Page 8 of Love Resurrected
I don’t know who this person thinks they are or what their issue is, but yelling at me is not the answer.
I push open the door. “What?!” I yell.
“About fucking time,” a guy dressed in turnout pants and boots, and a navy-blue t-shirt, mutters. He looks vaguely familiar as he pushes his way past me into the hall, a large box filled with firefighters’ helmets and jackets in his arms.
“Excuse me?” I ask.
“I’ve been knocking out there for over ten minutes,” he says. “Are you deaf?”
“No.” I pull one of my earbuds out. “But I am listening to music.Plus, I wasn’t expecting anyone.”
“Well, how did you think this shit would get here?”
“I don’t even know what this shit is,” I reply. The guy sets the box down on a table I’ve already dressed and arranged knocking the centerpiece over in the process. Water from the vase seeps through the tablecloth, spreading toward the end of the table.
Really? There are ten bare tables, you couldn’t just use one of those.
Dick.
I grab the towels I was using to dust with and move to wipe up the water.
“Helmets.” He pulls one out of the box and shows it to me. “Jackets.” He repeats the gesture with a jacket. “Just like you asked.” He watches as I right the centerpiece, pull the tablecloth out from under his box, wad it into a ball, then wipe down the remaining water on the table.
I turn. “I didn’t ask for that.”
“Well, someone did.”
“What am I supposed to do with it?”
“Fuck if I know.”
“Wow, you always this accommodating?” I ask. “Or is this for my benefit?”
“I don’t even know you, lady.”
“Exactly.”
“Look, all I know is I’m stuck on fucking desk duty, which apparently makes me the fucking station gopher, and I was ordered to deliver this box, while the rest of the guys are in the field.”
“Oh, poor baby. Want me to set something on fire so you can put it out and feel like part of the club?”
“That’s not even funny.” He looks at me, disgust in his eyes.
I shrug. “Why, because you aren’t really a firefighter?”
“I’m a firefighter,” he scoffs, gesturing to his clothing.
“Could be a costume.” I toss my hair over my shoulder. “Maybe your sad little way of picking up girls.”
“If I was picking you up, sweetheart, you would know.” He steps toward me, his face fierce. He’s actually really good-looking. Like, if Ryan Gosling had an older, crankier brother.
I wave my hand at him. “Pfft.”
“So?” He looks at me.
“So?”
“Where do you want it?”
