A Firefighter in Her Stocking

Uh-uh. No way.

She was not going to cry in front of him.

Not now. Not ever.

She was not going to cry period.

She did not cry and most certainly if she ever did it wouldn’t be over burnt toast.

“Sarah?” His tone was no longer teasing, but showed concern. “Are you okay?”

Embarrassed, exhausted, ready to call it a night, she took a deep breath. “I’m tired and hungry and my dinner is chunks of charcoal and you annoy me. No big deal.”

He eyed her way too closely for comfort.

“You were really going to have toast for dinner?” he asked, ignoring the rest of her comment.

“I was going to spread hummus on it,” she defended. She’d showered, thrown on the baggy sweats, and had planned to eat a quick bite and crash. She did the same thing quite frequently on the days she worked the emergency room and got held up beyond her normal twelve-hour shift.

His nose curled again. “Hummus and toast. No, thank you.”

“For your information, I like hummus and toast.”

He didn’t look convinced. “Your hummus and toast must be better than any I’ve ever had.”

“It’s good. Stick around and you can taste for yourself.” Sarah heard herself say the words, but had no clue where they came from. Not in a million years would she invite her neighbor who started his days with a different woman every day of the week to stay for dinner.

Good grief. What would he think?

He had come to turn off her alarm, so she couldn’t really retract her invitation, could she? Not without seeming ungrateful and rude.

“Tempting,” he ventured, not sounding anything of the sort. “But I have a better offer.”

Of course he did. Women probably lined up to cook gourmet meals for him. And she’d heard first-hand that morning what else they offered.

“Why don’t you come to my place and let me cook for you?”

Surprised, she opened her mouth to refuse, but he continued speaking before she could.

“Before you say no, the food is already in the oven, the wine is chilled, and I have a view that’s even more amazing than yours.”

He’d noticed her view? He had food in the oven? Why did he have wine chilling?

Then it hit her.

“I pulled you away from company, didn’t I?”

He frowned. “No. Why would you think that?”

Because his apartment door was like a model runway exit, always with some beautiful woman walking through it.

But his look said he’d been alone.

“You’re cooking for just yourself?”

“I like to eat.”

Wondering at his apartment view, at what he’d cooked and how edible it was, she eyed him suspiciously. “What’s the catch?”