The Player Next Door

“What? Oh, yeah. While I was running around like a goddamn chicken with my head cut off, screaming ‘fire!’ Does that count?” she asks sarcastically.

“Well, someone must have.”

Heavy boots storm up my front porch, followed seconds later by shouts and a fist pounding on my front door.

“You probably have about five seconds before they bust that shit down,” Justine warns, folding her arms across her chest, making it clear that she will not be handling this.

I curse under my breath, my cheeks flaming as I march forward, aware that I’m still in my tank top and boxers. I throw open my front door, to find four mammoth bodies standing outside.

Shane is front and center.

“There was a report of a fire?” He doesn’t wait for my answer, stepping across my threshold, forcing me back into a corner, his piercing gaze quickly searching the house’s interior.

“Yeah, in the kitchen, but it was small and we put it out with the extinguisher. Really, you guys didn’t need to …” My words trail as he storms down the hall. The others follow, brought up at the rear by Dean who offers a small smile—and an overt glance downward that makes me cross my arms over my braless chest—before continuing. I glare at his back. Dickhead.

Outside, more firefighters wait by the truck for instructions. Several people loiter on the sidewalk, watching the excitement unfold.

“Could this weekend get any worse?” I hiss, wandering into the kitchen with Justine. We’re squeezed against the wall as they quickly survey the damage and radio in a report.

“Like I told you, there’s really no need for this circus. We put it out.” I eye the enormous bodies in heavy equipment filling my tiny kitchen.

“Dispatch got a call from one of your neighbors about screaming and smoke. We can’t leave until we’ve inspected. It’s protocol.” Shane doesn’t sound like himself right now. Maybe he’s trying to maintain a professional appearance, but something tells me there’s more to it than that, because aside from those few seconds inside my door, he seems to be intentionally avoiding eye contact with me. “What happened?” he asks, pointing at the stove.

“Well, I was cooking breakfast …” Justine goes into detail, about the glorious meal she was making and the faulty stove top I forgot to tell her about. By the time she’s done, two of the firefighters have filed out, leaving Shane and Dean to deal with us.

“Faulty stove top.” Shane frowns. “What’s wrong with it?”

“I don’t know. Iris left me a note and just said the back burner acts up sometimes.”

“It acts up?” he echoes lightly, his eyes connecting with Dean’s where a silent message seems to be relayed. Do they not believe me?

“That’s what her note said,” I reiterate, my tone sharp. Why is everyone having difficulty accepting the words of a sweet ninety-year-old lady?

The corners of Dean’s mouth curl but he smooths his expression quickly with a clearing of his throat. “Good thing you had a fire extinguisher. Most people don’t.”

“Yeah … Good thing.” I steal a glance at Shane, whose focus is on my scorched bug calendar now.

He shifts a pile of ash with his boot. “Didn’t think you were serious about burning down your kitchen.”

Oh my God. “I wasn’t!” I snap. Elementary school teacher and daughter of local infamous harlot is named arsonist. The last thing I need is that rumor floating around town. I wish I’d never cracked that stupid joke.

His gaze flickers to mine briefly. “Relax. I’m kidding.” There’s no humor in his voice, though. “Murphy’s in town will give you a ten percent friends-and-family discount on a new stove if you drop my name.” He hesitates. “Or use Dean’s name, if that works better for you.”

I let him see my heavy eye roll. We’ve moved to the cordial, distant, awkward stage. Great.

“I’ll be outside. Have a good day, ladies.” He strolls out of my kitchen.

“You don’t want to leave this stuff for too long.” Dean steers our attention to the white residue from the extinguisher. “Hot water and vinegar usually works, but if it’s stuck …” His instructions drift as I watch Shane’s retreating back down my hall. He looks enormous in all that gear.

And this is stupid.

“Hey, Shane!” I trot after him.

He slows. “Uh-huh?”

“Thanks.”

“Just doing my job.” He says it casually, but there’s still that hint of something in his voice—animosity? Reluctance? Annoyance?

“No, I mean, thank you for the fire extinguisher.” Finally, he turns to face me and I smile sheepishly. “If I hadn’t had it, I probably wouldn’t have a house right now.”

“Yeah, well …” He offers a smirk. “What did I tell you? Fire safety’s no joke.”

“You don’t say,” I murmur, studying my bare toes as the awkward silence hanging between us grows.

“If there’s nothing else?” He waits a beat and then shifts toward the door.