Page 103 of Combust (Everyday Heroes 2)
Ask me to stay.
I bite back the words because they’re silly and not possible, but, God, how I’d try to make it work if he asks.
“Thank you.”
“I bet you can’t wait to get back to Los Angeles. Your daily routine. Your life without a pig rooting around and a police scanner going off every five minutes reminding you of your dad.”
My smile is soft, and my heart is heavy. The hopes I’m creating in my mind—that he’s made this dinner to ask me to stay—sink slowly. One by one. My foolishness crashes with a big thud, making me feel more stupid than anything. Grady said we were enjoying each other. That’s it. I am the foolish one who let Betsy’s words, Shelby’s comments, and the picture in the calendar make me think there can be more.
But I’m wrong.
“I’m used to them now. I think I’m actually going to miss them.” I swallow over the twinge in my heart and force a smile.
“I doubt it. Without you, I wouldn’t have done the calendar. And without the calendar, I wouldn’t have stepped outside of myself to see how others view me. How the scars fade away after the initial shock. For that, I owe you so much.” That shy smile graces his lips again and steals my heart. “And what I thought an hour ago was a good idea—cooking for you—I’ve now realized is a subtle form of torture considering my cooking is not always the best.”
I laugh. “That bad, huh?”
“Let’s just hope you’re standing when we’re done with the meal.” He squeezes my thighs and stares at me in silence for a beat. I try to tell myself his eyes aren’t saying the words to me that my imagination is making up, but it’s so hard not to.
The sincerity in his smile. The emotion in his eyes. The hum from our physical connection.
Stop thinking, Dylan. Just enjoy.
So, I do. I push everything out of my head and focus on the playful banter we share over dinner. On the casual brushes of a hand on my back or when we both reach for the bottle of wine. On the undeniable, slow simmer of sexual tension so frustrating and exhilarating at the same time.
Grady tops off my glass of wine and sits back on the couch beside me. “So . . . you’re still alive. That’s always a good thing.”
“The food was great. It’s hard to screw up pasta.”
“You’d be surprised the things I can screw up when cooking. The guys razz the hell out of me over it.”
“Well, I thought it was excellent. Thank you.” I take a sip of my wine and give in to the urge and rest my head against his shoulder. We sit and watch the fire crackle and pop in the fireplace.
“What is it with you firefighters? I think you’re all secretly pyromaniacs.”
He chuckles, and his shoulders move with it. “We are. We all love to play with fire. It’s a job requirement.”
“That explains why we have a fire going when it’s at least sixty-plus degrees outside.”
“I’ve got to get my fix somehow,” he murmurs and then fades off. Without having to look at him, I know what he’s thinking. It’s his only fix. There have been wildfires around us in neighboring communities but none have touched Sunnyville. And Grady’s station hasn’t been one of the departments called on to help during them.
The question is, if his station had been called, would he have been able to fight the fire? Does the realization he talked about earlier pertain to his career as well, or only his own physical scars?
“I like the song you’ve been working on,” he says softly, and I can’t help but wonder if this is his way of changing the subject he unexpectedly shifted to.
“It’s been a hard one to get right.”
“Maybe it’s because you secretly don
’t want to leave,” he jokes and laughs without a clue as to how close his words ring true for me.
“Maybe,” I murmur.
“I’ve only heard it in bits and pieces. What’s it about?”
“Love.” I chuckle. “Isn’t that what most songs are about?” It’s the only way I can answer without telling him the song is about him. If he hears all the lyrics together, he’ll know.
“I’m still waiting to see you write one of those songs for yourself.” If he only knew. “And sing it in public.”
