Bo turned molten brown eyes Sean’s direction. He was working, so he shouldn’t be distracted by anyone.
“Okay, Bo,” Sean said, giving the dog permission to relax. Bo immediately inched forward and braced his chin on Reyna’s knee. Sean waited for Reyna to protest, but the precisely straight line of her back bent a fraction as the movie started.
Reyna had flown jets.
She was a decorated military officer.
That much he knew from web searches and her father’s boasting.
They’d butted heads exactly once. Over Charlie. And he was having trouble letting that go.
But he did trust her to do the right thing.
For one night, he wanted to forget that she was the hero he’d never be and that she was about to evict a friend because of her commitment to the rules.
He wanted to pretend he was just a guy sharing a blanket with a pretty woman, a perfect dog and a movie under the starry night sky. It wouldn’t happen often.
He should enjoy every second.
CHAPTER TWO
A WEEK AFTER the Fourth of July cookout, Reyna Montero brushed sweaty hair off her forehead and tried to pretend she didn’t mind losing.
She wasn’t doing it well.
Losing was the worst and she’d never been good at faking. A lifetime of leading instead of following meant she had a lot more practice with being a gracious winner.
“You okay there, Montero?” Sid Fields, the instructor for the final required course at the South Florida First Responder Academy, yelled down from his perch on the second floor of the massive garage. The class had left the academy for real-world exposure at Sawgrass Station, one of the largest fire houses in the Miami area. They were gathered in a two-story building. The fire trucks and engines had been moved out, leaving concrete floors, cinder block walls and plenty of space. Open bay doors on opposite ends of the building provided the only breeze.
Sid and his younger brother, Mort Fields, the fire chief at Sawgrass, leaned against the railing and tested students’ times in responding to an alarm. Mort held a stopwatch and a clipboard. The task was simple. Put on the full turnout gear of a firefighter and move as quickly as possible from the starting line to the opposite wall.
“Fine, sir, thank you,” she answered and carefully placed the helmet and face mask in one of the cubbies above a long line of hooks on the wall. To buy time to catch her breath and shove her disappointment down, way down, Reyna studied the gear and straightened a few pieces. “Organization is key here.”
Seventy pounds of gear had made the simple task—walking a distance she should be able to run without breathing hard—a challenge.
Slipping off the air canister lightened the load considerably, almost thirty pounds’ difference in one simple change. Strapped to her back, that weight had made moving in heavy boots difficult.
“You can’t do this, you’ll never pass the physical aptitude test,” Sid barked. He held up a clipboard. “Burns, Monrovia, McQueen, Jones, Pulaski and Montero, decent times. The rest of you need some practice and better conditioning before you try the PAT.”
Reyna relaxed. Her name was on the good list. She was going to get her firefighting certificate, even if she didn’t win the instructor’s recommendation. Sid had announced he’d write one letter of recommendation and only one. Today’s relays had been his tool to decide who would be the lucky one to get it.
And it wasn’t going to be Reyna, because she hadn’t had the fastest time today. That stung.
Ryan Pulaski had already shrugged out of his jacket. “Guess Air Force training is different than learning to fight fires.”
Tall and blond, Pulaski would have made the perfect poster boy for an all-American firefighter. Reyna had beaten his test scores in every class they’d shared, so he was taking his turn to gloat.
Reyna was used to dealing with these men and their inflated egos when they had finally managed to push her to second place.
To show how unaffected she was by his dig, Reyna picked up his ax, flashlight and utility belt. After she’d stored them correctly in the cubbies along the wall, Reyna removed her own jacket and hung it on a hook. As she stepped back, she surveyed the line of turnout gear. She was leaving it better than she’d found it before the test started.
Cooler air immediately hit her soaked T-shirt. Reyna pinched the knit between her thumbs and fingers and pulled it away from her damp skin.
Summer in Miami. Sweaty clothes were her norm. She’d been relieved the fans she’d set up for the Fourth of July movie had made the last-minute inspiration to celebrate outside tolerable. Sawgrass Station could use those fans right now.
“The city’s physical aptitude test is no joke,” Mort drawled. “Passing it is tough, but I’m happy to see there are a few strong candidates here. You never know who will show up on the day. Bad news is I’ve only got room for one, maybe two of you here at my firehouse. If you’re lucky enough to get on at Sawgrass, you stay here.” His proud expression made it clear that he knew it was the best station in the city.
Reyna struggled out of the turnout pants and boots and turned to face the men on the second floor.
“Good job, Pulaski,” Mort added. “Look me up when you have the certificate in your hand.”
The tight burn in her jaw was Reyna’s reminder that clamping her jaw shut was her best answer here.
So what that she’d been at the top of every class the academy required to get the firefighter certification?
Or that she’d outscored Pulaski on every written exam in Fields’s final class?
Or even that she was a decorated Air Force veteran who’d served her country overseas?
Flying jets required precision, skill, command of all her reflexes and the ability to think under pressure.
Being slower physically than Pulaski to put on her turnout gear negated none of that.
Sawgrass Station was where she wanted to work. It was a big operation with multiple crews. When any news reporter wanted the fire department’s contribution to a story, they chased down Mort Fields. He had served the metropolitan Miami area for thirty years. She could remember the first time she’d met Mort and his firehouse dog, Smokey, at a summer event in Bayfront Park. She’d been ten years old and starstruck. The now-bald chief had had a full head of blond hair then.
Mort had been in her favorite snapshot of her family, the one she’d carried with her when she left Miami. That photo of Reyna, her father, her little sister, the fire chief and his Dalmatian had been a piece of home no matter where she was stationed.
Now he and his brother were watching her closely. They thought she was going to be a sore loser.
Reyna held her hand out and waited for Pulaski to shake it. “Don’t suppose I could talk you into going for the best two out of three?” she asked.
“Got nothing to gain from that, Montero,” Pulaski answered. “I’m either going to win again or I lose and throw away my only advantage here.” He motioned between them. “Of course we’re the fastest. That’s why they put us up against each other. Army basic training versus that Air Force easy life. Here I came out on top.” He motioned over his shoulder. “A job interview like this can’t be beat.”
Both Fields brothers were still watching them, even though they couldn’t hear the conversation. This was not the time to wade into which branch of service was the best, strongest or hardest.
Reyna nodded and dug in her bag to pull out her phone. “Then can you do me a favor?” She pulled up the camera. “Film me as I run this again. I can work on conditioning, for sure, but I’d like to know where I’m getting hung up with the gear.”
She held out her phone and waited.
Pulaski tipped his head back and then took the phone. “You’re going to go through that again? With an audience watching. Why? It won’t help.” He glanced over his shoulder as if he weren’t enti
rely convinced that what he was saying was correct.
“I want to be a firefighter. I need to improve this skill. Winning or losing only matters here, in this class, but when I’m on a shift, answering a call, I have to have this down.” Reyna stared at the heavy gear and did her best to ignore the heat. She’d been through plenty of physical training over the years. She could do this one more time today.
Pulaski shook his head. “It’s your funeral” was easy to read on his face. Then he turned around to make an announcement. “Montero’s going to run it again, everybody, for her own personal development.” He waved the camera. “And we’re filming it.”
He nodded at her. “Go when you’re ready.”
Reyna inhaled slowly to steady her nerves. The pounding of her heart was distracting and she needed to focus.
Sometimes visualizing the target helped, so she pictured the bunker gear, thinking about the order she would put it on in, and nodded in return.
Everyone was watching her, waiting, but her only competition was herself.
That had been true often enough in her life.
Under her breath, Reyna counted, “Three, two, one...go.” Fast but not clumsy.
That was her last thought before she reached for the pants and boots.
Jacket. Utility belt. Flashlight. Air canister on her back. Face mask. Helmet. Gloves.
Then she was walking and she poured every bit of energy she had remaining for speed. When she touched the wall, she felt good. Right.
As she yanked the face mask and helmet off, she turned to Pulaski.
“I think you were faster this time,” he said, both eyebrows raised.
“Because she was,” Mort Fields yelled down, waving the stopwatch in his hand.
This time it was easier to catch her breath. Pulaski waited patiently for her to rehang her jacket and offered her the phone.
“Easier the second time,” Reyna said. “Maybe one more time...”
His groan almost made her smile. “Don’t be a martyr, Montero. We get it. You’re strong.” He walked over and snatched a backpack off the floor. “Tales will be told all over southern Florida of Reyna Montero’s dedication. I’ll take care of spreading the word here at Sawgrass.” Pulaski held out his arms. “Because I’ll be taking this job. See you at the physical aptitude test. Hope you’re ready to finish second there, too.” He was halfway across the wide-open room before Reyna gave up on finding a clever answer. If it didn’t happen immediately, she’d only look silly yelling her “Oh yeah?” response.
Silly was no way for a Montero to look.
Reyna fell into line behind the rest of the class and listened to subdued chatter as everyone headed for the parking lot. None of it was directed to her, so there was no need to come up with anything brilliant to say.
Listening was easier than making conversation. Standing on the outside instead of serving as the glue for her team was something she was still coming to terms with. Her family came with some challenges, which had made joining the Air Force a simpler decision. It had been easy enough to make a new family with the men and women she’d served with. In South Korea, every holiday presented another chance to build that family’s bonds. Thanksgiving dinner might not include turkey, but they’d done their best to observe traditions together.
Even so, loneliness had sometimes been overwhelming while she was in the service.
Reyna hadn’t expected it to get worse after retirement.
She stopped at the SUV her father provided as a part of her role as manager of Concord Court, a cushy job he’d created to entice her home.
“Montero,” Sid Fields yelled from the station’s doorway. “Hold up.”
Reyna dropped her bag inside and leaned against the hot metal car door. Maybe her clothes would miraculously dry while they talked.
“Second place. There’s no shame there.” Sid motioned back toward the firehouse with his chin. “My brother? Of the two of us, most people would say he’s number one. Finished first. Fire department’s spokesman when it counts.” He tapped his chest. “But when it comes to training firefighters, I’m the guy chiefs call on. You understand?”
Reyna brushed her hair back. She really didn’t get what he was telling her, but admitting that wasn’t a smart move.
His sigh of disgust confirmed her suspicion. “Different jobs, Montero. Different skills. Think on that.” He turned on his heel.
“A fine last impression to leave,” she muttered as she spotted Mort Fields standing in the shade near the building, his arms crossed over his chest and a frown wrinkling his forehead.
Should she wave?
No waving.
The size of the station had been what first caught her attention when she was making plans for her second career as a firefighter. If she wanted to further specialize her training, Sawgrass would offer more opportunities.
Hazmat cleanup was interesting. They’d covered the basics at the academy, but on-the-job training would make any specialty training she might want to pursue clearer.
Reyna slid behind the wheel and carefully drove out of the parking lot. It was a beautiful sunny day and the roads were filled with people riding bicycles. Late afternoon could be that way. The heat eased marginally, so runners and riders came out.
The distance from Sawgrass Station to her town house was short. That was the second reason she wanted to work at Sawgrass. If she got the job, it would be easy to keep an eye on Concord Court, the bridge community of townhomes that offered veterans a place to stay for two years while they adjusted to coming home.
Veterans got a chance to pursue education or to find the right jobs, and space to get their feet under them.
Warm brown stucco and red-tiled roofs, along with the sparkling pool in the center of the complex, wrought iron fencing and lush vegetation gave the whole place an inviting atmosphere.
Luis Montero wouldn’t have had it any other way.
He’d conceived the project as a way to encourage Reyna’s retirement.
He’d always been protective of his daughters, and he’d felt the need to persuade Reyna to leave the Air Force, to come home where it was safe.
Without his pressure, she’d still be in South Korea. She’d be meeting her “family” at their favorite bar in Pyeongtaek, the place with the bartender who spoke English and blasted country music on the jukebox.
The restlessness and dissatisfaction she felt behind the desk at Concord Court would be a long way away. This plan to become a firefighter would still be hazy and in the future. The pressure to either join a fire crew or settle down in her position at Concord Court would not be a problem.
She’d tried things her father’s way for a few months. Focusing on getting Concord Court up and running had taken some energy when she’d first gotten home, but the smaller that challenge grew, the harder it was to face spending the rest of her life behind the desk in the Court’s office.
Coming home had been like racing at the speed of sound into a brick wall. From Mach 1 to done.
The first time she’d mentioned her interest in a second career to her father had not gone well. Luis Montero had never taken disappointment gracefully, and his plan had been for her to return and take the nice, safe job running Concord Court.
She hadn’t attempted the conversation this time.
One father. One stepmother. One sister. With her no longer being in the service, that was all the family she had now.
It made no sense to upset the peace until she got a job offer. When that happened, she’d deal with her father.
As Reyna drove past the office, she noticed the lights were out. Sean had manned the desk for her, and he’d closed up for the day.
She continued on to her unit and saw that he’d made it as far as his own front steps. He was clearly waiting for her. They were neighbors, something she’d spent a lot of time thinkin
g about when she’d moved in. Their setup was logical. For now, it was the two of them managing the complex and small staff and that was a job twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.
Unfortunately, there was something about Wakefield that made their conversations tense, like there was an undercurrent of something she couldn’t name. He was good at his job. Very good. She didn’t have to worry because he took care of security, maintenance and construction, leaving her the people part of the equation.
Why did finding him now, when she wasn’t expecting it, provoke this restlessness? It made her alert and unsettled and ready to move all at the same time.
It had to be because he was so handsome. Messy brown hair and hazel eyes that reflected his mood, good or bad. And tonight, he had the beginnings of a beard. Later she’d try to decide if that scruff was better or worse than his usual clean jaw.
Good-looking men should come with some advance warning system.
“Everything okay?” she asked.
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I expected you’d require a sit report. All quiet. Received two referrals from the hospital and left notes on your desk as requested.” He frowned down at the grass. “And not that you asked, but I got Charlie moved to Punto Verde yesterday morning.”
The fatigue that had been fading buried her in a landslide. It was hard to lock her knees. All she wanted to do was sit down. Had to be the heat. “Good.”
“He wasn’t happy.” Sean met her stare then. “Again. Not that you asked.”
Reyna pressed one hand to her forehead. His anger was understandable, but this was part of the job. “I’m sorry.”
“That he wasn’t happy or that you didn’t ask?”
Valid point. Reyna huffed out a breath. “Both. Too wrapped up in something else, so I’m sorry he’s struggling and that I didn’t think to ask.” Failing on both fronts of her career wasn’t something she’d considered. She hadn’t won Sid Fields’s recommendation, and she was letting down a fellow vet.
The Dalmatian Dilemma Page 2