Page 16 of Ablaze

Her arms fly up, landing with a thud at her sides. “Then, what? Is it because I complain about your crazy work schedule? Because you’re sleeping at the damn fire station more nights than you are at home? Okay, fine, I admit it. It’s unfair for me to do that because there’s nothing you can do about it, and as much as I hate your job, I’m willing to accept it.”

And there is that, too. Her truth, as obvious as an elephant hiding behind a stripper pole. But, sadly, it’s not as big of a surprise to me as the expression on her face is portraying. As if it’s the first time she’s verbally admitted it, and she’s shocked that the words actually had sound. She may not have voiced it so articulately before, but I’ve known her disdain for my work and my hours.

“I’m . . . I’m sorry, Dean. That’s not what I meant. I don’t hate–”

I lift my hand, interrupting her from continuing because honestly, her disapproval of my job isn’t the reason we’re here today. Though, it does help that she confirmed it and therefore, makes my decision resolute. “It’s fine, Nora. This has nothing to do with your parents or you. This is about me.”

Nora’s high-pitched laugh resounds in the silence between us. “Oh, come on, Dean Meyer. You can do better than that. Are you seriously going to pull the it’s-not-you-it’s-me card?” If her eyes could throw actual daggers, they would. “Give me a fucking break and come up with something a little more original.”

I push back the long strands of my hair. “I’m not pulling cards, nor am I making excuses, Nora. I just . . . I can’t be who you need. I told you that when we met–”

“Yeah, sure, Dean. You told me. You told me that we would never be serious. That you don’t do love and attachment. But that’s not what your actions said when you met my sister and niece and spent hours baking a cake with her. That’s not what your actions said when you threw a surprise birthday party for me and flew my best friend in from Arizona last month. That’s not what your actions said when you stayed up to comfort me after my fourteen-year-old cat died six months ago. The fact is, you might say you’re not who I need, but you’re exactly who I want.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. This is exactly why I don’t do committed shit. This is why I stay away from attachments and long-term bullshit. Because I can’t fucking stand to see the look on someone’s face when you know you’re pulling their heart out of their chest and cracking it open. “I’m sorry, Nora. I . . . I just can’t do this.”

She stares at me, her jaw tightening. “Tell me something, Dean. And please, at least have the decency of being honest with me, okay?”

I nod.

“Is this about Rohan’s sister?”

I squint at her, even as the beat of my heart kicks up for some unknown reason. “What?”

Nora crosses her arms in front of her chest. “You’re always checking in on her, spending time with both of them, helping at her little café. I’m just wondering if there’s something more there.”

A surge of irritation knicks my insides. “There’s nothing more there. Mala is a friend of mine. She’s . . .” The words feel acrid even as I say them, but in all honesty, I don’t really know why they should. “She’s like a sister.”

Nora tilts her head, blinking at me like she’s waiting for me to get a clue–to realize how simpleminded and ridiculous I sound. “A sister. Right.” She turns around, rushing back toward the door. “Have a wonderful life living in denial, Dean. It’s obvious you’re happy there.”

I shuffle after her, stopping her before she steps out. “What does that mean?”

Grasping the door, Nora gives me a pitiful smile. “Open your eyes, Dean. Acknowledge what you really want. Accept it. Because the way I see it, you seem to purposefully be living in the dark. Goodbye.”

Chapter Six

MALA

Eight Years Ago

“Which kind do you want? I’ve got lemon-ginger and pomegranate-lavender.” I lift the kettle off its base and pour hot water into my cup with the bag of lemon-ginger tea. I add a spoon of honey to it, too.

“Any chance you have something like ‘regular, not-a-weird-ass-flavor’ tea?” Dean bellows from his place on my couch.

I roll my eyes. “Yes. It’s called hot water.”

“Brat. Fine, I’ll take the lavender shit.” He turns from the couch, giving me one of his ridiculously dazzling smiles, and even in the dimmed lights in my living room, I can see a little blush creep to his cheeks. It’s so fucking endearing, I have to force myself to look away so I don’t end up staring. “Hey, uh . . . do you have one of those peanut butter cookies from the bakery the other day?”

I purse my lips to hide my smile and turn around to get a bag of the pomegranate-lavender tea. I take out the dog treat jar from the cupboard and place a couple of cookies on the plate under his cup. I always have treats on hand for the rare occasions when I pet sit. “You mean, the peanut butter and pumpkin dog treats? The ones I make especially to help with canine digestion and bowel movements?”

“I refuse to be deterred by your disgusting marketing terminology.” I hear the clicking of the remote as Dean selects different programs on the TV.

I’m carrying the cups to the couch when something dawns on me. Something that Betty, my new helper at the bakery since I fired Meg, pointed out recently.

“Wait a minute.” I set the cups on my coffee table and put my hands on my hips, looking down at where he sits. “How do you know I made peanut butter-pumpkin treats? They were on the other glass shelf.” I stare at the man who’s exceptionally good at masking his thoughts and feelings with humor or a blank expression, like he’s doing now. “Come to think of it, I made at least four dozen of those cookies on Thursday, and Betty told me we were running short, even though we both swore we didn’t sell that many. Did you–”

“How about we watch this love experiment show where they blind date three people and marry the one who suits them the best after three dates? It’s called Three After Three. A dumb name, don’t you think?”

“You came to the bakery to do that random smoke detector check the other day, even though I told you Rohan just did it recently.” My eyes widen. “Dean Meyer, did you pocket a bunch of–”

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