Devon Russo.”