Page 11 of Tasting Fire

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Emmy floppeddown into a chair at the Triple B and took a few seconds to look around the combo coffee shop, restaurant, and bar. To appreciate the rustic barnwood tables and simple silver pendants hanging above them. A vintage Lance crackers sign on the wall promisedjust right…right now!

Her cousin and adopted sister Kris slid into the seat across from her and pushed a cup of marshmallow-topped cocoa toward her. “Here. I thought you might need this.”

“How did you know?” Emmy asked.

“Word’s already spreading that Cash Kingston looked like he’d been lobotomized with a rusty pipe when Captain Styles made the announcement,” Kris said. “Add that to your reunion with him in the fire station parking lot and his subsequent visit to his sister’s office, and I just figured.” Kris gave Emmy a sympathetic smile and pushed her purple-striped dark hair over her shoulder. Oh, how Emmy had envied that hair when they were younger. Thick and black as original sin, it and Kris’s petite build turned men’s heads.

Emmy, on the other hand, had plain old medium brown hair and the only thing she ever did with it was truss it up in some kind of braid. She patted the fishtail she was wearing now. At least she’d have some waves when she took it down later.

She took a big swallow from the cup and discovered that Kris had laced the hot chocolate with a healthy shot of alcohol. “H…h…holy crap.”

“Didn’t think the chocolate alone would be enough.”

God, she’d missed Kris over the years she’d been away from North Carolina. Somehow, weekend visits with her and Emmy’s mom had never been enough to satisfy Emmy emotionally. But those, and other close relationships, were things she’d given up in order to succeed professionally.

Now, she wanted to have both a good careeranda fulfilling life.

“Why didn’t you—or anyone else—tell me Cash Kingston wanted this position?” Emmy smiled at Kris to let her know she wasn’t placing blame, just asking.

Kris angled her chair and kicked her feet up in the one catty-cornered from her. “Because I didn’t know. Maybe no one else really did, either.”

Maggie obviously had, but she hadn’t been the ultimate decision maker. And if others didn’t know, that meant Cash hadn’t made his case. Was he still the same old guy, surfing through life without lofty goals and big dreams? Or did he have a goal and she’d shot it all to hell? “Do you think I made a mistake, coming home?”

“For cripe’s sake, you’ve been here less than forty-eight hours, and you’re already questioning your decision? I thought you were happy about this move. Besides, the more miles you put between you and Oliver, the better.”

“Why do you say that?” This time, Emmy was careful to sip the cocoa, but the alcohol still burned her nose. On the upside, it was warming the hollow place inside her.

“Because even with the little I’ve been around him, it’s easy to see he’s a self-involved narcissist.”

“He’s a good doctor.”

“Really?” Kris snorted. “That’s all you’ve got? That’s just sad. Mom and I tried not to say anything while the two of you were together, but I never understood what attracted you to him.”

Professional compatibility. Convenience.

That was why she hadn’t thought twice about moving back to Steele Ridge. Although she’d been friendly with the ER staff and the SWAT team in Baltimore, the transition hadn’t cost her anything in the way of meaningful relationships. Sad.

“It’s not enough anymore.”

“What isn’t?”

“The cardboard life I built for myself there.”

Kris clapped her hands. “Finally! All work and no play makes Emmy—”

From inside her bag, Emmy’s phone rang to the tune of “More Than a Feeling” by Boston. Shoot, she’d forgotten to change Oliver’s ring tone. “Don’t Look Back” sounded like a good option.

“Speak of the narcissist,” Kris drawled.

“I should probably take this.”

Kris waved toward a doorway that led to Triple B’s office and storage area. Phone in hand, Emmy propped her back against the wall and tried to stay out of the way of anyone who might pass through. “Hello.”

“Emerson, the phone rang four times.”

She should’ve let the damn thing ring five times and go to voice mail. “Yes, it did.”