The Firefighter's Thanksgiving Wish
“You mean this nonsense about closing the station? Pfffth.” Ezzie waved that notion aside. “I’ve been here a little over a week, and you know what I’ve learned? That girl belongs here. She’s not going anywhere, and that means the station won’t, either. So you can change your mind and stay. And then I get what I want. A smart, beautiful daughter-in-law and equally beautiful grandbabies to spoil rotten.”
There was a time he would have found the teasing amusing. “Mom, you need to stop. Life isn’t that easy. None of that is going to happen.”
“I don’t understand.” Ezzie’s brow furrowed. “Haven’t you told her how you feel about her?”
He rested his chin in his hand and looked up at his mother.
“Oh.” Ezzie sagged a bit, the delight dimming in her eyes. “You did tell her. Well, that’s different, isn’t it?” It took a few beats, but Ezzie Salazar was never down for long. “You know what?” She snapped her fingers. “If telling her didn’t convince her to stay put, there’s only one thing you can do.”
“Please, enlighten me.”
“You’re going to have to show her.”
* * *
WHOEVER WAS RINGING her bell at—Frankie pried open one eye and looked at her clock—three in the afternoon was going to die a slow, agonizing death. Preferably, she thought as she dragged herself out of bed, on a roasting spit with an apple stuffed in their mouth. Perfect for her holiday attitude.
She grabbed her phone to check it. She hadn’t missed any emergency call, which meant whoever was waiting on the other side of the door was in for one heck of a welcome.
She slipped on sweats and yanked open the door.
“I woke you, didn’t I?” Roman turned that billion-watt smile on her and had her reconsidering the spit.
“Ya think?” Frankie sagged against the door frame. “What are you doing here, Roman?”
“Sorry. I brought you Christmas cookies.” He indicated the paper bag in his fingers clutched around the crutch handle. “Can I come in?”
“Really?” Frankie sighed even as the final vestiges of sleep vanished. “You know it’s your fault my internal clock’s all wonky.” She closed the door behind him as he hobbled inside. The aroma of vanilla and sugar wafted into her nose. “Are those homemade?”
“My mother’s white chocolate macadamia nut. She’s been baking.” Roman offered her the bag. “She’s also rearranged our kitchen. Again.”
Our kitchen. The implied togetherness of the phrase caught Frankie off guard and meant she missed it when Roman’s gaze landed on the blue cap hanging on the peg by the door.
“What’s this?” He reached for the cap, and it took all of Frankie’s control not to snatch it free of his grasp. “BHFD. How come you don’t wear this?” He turned it around, saw the word chief embroidered on the back. The expression on his face held far more sympathy than she was comfortable with.
“It was my dad’s.” Frankie removed the cap from Roman’s fingers and placed it back on the peg. “I’ve been saving it for when I become chief. Which, let’s face it, will never happen. Kitchen’s through there. Please don’t pull an Ezzie and start rearranging things. I’ll be right back.”
The house, as usual, was a bit of a mess, but he was the one who had come over uninvited, so...he deserved what he saw.
She finished dressing in minutes, if a pullover sweater qualified, and was dragging her hair into a knot when she passed through the living room and a pang of conscientiousness struck. Quickly, she grabbed the basket of laundry and pile of dirty clothes and shoved them all behind the sofa. The remote controls and magazines found some kind of order thanks to her fumbling hands, and she folded her grandmother’s crocheted afghan.
“I made coffee.” Roman stood in the doorway to the kitchen. “Cookies are still a little warm.”
Because the smell hadn’t been tempting enough. “What are you doing walking around? You’re supposed to keep that foot elevated.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He hobbled to the kitchen table and sat down. The distinctive, tempting sound of rustling paper as he drew out a stack of cookies had both her heart and stomach rumbling. “Would you believe me if I said I missed you?”
She stopped midpour and set the coffeepot on the counter. “Stop it.”
“You walked out last night before I could defend myself.” His mouth sounded full, and when she turned she found one of the cookies half-gone.
“You don’t owe me any explanation, Roman. We shared a few moments. No one’s declaring undying love.” Not yet. Frankie’s grasp around the coffeepot tightened. Where had that come from? A couple of kisses and one moonlight stroll on the beach and suddenly she was thinking of forever? “I can’t blame you for using this job to boost your résumé. It’s a pretty great gig.” It was, in her eyes, the perfect gig.