Page 5 of Feastin' with Fire
The door opens, and I blink in surprise. It's him. The firefighter who pulled me from the burning shop. He's cleaned up, the soot washed from his face, but I recognize those intense blue eyes immediately. He's not in uniform anymore, just worn jeans and a faded Pine Haven Fire Department t-shirt that stretches across broad shoulders. He looks somehow both larger and more human without all the gear.
"Ms. Anderson," he says, hovering awkwardly in the doorway. "I hope I'm not intruding."
I'm suddenly, painfully aware of how I must look. Hair a tangled mess, face still smudged with soot in places, wearing nothing but a thin hospital gown.
"No, it's... it's fine," I manage, pulling the blanket across my lap for some semblance of dignity. "You're the firefighter who found me."
"Jimmy Sullivan," he introduces himself again, as if I could have forgotten. "I wanted to check how you're doing."
"Is that normal procedure?" I ask, then immediately regret the sharpness in my tone. "I'm sorry. That was rude. I'm just..."
"No apology needed," he says, taking a step into the room. He's carrying a small duffel bag, which he sets on the chair near the door. "And no, it's not procedure. This is just me checking on you. Call it a Thanksgiving miracle"
Something about his direct honesty makes my throat tighten. I look down at my bandaged hands again.
"The doctor says I'll be fine. Physically, at least." I attempt a smile that feels more like a grimace. "Thank you for saving me."
"You already thanked me at the scene," he says, running a hand through his hair.
"Well, I'm thanking you again." This time my smile feels a little more genuine. "I wasn't exactly coherent then."
He nods, then gestures to the chair. "Mind if I sit for a minute?"
I shake my head, and he settles his large frame into the small hospital chair. Up close, I can see the fine lines around his eyes, the small scars on his hands. Working hands that have seen their share of pain and rescue.
"I brought you something," he says, reaching for the duffel bag. "Nothing much, just some essentials. Toothbrush, t-shirt, sweatpants. Hospital social worker said your clothes were pretty much a loss."
I stare at him, unable to process this unexpected kindness. "You... you didn't have to do that."
"I know." He sets the bag on the edge of the bed. "There's also information about emergency services, Red Cross contact, that sort of thing."
The reality of my situation crashes back over me, and I fight to keep my expression neutral. "Thank you. That's very thoughtful."
Something in my voice must give me away because he raises his left eyebrow. "You really don't have anyone to call, do you?"
The direct question breaks through what little composure I have left. I shake my head, a tear escapes despite my best efforts.
"Not in Pine Haven," I admit quietly. "My parents and I aren't... we haven't spoken in years. They didn't approve of the flower shop."
I don't know why I'm telling him this—a stranger, even if he did save my life. Maybe it's the medication making me loose-lipped, or maybe it's just the simple human need to be heard when everything is falling apart.
Jimmy Sullivan's expression doesn't change to pity, which I appreciate more than he could know. Instead, he just nods, like he understands completely.
"The Red Cross can set you up in a motel for a few days," he says. "After that, there's—"
"I don't have insurance," I blurt out, the confession burning my throat worse than the smoke had. "On the shop. I was going to finalize it next week after I paid my suppliers. I kept putting it off because money was so tight and I thought... I thought I had time."
Jimmy doesn't flinch away from the harsh reality like most people would.
"That's rough," he says simply. "Really rough."
His straightforward acknowledgment of my situation, without platitudes or false reassurance, loosens something in my chest. I take a shaky breath.
"I don't know what I'm going to do," I whisper, admitting what terrifies me most. "Everything I had was in that shop."
He's quiet for a moment, his blue eyes thoughtful. Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out something—a photograph, singed around the edges and water-damaged.
"I found this," he says, holding it out to me. "In the shop."
