Page 35 of Love Songs

“How do you always seem to know what I need?” Dallas whispered against my mouth when we broke for air.

“Because I need the same thing,” I said, my voice as low and rough as his. I nipped at his lips. “We better get out of here before I get fired.”

We left the storage room, and I led him across the bay. We passed through the EMT supplies room, where the fire pole punched through the ceiling to the dorms upstairs. He pointed at the shiny silver pole.

“Do you really slide down that when there’s an emergency?” he asked.

“No,” I laughed with a shake of my head. “I used to before my body started to feel the years. But the younger guys use it all the time.”

He looked me up and down and in a low, provocative voice, said, “There is absolutely not a single thing wrong with your body.”

I smiled, appreciating the compliment, but my usual retorts lay silent as my cheeks heated. I worked hard to stay in shape and in good health, and usually deflected words of praise with cocky humor, but coming from Dallas, all I wanted to do was wrap myself around him like a cat and purr.

I cleared my throat, but my voice still cracked when I said, “This way.”

We crossed the hall and entered the day area slash kitchen. Captain Burgess was sitting in a Naugahyde recliner reading an actual printed newspaper. Whittaker was sitting on the couch watching some crime drama on TV that he couldn’t get enough of. Firefighter Shepherd, who’d gone through fire training school with me, was sitting at the kitchen table working on a crossword, and Jackson was rummaging through the kitchen cupboards, no doubt looking for unhealthy snacks. I didn’t know how the guy stayed so fit when he was always munching on something no good for him.

All heads turned to us with varying expressions of curiosity.

“Hey, everyone.” I waved toward Dallas. “I’m sure you’ve all heard of Dallas Blade.”

They all nodded and waved back with hellos. I turned toward Dallas.

“You’ve met Jackson.” I motioned toward him, and then to the rest of the guys. “And this is Captain Burgess, and firefighters Whittaker and Shepherd.”

“Hey, Dallas,” Jackson said, hiding something behind his back, but not before I saw the telltale Pop Tarts label. I didn’teven know those still existed, let alone that he’d found one in our kitchen. “It’s so cool to see you here.”

“Hi. Thanks.” Dallas whistled as his gaze bounced around the large room. “This is a nice kitchen.”

“When you’re on a twelve-hour shift, you spend a lot of time cooking or learning to cook,” I said. “Speaking of food, would you like to stay for lunch?”

“If that’s okay?” he looked to the guys, who all nodded, and back to me with an easy smile that seemed shy and only for me. “I would like that.”

“Have a seat,” I motioned for Dallas to sit at the kitchen table, then walked over to Jackson and tugged the Pop Tarts from his hand with a shake of my head.

“This stuff’ll kill you,” I said, turning the packet over to check the best before date. I held it up for him to see. “Especially since it expired four years ago.”

“Pfft,” he said. “Those things will last through the next ice age.”

“Exactly,” I snorted. “And you want something like that rotting in your gut for the rest of your life?”

“Exaggerating much,” he rolled his eyes as I handed the packet back and he turned it over, a frown growing on his face as he read the ingredients. He shuffled backward toward the garbage bin and discreetly tossed them inside.

I put my back to him and grinned at Dallas, giving him a wink.

“Can we get a group photo for the wall while you’re here?” Jackson asked Dallas as I started pulling sandwich fixings out of the fridge.

The “wall” was a large corkboard where we pinned photos taken with various people in the community who we honored. Some were of people no longer with us, some were town heroes for one reason or another, some were of special occasions andevents, and some were of our friends. Dallas graciously posed for both the group photo and a couple of selfies with Jackson, while laughing off a little ribbing about the Founders Day fire.

I smiled as I watched him interacting with my coworkers. Having him here, in my space, felt . . . right, somehow.

I shook my head as I turned on the panini press to heat while I prepped half a dozen sandwiches, when the alarms sounded and two lights in the ceiling glowed red—which meant fire. When the lights were blue, it was a medical call, and green was for all other emergencies.

Dallas startled while the rest of us jumped to action like a well-oiled machine.

“Structure fire. Grafton,” a woman’s voice said through the broadcast alert system speakers. “Multiple responders on route . . .”

“I’m so sorry, Dallas,” I said, and unplugged the panini press as I listened to the rest of the alert message, quickly throwing everything back into the fridge. “Duty calls. I’ll text you when we’re done.”

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