Hot Stuff

Big, huge smiles all around. I meet his eyes again, and when my gaze briefly flits to his lips and then his beard, I can’t stop myself from asking.

“So, the beard,” I say, nodding toward his face. “It’s impressive, but aren’t firemen supposed to keep a clean shave?”

“Yeah.” He smirks. “I’m one of those lucky few who can grow a beard like Tim Allen in The Santa Clause. I let it go during my off days but shave it off when I’m working,” he explains. “This is my third day off. Although, I’m technically on call today.”

“And if you’re called in?” I question. “What happens with the beard? Pretty sure fires don’t wait for you to shave…”

“They don’t.” He chuckles and shakes his head. “So, I just have to hope your dad is too busy dealing with the fire to ream my ass about the beard.”

“Living dangerously, I see,” I tease.

“Danger might as well be my middle name.” He waggles his brows. “So…you like beards, Dr. Lauren?”

“Yeah. I do,” I answer, but then I search his eyes, and a memory of his appointment pops into my mind. “Wait…are you flirting with me right now? In my father’s kitchen?”

“Well…” He pauses. Smirks. Sighs. Then smirks again. “It appears I can’t help myself around you.”

Holy hell, he is flirting with me.

And boy, oh boy are you loving every second of it…

Our gazes stay locked, and I don’t know what to say. And when he starts to open his mouth, I have no idea what he’s going to say, but I can tell you, I’m one-hundred percent invested in listening.

“Lauren…I—”

“Shit!” From the living room, the sound of my dad’s voice fills my ears and makes Garrett stop midsentence. I furrow my brow, but before I can ask what’s wrong, Captain Jimmy practically slides across the hardwood floor from the living room and into the kitchen.

“Alexander!” my dad shouts. “Come on! We gotta make a run! Four-alarm in the East Village. Some big condo complex.”

Garrett’s fun-loving face changes from playful to serious in a heartbeat as he places his drying towel on the counter and jumps into action.

He runs for the living room and grabs his phone and keys and light jacket off the back of the couch, and the swollen, happy feeling in my chest deflates like a pin-popped balloon.

I chew at the side of my mouth, unenthused by the sudden surge of gut-sour emotion. I didn’t want anyone outside of the family to come in the first place—so why am I so disappointed he’s leaving?

I wipe away the hair that’s crept into my face with my shoulder and blow out a deep breath.

Time to reset, Lauren.

I’m just about to enter the seventh circle of my unexplained breakdown when a firm hand to my elbow squeezes gently, pulling my attention away from the dishes and my ridiculous bout of hysteria.

Garrett’s eyes are warm and focused—completely in contrast to their frosty color, but it works somehow—as he demands my attention.

I focus on his face and the sincerity all over it. “Thank you for dinner, Lauren. I’m truly sorry to run out on the cleanup…and the fantastic conversation.”

“Oh, uh, of course.” I nod jerkily. “I mean, you’re welcome.”

He smiles one last time, and then, almost as if time speeds up, he’s gone without a physical trace.

Emotionally, though, he’s left an impression. One I will do everything in my power to erase.

Because, like it or not, my father is right. Guys like him—guys who live their lives like my dad—will always leave a woman waiting. Always.

And I, Lauren Carroll, am not the kind of woman who waits.

January 16th

Lauren

Salads are all around me.

Salads, people. At the best steakhouse in San Diego, every woman in sight is eating a salad.

It’s ridiculous. Criminal, almost. But it’s also Southern California. It’s been over four months since I got back to this Barbie-emulating, plastic skin-sporting, avocado-loving side of the country, and still, I’m not used to it.

I’m used to tough New York broads who like their red meat to ooze blood in some sort of badass bitch tribute to their enemies.

If it weren’t for the fact that my colleague and now friendly acquaintance, Dr. Rebecca Harbrook, ordered a chicken breast, I’d be close to spiraling out of control.

Okay, maybe that’s a little dramatic, but I’m just thankful I’m not the only one who can’t survive on rabbit food.

I take another swig of my iced tea and swallow every bitter, judgy thought in my head.

It’s not my business what other people eat. All that matters is the fact that I’ve been pounding this tea like a dehydrated camel, and I have no hump in which to store it.

Dear God, if I don’t get to a restroom soon, I’m going to burst.

T-minus thirty seconds until pop goes the pee-weasel!

Rebecca looks up from her chicken breast with a smile. “Are you okay? You look…not good.”