Page 22 of From the Embers

“Tell me about it. Even if I get my own shop someday, I’d need to take my coffee maker, or buy a second one.”

“You’re still designing?” I remember something Daryl told me a while back about her finishing up at design school.

“You have a good memory.” She smiles. “And yes, I am. Interior design. I want to set myself up in the next six months and establish myself, gain some clients. The position at the bar is just a temporary glitch until I get back on my feet. I really want to do my own thing, but there isn’t a lot of call for design positions in Chicago.”

“That’s a damn shame. You’d be amazing. I remember when you were little you’d always come over and rearrange my moms flower display.”

She laughs out loud. “Holy crap, I haven’t thought about that in years.”

“Well, you always made it look super fancy. What’s your favorite style?” She glances my way, prompting me to ask, “What?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing.”

I squeeze her hand a little. “Adi, tell.”

Her smile is infectious, but I’m not prepared for what comes out of her mouth next. “Nobody has really ever asked me that question before.”

“Nobody?”

“Nope.”

“So? Out with it.”

“For myself? I love bohemian mixed with art deco, it’s bold but bright, you know? Eclectic and quirky.”

Of course, I knew she was going to say something like that.

“Like when you stare too long at the sun?”

She nudges me with her hip and I love how we can be this playful. “Ha-ha. I have a way of being able to really help the client when they don’t know, or don’t have a style, that’s where my real passion lies.”

“What about me? Can you tell what kind of style I’d have just by looking at me?”

She turns her head and asses me head to toe, then says, “I’d say you’re modern and minimal. You enjoy wood and leather and maybe a little industrial because you have a secret wild streak. You prefer functionality and uncluttered spaces. And I bet you don’t like big, bold statement pieces, but rather earthy textures and simplicity. How am I doing so far?”

I gape at her. “Shit, you’re really good at this, but I sound like I live in a dungeon.”

She laughs again and I love the sound. “No it doesn’t!”

“I admit,” I say, trying to keep a straight face. “I have one two many throw rugs. If you see me in a TJ Max or Home Goods, you have permission to steer me in the opposite direction.”

“I never knew you were this funny,” she says, not hiding her huge grin.

“I’m not even kidding. I have more pillows than you’ve probably got high heels.”

She swats me on the arm. “I never picked you for a throw pillow kinda guy.”

Our eyes meet, and our walk is almost at an end all too soon. “There’s more to me than just brawn, Wilder. I’m not just a piece of meat.”

She snorts. I realize I love making her laugh. “Are you saying that because you’ve posed for one of those sexy calendar shoots in your firefighting uniform?”

“Oh jeez, have you been talking to Sterling? He’s the usual instigator of trouble and shenanigans.” Sterling is one of our paramedics and a good guy, always lightening the mood with emotional topics, and always roping us into something crazy.

“No, but I need to see the pictures.”

I laugh. “Not a chance. I was younger then, and in my prime.”

“You’re in your prime now, hot shot.”