One Bride for Three Firemen

“Thanks again,” I whisper softly in his ear, squeezing tight.

“Okay, thank you, Olivia.” He grins and sets me down gently before turning to follow his partners.

I back up toward the dining table, breathless and trembling, trying not to think of everything that just happened all at once. Unconsciously, my fingers find the business card that Pete left on the table and I stroke the ridged face of it, wondering what will happen next.

Chapter 7

PETE

The truck is completely silent all the way to the next job.

It’s a factory on the east edge of town, where they are making plastics additives and using kilns. We have only a few areas of industry. They help with taxes, but not with standard of living. Most of the really industrial areas are in the neighboring towns.

This small factory employs thirty-five local men and women. It’s owned by a family that lives near downtown. They have a fire suppression system, but it hasn’t been checked in three years.

Stephan has completely tightened up. All of a sudden he is all business.

Trigger, on the other hand, looks like a fretful puppy. A really big puppy, like a Husky or something. He is a bit confused, obviously grappling with everything that just went down. He has things he wants to say. I don’t want to rush him. He will talk when he is ready.

The plastics factory passes the inspection without a problem, though the floor supervisor is surprised to see us, like everybody else has been. I guess we really have been slacking off, overworked and perhaps a bit apathetic. Honestly the fire in Olivia’s apartment was the most exciting thing that has happened here in quite a while.

And it wasn’t even a fire, just some overbaked cookies.

As soon as I think of it, my body reacts. I pull myself into the driver’s seat and adjust my dick in my pants at the same time, trying to cover before anybody catches me.

Stephan raises his eyebrows.

“Little uncomfortable there, Chief?”

He slams his door as he gets into the passenger seat. Trigger slides into the back seat and expectantly leans forward.

“Guys, I think we should talk about this,” Trigger offers.

I don’t say anything.

“Are we done then?” Stephan asks, tapping the clipboard with his index finger. “Are we still being punished?”

“Doing our jobs is not punishment,” I remind him pointedly.

“Hey, guys?” Trigger continues.

“You said you were making a point,” Stephan continues.

“I was making a point about all of us being more dedicated to our jobs,” I reiterate. “That still isn’t a punishment, no matter how you want to slice it.”

“Hey, guys?” Trigger asks yet again. “Can we talk about it? You guys?”

Stephan falls silent as I pull into the firehouse driveway. We head back into the main room with Trigger following closely behind. Right away, I notice that Bubba’s truck is gone. We have the building to ourselves.

“I will make some lunch,” Stephan offers, climbing the stairs toward the kitchen.

I don’t have anything on my agenda at this point, so when Trigger comes for me, I don’t have a reason to avoid him. He locks eyes with me, 100 percent full of puppy energy. It would be cruel to turn him away.

“Pete? Come on, man. Let’s talk about this,” he says again, meaty hand swiping his chin under his open mouth.

Just look at him. A hundred years ago, he could have been a circus giant or something. Just fucking huge. Effortlessly strong. I’ve never seen him lift weights or anything.

It’s in his genes. His grandfather or great-grandfather was chief in this building. His dad was in the military, then a farmer with his mom on the family farm. Like a lot of kids around here, he grew up working with his hands, close to the land. St. Charles might be a very wealthy town now, but historically it was a small area with merchants and farmers.

The beauty of the land on both sides of the Fox River brought doctors and other professionals out from Chicago to build summer homes. A hundred years ago, twenty-five miles in a carriage or early automobile was quite a road trip. A summer house out here was considered far away. One day soon it’ll probably be only a half hour commute to downtown Chicago on one of those high speed commuter trains.

Basically, Trigger is a big old farm boy. He is what you’d call a nice kid.

“Pete?”

“Okay, what do you want to talk about?” I finally give in.

He raises his hands, palms up. You could probably fit a calf in those hands.

“Olivia? All of that?”

How can I tell him? That was probably nothing. He looks so hopeful. But it isn’t unheard of for women to get off on firemen. Not as often as people think, of course. Not as often as I would hope. But it does happen from time to time. It doesn’t mean she is his girlfriend or anything. Even though we said we would do it again, it is extremely unlikely.