Page 3 of Faking the Heat

“Your offer still good?” I ask, voice barely above a whisper.

He pretends to think about it, tapping his chin theatrically. “Hmm, let me see, ditch the furball and you got a deal.” He winks and flashes me a smile that is uniquely his.

Despite myself, I laugh, this time, a real one. He knows I would never abandon my baby.

He grins, pleased, then glances at the carrier. “How’s the little monster?”

“Pissed,” I say, as Bowie yowls in apparent agreement. “But alive.”

“Good,” Sterling says, and for a second I think he means the cat, but then he looks at me and the moment stretches, soft and dangerous. “Really glad you’re okay, Mandy.”

I have to look away. It’s too much. I focus on the skyline, now painted with the vibrant blues that said it was going to be a beautiful day for someone who’s house didn’t just burn down. “You’ll tell me if I’m being a pain, right? Like, if I eat all your cereal or Bowie shreds your couch, or if I just, you know, overstay my welcome…”

He shakes his head, like I’m missing the obvious. “You could never overstay, Sparkles. My place is your place.”

I want to believe him. I want to let myself collapse into that offer, to let someone else take care of me for once. But the part of me that spent twenty-something years proving I could do it alone, that built a life out of careful independence, flares up in protest.

“I’ll start apartment hunting tomorrow,” I say, a little too bright. “Maybe I can Airbnb it for a week or two, just until, “

He interrupts, voice gentle but firm. “Or you can stay until you’re ready. No timeline. No rent.”

“Sterling, “

“Nope. You helped me after my surgery. You let me crash on your couch when my last place got flooded. And you make better coffee than my own mother.” He leans in, mock, serious. “We have a sacred friendship debt, and I intend to collect.”

I’m tempted to argue, but I know better. When Sterling sets his jaw like that, there’s no moving him. I exhale, the fight leaving me with the air.

“Okay,” I say, softer than I intend. “Okay. But I’m not washing your socks.”

He grins, triumphant settling beside me. “That’s fair. But you’re on dish duty.”

We sit in silence, and for the first time since the alarm went off, I feel a tiny fragment of calm. Not peace, not yet, but the sense that maybe I’m not alone in this. That maybe I never was.

Sterling stands, offers his hand, and I take it. He doesn’t let go right away, just squeezes once, warm and steady, before grabbing the laptop and sketchbook from me and tucking them under his arm.

“Come on, Amanda,” he says, and there’s something in the way he says it that makes it sound like a promise.

I follow him to the ambulance, Bowie’s carrier knocking against my thigh, the future as uncertain and terrifying as it’s ever been. But at least now, as I walk beside Sterling, it doesn’t feel so empty.

Chapter two

Saint Sterling's Rescue

Sterling

I know every dent in the dash of this ambulance, every shadow under the console where stray granola bar wrappers and half-spent pens go to die. I could drive from the scene to Firehouse 99 with my eyes closed, but today I have to keep them open, because every time I hit a pothole, the cat in the back of the rig registers a formal complaint. Loudly. Like he’s preparing for a congressional hearing.

I check the rearview on a straightaway and catch Mandy’s reflection: knees drawn up, pajama bottoms riding high on her shin, the patchwork of smiling Avocados in various directions on display. She’s also missing a shoe, which I clocked when I scooped her off the curb but didn’t mention, because it felt beside the point. She’s managed to wedge herself onto the bench seat next to Bowie’s carrier, which keeps skidding two inches left and then two inches right every time I so much as tap the brakes.

I take a right onto Blanchard, hit a seam in the pavement, and, like clockwork, Bowie yowls. A full-body, Shakespearean howl. Mandy winces but doesn’t flinch. She just whispers, “Sorry, buddy, almost there,” and then pivots her attention to me, sensing the apology quota has not yet been met for the day.

“I’m really sorry about this, Sterling,” she calls through the open slot behind my head. “You know you didn’t have to do this. They would have sent a ride, or a cop car, or, I don’t know, an Uber for the emotionally shell, shocked.”

“Stop apologizing,” I say, because it’s easier than letting her keep running down the list of ways this is inconvenient for me. “You’re fine. Cat’s fine. Everyone’s fine.”

She hesitates a beat, then says, “Sorry. That’s…okay, I’ll stop.”

Another pothole that I fail to avoid, another yowl. It’s not lost on me that she’s less upset about losing everything than she is about causing problems for anyone else. Or maybe that’s just how she does grief, apologize for the mess, and hope nobody looks directly at the wreckage.