Page 53 of Frosting and Flames

But as we head back to his house to eat the chili and cornbread we made, it’s never brought up again.

Because we’re only acting.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

NICK

Crouching in front of the tiny, trembling dog, my brow furrows as I assess the situation. It’s managed to shove its head through the iron bars of a fence, but its body is firmly wedged in place, leaving it stuck and whimpering.

“This dog must have a curse on it,” Mark mutters next to me. “Didn’t we pull this thing out of a sewer drain a few weeks ago?”

I glance behind us at Mrs. Montour, who’s casting worried looks at her Yorkie, Dolly.

“Will she be okay?” she calls out from the spot I told her to stand at. She was making things worse crowding us earlier.

“You have any cooking oil?” I ask her. “Dish soap? Something we can use as lubrication?”

Mrs. Montour nods and hurriedly returns to her house.

“Definitely a curse,” I say to Mark once she’s gone. What this dog needs is some good birthday and New Year’s wishes.

I smile to myself, thinking of my last conversation with Rachel. Who knew she liked those kinds of things, too?

“You don’t think we can just pull the dog out?” Mark says, reaching toward Dolly.

Dolly whines, her eyes wide with fear as she tries to cower but can’t escape.

“You’re scaring her,” I chastise.

Mark rolls his eyes and stands. “You do it then. I don’t like yappy dogs, anyway.”

No, he’s just not a fan of the owner. Mrs. Montour caught him sneaking out of Janine Hart’s window in the middle of the night as a teenager and ratted him out to his dad. Mark claims she must have been up to something, too, if she was also out that time of night, but could never prove anything.

He heads back to the truck to radio dispatch, and I take off my glove and slowly hold it out for Dolly to sniff, waiting to see how she reacts. Normally, she loves me, but she’s scared right now. I’ve seen my share of upset animals on the job, and sometimes there’s no telling how they’ll react. I keep my voice low and soothing, letting her know we’ll get her out soon.

When Mrs. Montour returns with a bottle of olive oil, I carefully rub it around Dolly’s ribs and the bars, thankful the dog doesn’t fight it. Bracing one hand against the fence and the other against the pup’s chest, I angle Dolly’s body and wiggle her gently.

With a soft yelp, Dolly breaks free and slides into my hands.

“Oh, thank God,” Mrs. Montour cries as I hand her the squirming dog.

Dolly slathers her owner’s face in wet kisses, and over near the fire truck, Mark looks on in disgust, thankfully not in view of Mrs. Montour.

I stand and Mrs. Montour flings an arm around me, taking me into her embrace, too, and Dolly switches to giving doggy kisses to my cheek.

“I don’t know what we’d do without you,” she exclaims. That’s definitely true. Besides all the neighborly things I help her with, it’s not the first call the fire station has made out here, and I’m fairly sure it won’t be the last. “Come inside. Please. I think I have some cash I can give you as a tip.”

Mark perks up at that, but I extricate myself from Mrs. Montour, discreetly wiping my cheek, and tell her, “No, we can’t accept tips. We’re just doing our jobs.”

Mark deflates. “I’ll pack up our stuff.”

“A cinnamon roll, then,” Mrs. Montour insists. “They’re fresh from Aurora Bakery.”

Now, I won’t say no to that. So far, I’ve only tried their danishes, but I’m confident everything from there is amazing.

Not that I’m biased.

I follow her and Dolly into the house and wait as she reheats me a cinnamon roll in her ancient microwave and hands me the plate. The first bite is pure indulgence as the chewier outer layer gives way to a pillowy-soft center that melts on my tongue. The cinnamon sugar filling is warm and gooey, pooling in the crevices of the roll, while the sweet icing balances the deep spice of the cinnamon.

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