No More Wasted Time: A Carlsbad Village Lesbian Romance

“Exactly,” Krissy said.

Rachel shook her head.

“I have a sister,” she informed Krissy. “I have zero desire to kiss her. I also have a best friend…Amy.” She leaned a little closer to Krissy. Their legs touched and despite everything, Krissy couldn’t help but enjoy the thrill of it. “Don’t tell Ainsley this, but if I was single and Amy was single, I’d kiss the fuck out of Amy; just like I know you want to kiss the fuck out of Becca.”

They both broke into laughter.

“Anyway,” Rachel went on, “you might want to consider advancing things along with Becca. I hear there’s a Redheaded Vanessa lurking around town.”

Shit!

Krissy had totally forgotten to tweet about that the other day! This means somebody had scooped her! Damn!

“I know, I met her,” Krissy said. “Well, sort of…She was on the beach practically throwing herself at Becca on Sunday.”

“Is she magical?” Rachel asked, all gossipy.

Krissy groaned.

“She’s stunning and I hate her,” she replied.

“And she’s definitely gay?” Rachel inquired.

“Super gay.”

Rachel sighed.

“Well, a lesbian Redheaded Vanessa is a dangerous woman,” she said. “If I were you, I’d want such a woman to know Becca is spoken for.”

Krissy nodded. Her friend certainly had a point.

Chapter 15

“And finally, this next firefighter is being honored today not only for her extraordinary leadership during last week’s event, but also for her quick-thinking and courage which prevented an already tragic incident from becoming even more tragic…”

The mayor of Carlsbad droned on. “…selflessness…”; “…great risk to herself…”; “…courage and unbelievable heroism…”

Becca wished he would just shut up and get this over with. Yes, being awarded the Medal of Valor was an incredible honor, one which typified the bravery it took to be a firefighter. The fact that she—a gay woman—was getting it also meant putting another nail in the coffin of the idiotic idea that neither women nor gay people have what it takes to excel at this profession.

But honestly, Becca would have preferred it if they had just mailed her the damn thing. She hated being on display like this.

She and the other honorees—including her fellow battalion chief, Putnam, as well as Cappy—were standing side by side near the mayor’s dais. She was the final awardee, and the only one getting an actual medal, all of the others having gotten citations for their various actions during the fire.

Finally, she heard the mayor say her name.

Stepping forward a single step, Becca executed a perfect right face, stepped forward twice again and then gave the mayor a crisp salute. It was Chief Comstock who draped the medal around her neck. When he had done so, he saluted her. Becca returned the honor and then shook his proffered hand.

The chamber full of guests and press burst into applause. Finally it was over. Except it wasn’t. The press needed to get their photos, of course. Becca with the mayor. Becca with the chief. Becca with her parents. Becca with the mayor, the chief and her parents.

There was one final photo she was asked to stand for. Why she didn’t see it coming probably had to do with how uncomfortable she had been all day about this impending ceremony.

“Hello, Chief Roberts, ma’am,” a female firefighter, wearing the dress uniform of the

Oceanside Fire Department, said.

At first, Becca didn’t recognize her, but then her mind was able to replace the clean face with one that had been dirtied and smudged by soot and smoke, and the dress uniform with turnout gear. Most significantly, the last time Becca had seen the blue eyes that were looking up at her now, they had been so wide with sheer terror that those blue irises had seemed like little blue dots in a sea of white.

“Hello, Ross,” Becca said to the woman whose life she had saved last week. If this had been a chance meeting almost anywhere else—the beach, the grocery story, a restaurant—Becca probably would have embraced Ross in greeting. But this was City Hall. The mayor was here. Chief Comstock was here. And she herself far outranked Ross. The setting and circumstances required a certain measure of decorum.