Page 50 of A Spot of Trouble
Okay, fine. He had a pretty good idea why the accolades didn’t sit well. Throughout the entire pizza party, Violet sat with her usual group of friends from the retirement center, gracious even in defeat. Sam had to give her credit where credit was due. She didn’t try and say that the fire department had cheated or blame their victory on a stroke of dumb luck. When Sam had passed her table, she’d shaken his hand and told him he’d played well, but the TBPD would get him next time. That’s it. No outlandish trash talk, no name-calling, no setting him on fire.
Sam was—dare he think it—almost disappointed. He’d spotted Sprinkles resting quietly in a fancy pink crate when he’d stopped by the cupcake truck before the game. It was a wise choice, given what happened the previous Saturday. Aresponsiblechoice. Sam was a big believer in crate-training dogs. Still, the Dalmatian’s sad little tail wag had hit him straight in the feels.
What was happening to him? And why did Violet’s grace in the face of defeat remind him so much of Sprinkles’s cotton-candy-hued confinement?
Helikedsparring with Violet, that was why. And God help him, their kiss had been the best thirty seconds of his life, flames and all. Clearly there was something very wrong with him.
Still, he probably should have kept his mouth shut about her extension cords earlier. At minimum, he should have simply given her a verbal warning. But no, he’d whipped out his trusty pad and written her two new citations right there on the spot. Why had he even brought the blasted pad along with him to a softball game, anyway?
You know why.
He was losing it. If he had a lick of sense left, he’d take the fire marshal job in Chicago and leave Turtle Beach and all the accompanying Dalmatian drama in his rearview mirror.
Sam didn’t want to move back to Chicago, though. He’d realized as much when he’d come home from the batting cages the past few nights and proceeded to stay up late, unpacking his remaining moving boxes. His clothes were all lined up neatly in his closet. The books on the shelves in the living room were all carefully alphabetized by author. Sam had even hung a few things on the walls—a framed photograph from Cinder’s Medal of Honor ceremony, a picture of Sam’s old engine company in front of the firehouse on LaSalle Street, and, in a rare moment of sentimentality, a watercolor painting of Turtle Beach’s coastline at sunset.
Sam had picked up the framed piece of art at one of the numerous galleries on the boardwalk while he’d been doing a routine new- business inspection. Something about the painting’s delicate hues and soft swirls of color had calmed him. He’d thought hanging it in his new home might make him feel good about the changes he was making in his life.
It wasn’t until he’d nailed it to the wall that he’d recognized the location in the watercolor as the dog beach—the exact spot where he’d first encountered Violet March. In fact, if he squinted hard enough, a tiny figure on the horizon definitely looked familiar, as did a spotted dog romping in the waves.
Sam tried not to read too much into it. So he’d accidentally purchased a painting that featured the woman who seemed intent on driving him crazy. It didn’t necessarily mean anything.
But the fact that he couldn’t stop thinking about herdidmean something. God, that kiss. Sam had never experienced anything like it. What sort of magic made a man want to keep on kissing a woman while everything around him prepared itself to burn to the ground?
“One more game, eh?” Murray slapped Sam so hard on the back that he nearly choked on a pepperoni. “We can wrap this thing up next weekend. The tournament will be over practically before it started.”
All the firefighters around the table whooped in agreement. If there’d been a nearby cooler full of Gatorade, Sam was certain they would have dumped it on his head.
“You’re meeting us at the batting cages again this week for practice, right?” Griff said. “Those tips you gave us really helped.”
“Sure.” Sam nodded. “I think I can do that.”
His gaze darted once again to Violet’s table. She laughed at something one of her elderly friends said and then took a comically huge bite out of her slice of pizza. Cinder rested her head on Sam’s knee with a sigh, and when he glanced down, he realized he wasn’t the only one sneaking glances in Violet’s direction.
The tournament will be over practically before it started…
Victory had never tasted quite so bittersweet.
Chapter 12
The following morning, Sam sat at his desk with a renewed sense of purpose. A night of tossing and turning had ended with a revelation as he guzzled coffee in the morning and watched Cinder drag his tangled sheets neatly into place. Violet March was a distraction, plain and simple.
Perhaps that was oversimplifying things, as there was nothing remotely plain nor simple about her. But she was definitely a distraction. Luckily for Sam, years of training Cinder to be the perfect fire dog had taught him plenty about eliminating unwanted diversions.
He just needed to focus. He needed to practice redirecting his attention to other things every time the memory of kissing Violet’s perfectly impertinent mouth invaded his thoughts.
Sam could do this. He wasgreatat this sort of thing. He’d literally been awarded medals for it. If he’d taught Cinder how to ignore distractions with nothing but a firm tone and a pocket full of bacon treats, surely he could manage to control himself in Violet’s presence.
He knew just how to start. Step 1: Become so busy that he didn’t have time to think about anything else besides fire prevention. After all, that was why he’d moved to Turtle Beach in the first place.
The fire station on Seashell Drive wasn’t exactly a hive of activity, but that didn’t matter. Sam wasn’t at the mercy of the fire alarm like the rest of the guys were. He could do surprise inspections. He could pop into local businesses and examine their floor plans, their fire extinguishers, and emergency exit plans. He could write citations to people who didn’t have perfectly tousled blonde mermaid hair and who didn’t wear pink frilly aprons. And he would…starting right now.
As luck would have it, just as Sam started crafting a to-do list that was sure to keep him busy for at least a week, Griff popped his head into the office.
“There’s a call for you in dispatch,” he said, drumming his fingers on the door frame.
“In dispatch? For me?” Calls that came in on the dispatch line were usually emergencies, and Sam didn’t do emergencies. Not anymore.
He gripped the edge of his desk as his heart pounded so hard that his throat grew thick.
