Page 20 of On Fire

Chapter Five

Nic Silvano

When I saw Keller sitting there at the TTX in that ridiculous folding chair, I realized I was getting a second chance. I had blown the first last summer. We were on a stakeout, and he was crammed in a tiny sedan. I knew he was nervous. There was something adorable about how he just kept flitting from one subject to another talking nonsense and then would break to professional-speak for our radio check-in.

The last chance I had was on a beach at Luke and Devon’s affirmation of wedding vows that same summer. I tried to get him alone for two seconds. Finn, Bryce, Mateus, Jackson, Keller, and I were all talking. After his second piece of cake, he just disappeared.

But I couldn’t get him out of my head. There are always good reasons to go to Echo Bay, but I found myself finding reasons not to go. I had to focus on the Boston office. There was a forgery case, and we were working with the DA, and the new contract with the Portland Jet Port meant some liaison and coordination with Logan Airport. Then there was Thanksgiving last year at The Inn at Echo Bay. He was there, but we sort of danced around each other.

Until we all had to shift gears to save Tory Sparrow. I tore a sleeve to a very expensive suit in a fight with a guy bent on escaping law enforcement.

Let’s just say, he didn’t.

I haven’t seen Keller since, and I haven’t romantically dated anyone in the years since Henry. I’ve had one- or two-night hookups, but since I left California, a relationship hasn’t been high on my priority list. When Alison was killed, I had to keep the business going for Finn and everyone who worked for us and there just wasn’t any time.

But when I first saw Keller at a briefing table in Finn’s office, that huge lug of a guy with oversized hands, a massive body, tree trunk legs and crystal-blue eyes almost too light to be blue, I felt something. His dark brown hair is just starting to turn gray and his facial hair is salt and pepper when he doesn’t shave. Usually, his face is baby smooth but this morning he didn’t have time.

My breath stopped when I saw Keller at the tabletop, but I sucked it up and walked right over to him. He was holding his coffee cup right up to his face.

“You want more coffee?” I said, reaching for the cup.

“What?”

I dropped my hand.

This seemed to be the beat of our conversation the entire day. I’d say something and he’d reply with a monosyllabic word. Usually “What,” “Yes,” or “No.”

By the time we were in his car, I was so tired I felt nauseated. But I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t get the visuals from the briefing out of my head. All the fatalities were mostly young men. One woman killed was the sister of an injured man. The bartenders at both targets in Maine were killed. The bombs were set under the back bar stations, just on the other side of the ovens, and the shattered glasses created a hurricane of shards.

My eyes felt dry and itchy. What I wanted to do was cry. Just break down and cry in the car, but the last thing I needed was for Keller to see me unravel. I never unravel.

I always keep it together. I’m the one who gives support—I never need it and I don’t know how to ask for it.

Especially with him sitting right next to me driving, talking. This man leaves me feeling off balance, off center, and teetering in new territory that seems both completely comfortable and at the same time terribly treacherous.

I stuffed his old blanket further under my chin and stared out the window at the sea. The blanket smelled of house paint, cinnamon, and limey aftershave.

I remember sitting there staring out at the water and islands in the distance. The sun was just setting when I realized I would have to make the first move.

Check that. I had to make the first move.

I refuse to live a life of regrets, and this may be a big one if I do nothing.

At some point, I did manage to fall asleep. Then, in a dream state, I felt him doing something with me. My groin was cinched down tight, then a click, and I was awake enough to recognize the sound of a seatbelt.

I was secured. I must have shifted slightly. And in that twilight sleep of not knowing or caring but able to feel and hear, I felt him stroke my hair, light, swift, but still enough to churn something deep in my gut.

One flimsy, half-thought floated through my mind: did he just make thefirst move?

΅

By the time we arrive at what everyone here calls his hobbit house on the side of the hill, my stomach is completely hollowed out. Rolling into the knobby driveway is enough to jostle me awake.

It’s dark now, and I climb out of the car too fast, grip the edge of the door and wait for the dizziness to pass. It just takes a second. To cover I ask him why I’m here and not down at The Inn. The answer tells me Finn might be playing matchmaker.

Fine by me.

Keller fumbles at the door, recovers, and we step inside.