by Emilia Finn
No one was seriously injured today; it’s always a good day when we roll the hoses back and know there were no fatalities. Fortunately, my friendly little slice was the worst of it, and when Mitch tossed me into the back of his ambulance, he deemed me fine after one minute and a painful squeeze of antiseptic spray.
Now, I study the dried blood surrounding what my crew would call a ‘love bite’. The gash is three inches long, deep enough to make the wound ooze, but not so deep that I need stitches. As Bitchy Mitchy said, I’m fine.
Pressing my hands to the stone countertop my brothers and I installed all on our own, I bring my eyes back up to the pair reflecting in the mirror. To my hair, too long and in need of a cut. I look to my nose—straight, like Idalia noticed. Though, she was implying that if no one had broken it for me yet, she might be willing. I study the smudge of black on my cheek, and below that, the stubble I’ve grown in the last ten or so hours.
I smell, I’m sweaty, I’m dirty, and if I have to stand for a minute longer, I might fall.
Shaking my head, I turn to my left and flip my shower on, then bringing my hands back, I unsnap my pants and stifle a yawn that stretches my entire face. I need scalding water, and then maybe a heatpack to drop on my shoulders while I watch a movie. But just before I push my pants down, a knock at my front door brings my hands to a stop and my eyes up.
It could be anyone; Mitch and Nadia, Beck looking for someone to hang out with. Corey, Troy, or hell, it could even be Arlo, since she declared herself family long ago and skipped the ‘getting to know you all’ formalities. There was no awkward first meeting. No nerves or insecurities. There was just a loudmouth teen who flopped her tiny ass on my couch and took the remote.
“Please don’t let it be Arlo.”
I shove my shower taps off and push back into my hall. Around my discarded boots, and past my phone, keys, and the wallet I dropped the moment I came inside.
I tap my phone as I pass, quickly check my screen—too many texts to read on the fly, but I sure as shit see Arlo’s name—then shaking my head, I unlock my front door and swing the solid timber open. “Look, kid. I don’t have the energy for—”
My words die when my eyes stop on a woman in jeans and a t-shirt. Not just any shirt, but a fucking soccer jersey with a golden number seven on the chest.
“Idalia?” My voice cracks from nerves, and then from worry. I shove my head through the doorway in search of… what? A fire? Possibly a kid. I bring my gaze back to hers, and notice her pale cheeks. Her thumbnail, caught between her teeth. “Are you okay? Is anyone hurt?”
“Um… no.” Her voice crackles too. So I guess that’s good. She’s as nervous as I am. The difference is, she knows why she’s here. I have no fucking clue. “I was… er… I wanted to speak with you.”
“Okay…” I look outside again. “Where’s Max? Do you need to get him from the car or something?”
She shakes her head and stifles a soft snigger. “Max is at home with the nanny. I assure you, Mr. Rosa. I do not lock my child in the car while I approach strange men’s homes.”
“No, I…” I drag a deep breath into my chest, only to realize I’m still half-naked when her eyes drop to the movement. “I didn’t mean offense. I was only making sure he was okay.”
“He’s okay, Mr. R—”
“Nixon.” I step out of the doorway and leave her plenty of room to pass. “Please call me Nix. ‘Mr. Rosa’ sounds way too formal. Um… come in, I guess. If that’s what you wanna do.”
“Do you not want me to?”
I’m trying to take up less room. To be less intimidating, considering I’m only half-dressed, and this prickly woman has approached my home. But her question brings me up short.
“Huh?”
“You said you guess. Come in, you guess. I certainly do not want to impose, Mr—” She stops, then smiles. “Nixon.”
“I do want you to come in.” Lifting my shoulders, opening my chest, since I’ve never been one to slouch, I wave toward my living room. “But I don’t want you to come inside if you’re uncomfortable. I’m not the kinda guy who’s gonna encourage a woman to be uncomfortable, even if I think her ass looks fantastic in those jeans.”
Her eyes whip to mine, and her smile, for just a moment, notches up.
“Cristiano Ronaldo is Portuguese; did you know that?”
She passes me, fussing with her shirt and studying my home in the minute she gets before I shut the door. When she’s had her fill and her eyes stop on my discarded boots, she pauses in the middle of my living room and turns back to face me. “I knew that. My son is soccer mad, and only a little antipatriottica, considering he should cheer for Italy. But,” she shrugs. “It is what it is.” She flashes a stunning grin that somehow has the power to rob my lungs of oxygen. “Perhaps Ronaldo will move to Italy someday and play there.”
“Doubtful.” I chuckle. “Can I get you something? A drink? Pretty sure I have leftover cake in my fridge.”
“A shirt?” She makes no secret of looking at my chest. She looks, but she asks me to put it away. “I’m what you call rusty when it comes to half-naked men. You make it difficult for me to focus when you have no shirt on.”
“And I should be sorry for that?” I circle around my living room, talking my game and acting like I have my shit under control, but still, I snag a shirt from my clean laundry basket and hold it in my hands. “You wear my countryman on your shirt, and you look at me with eyes that scream a million things your lips won’t.”
“They won’t, because I do not give them permission to speak. Shirt, Mr. Rosa?”
Okay, so she turns icy and formal when she’s uncomfortable, but smirks and smiles when we’re on even footing.
Conceding, I flip my shirt straight and work on shrugging it on without tugging my aching gash. “I’m dressed. What’s up?”
“What happened to your ribs?” She goes back to nibbling on her thumbnail. “It looks sore.”
“Caught some flying debris at work today. What’s up with the shirt?”
Scowling at my answer, she folds her arms and makes her way to my couch. She doesn’t sit, but she studies the leather, and at her back, the television that takes up the entire wall. “Ronaldo is the best player in the world. Why wouldn’t I wear his shirt?”
“I’m the best firefighter in this town, and I play baseball twice a year for the fire-versus-cop fundraiser. Will you wear my shirt?”
“Twice a year?” she mock-gasps. “Two whole games a year? You must be a formidable player, Mr—” A rose blush covers her cheeks. “Nixon.”
“Formidable as fuck. And I hardly even warm the bench.”
Snickering, then letting her hands fall, she relaxes just a little more. “Are you okay?” She lets her eyes drop to my torso. “Serious question.”
“Yeah.” I nod. “I’m okay. Promise. And you?”
“Me?” Her brows come together. “Me what?”
“Are you okay? You’re here for a reason, and though I’m happy to see you out of that fucking skirt suit and in a pair of Levi’s, the fact you sought out my home is making my palms itch.”
Considering my words in silence, she turns away and allows her gaze to study the rest of my living room. “You have a nice home.” She starts moving, past my dining room, past the dark mahogany table with eight chairs surrounding it, and into the kitchen. She walks my domain, studies the cabinetry my brothers and I installed, and when her eyes stop on the backsplash, she brings her gaze back to mine. “Did you choose those tiles?”
“I chose everything.” I follow her in, and for the miniscule second her eyes aren’t on me, I whip my arm up and sniff. I’ve been working all day, and my stink-factor is obvious. “The, uh, tiles…” I make my way to her side and run my fingertips over the rough ceramic. “They were the leftovers from someone else’s order.”
“They were?” Idalia tilts her chin just far enough that I catch sight of her upturned lips. “Explain?”
“They were set to
go to the dump because the corners were chipped. The edges weren’t perfect. The original order asked for perfection, so they tossed any tiles they deemed imperfect to the side.”
“And you… decided you wanted the broken pieces?”
“You like my backsplash. Of all the things in this kitchen, that’s what you noticed.”
“They’re beautiful.”
“Exactly.”
I let my hand fall, and turn so my chest brushes over the ball of her shoulder. When she stiffens but remains in place, and for just a second, a single second in time, she leans a little closer, I grin and turn to the fridge to grab a beer. I need alcohol to combat my exhaustion.
“I figured,” I speak and swing the fridge door open. “Broken doesn’t mean unloved. Broken in one person’s eyes does not mean broken in all people’s eyes. And really, I considered it a challenge of sorts. To take the discarded and prove they’re still beautiful.”
“And because of that,” she admits, shaking her head when I offer a beer, “you end up with a unique look and a beautiful end product.” When I offer a soda, she smirks and takes the can from my hand. “Awfully philosophical of you.”
“Bottom line, you like the backsplash.” I open my beer and toss the cap into the trash. “Why are you here, Idalia?”
Surprised, this woman of European descent and too much fucking class to be alone in this house with me, a hose jockey, cracks her soda open and takes a small sip. “Straight to the point, then? Not even going to allow me space to dawdle?”
“I did. You made it all the way to my kitchen. We discussed tiles. You have a beverage. That’s a hell of a lot of dawdling. Now cut the shit and tell me what’s wrong.”
Her eyes cut to mine when I cuss, but she’s not offended. Not angry. “I was unkind to you the last time we spoke.”
“You’ve been unkind to me every single time we’ve ever spoken. I’m kinda used to it by this point.”
“Brutal honesty.” She snickers. “Alright. I’ve been unkind to you every time we’ve been in the same space. I… uh… I’m trying to apologize, but such words do not come easily to me.”
“Because English is a second language to you?”
“No, because I’m proud,” she counters and laughs. “I’m sorry, Nixon.” She sets her soda on the stone countertop and turns to face me straight on. “I’m sorry for being a jerk. I’m sorry my defense mechanism is to freeze you out. I’m sorry that I’m not emotionally mature enough to speak to a man who isn’t my husband, and not be defensive about it.”
Her husband. Her fucking husband.
“Where is he?” I look around my kitchen, as though that will somehow provide me answers. “I don’t know a damn thing about you, Idalia, except that you’re beautiful, you’re new to town, you have a kid, and you don’t wear a wedding ring.”
Her eyes drop to her hand. Her fingers spread and fan—perhaps something she used to do when she wore a ring. “I took it off a little while ago.” She brings her eyes back up to mine. “My husband passed away, Nixon. Two years ago.”
“Oh.” Mid-sip, mid-swallow, I set my beer down and choke down the bitter liquid. “I guess I was hoping you broke up with him because he’s a dick.”
She shakes her head and reaches up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “He was actually pretty amazing. He was special and kind. He was a gentleman, sweet, silly.”
“A fuckin’ legend,” I sigh. “My research about you fell awkwardly short,” I admit. “What happened to him?”
“He wouldn’t pick up his socks, so I left arsenic in his morning smoothie.”
Idalia makes her way around my counter, past me, as I stand in stunned silence, and stops at my fridge. She opens it, not because she wants to swipe anything inside, but because she’s taking stock of my fittings, my cabinetry, even the doorknobs I chose.
“I’m kidding, by the way.” Her gaze comes around to me. “I wouldn’t even know where to buy arsenic.” She closes my fridge and comes to my stove. It’s massive, industrial-quality, and has yet to let me down. “My husband died in a fire, Nixon. That fire took everything from me. Everything except Max.”
“Was he… Your husband, was he a firefighter?”
She shakes her head, and somehow, her answer relieves a little of the tension bubbling in my chest. “He was not a fireman. Just a victim in a fatal home fire.”
“So he wasn’t trained. He wouldn’t have had the proper PPE to keep him safe. Your hatred for my profession, though it makes sense in your head, doesn’t connect to what happened to him. He wasn’t a firefi—”
“No, he wasn’t. What happened to him has surely left me with my own scars.” She shows me her forearm, offers it, and swallows as I come closer.
I realize now that this is the first time I’ve ever seen her so dressed down. The first time she hasn’t been in a suit jacket that covers her skin.
“My scars are on the inside just as they’re on the outside,” she continues. “Fire burns. Fire kills. And perhaps my biggest flaw in all this is that I mourn another man’s death more than I mourn my husband’s.”
I run the tips of my fingers along her forearm. Over burned skin, smooth and scarred, hairless because the follicles were damaged too much. “Another man?”
“A fireman saved me and Max that night, Nixon. A brave fireman in all the bright clothes he was supposed to wear. He had a helmet, and gloves, an oxygen tank, and such big, broad shoulders.” She takes her arm from my hold and studies my chest. “Shoulders a lot like yours, actually. Brandon McGarren was about your age, in case you were wondering. He had the training, he had the protective stuff, and he had the crew at his back, protecting him. Still, he saved this woman and her child, and when I told him to go back in, to save my husband, he went in. He didn’t ask questions, he didn’t care for his own safety. He climbed through a window on my word.” She shrugs as sadness and regret pulse in the air just as potently as sex and attraction has pulsed other times we’ve been near. “He didn’t hesitate for a single second. He climbed in that window, and he never came out again.”
An ache thuds deep in my heart. For this woman who blames herself for a firefighter’s death, but also for my fallen brother.
We didn’t know each other, but it doesn’t matter. The bond exists anyway.
“This is the job, Idalia. What happened to him wasn’t your fault. And it wasn’t his, either. It just…”
“Happened,” she finishes. “I know. Being a firefighter is dangerous. I told you that the other day, and I was told my feelings were invalid.”
“I didn’t say your feelings were invalid.” I scowl. “I said I work hard to ensure my team remains safe.”
“And yet, you were injured today.” She lets her eyes drop to my ribs, and when her brow wings up, I follow her gaze to find a crimson stain soaking through my shirt.
“Ah, shit.” I spin away with one hand on my wound to help clot the blood, and with my left hand, I grab the first aid box from beneath my sink.
Dropping the tub on my counter, I pull the lid off and go in search of gauze. “People get hurt at their jobs, Idalia. That’s not unique to being a firefighter.”
“No, but if you were working at, say, a stationery supply store, if a box of pens fell from the shelf and hit your leg, that would be the end of it. The box doesn’t erupt in flames, it doesn’t grow, it doesn’t burn and kill.”
“It was terrible luck that firefighter died,” I concede. “But the likelihood of fatalities on the job is so unbelievably low.”
I tear open a gauze using my teeth, but before I get the chance to pull my shirt up and slap it down, Idalia steps in close and stops my movements. Slowly, with gentle hands, she lifts my shirt and keeps her eyes trained on my chest. On my ribs. And as far from my eyes as she can manage.
“You have to clean it first,” she chides.
Hunching forward to get a closer look at my wound, she tsks in the back of her throat. Straightening out again, she flips my faucet on
and begins washing her hands. Soap, lather, scrub, and then dry. When she’s done, she rifles around in the first aid box in search of supplies.
“I thought all firefighters these days were also trained EMTs? How do you not know how to treat a cut?”
“I do know how.” I study the top of her head. The shiny, black mane of hair she wears loose more often than not. “Band-aid, beer, feet up.”
“Dio mio,” she grumbles. “Men are frustrating.”
She snags a tube of antiseptic and squeezes a dollop onto the tip of her finger. Before I get the chance to prepare, before I can even take a breath, she jams that finger against my wound and punishes me for the wrongs of all mankind.
“Argh, merda!”
Snickering, she spreads the cream over my ribs and tries to stifle her laughter. “Was that ‘shit’ in Italian, or Portuguese?”
“It doesn’t fucking matter,” I growl. “You’re cruel in every language.”
“Crybaby.” Rolling her eyes, she goes back to work and massages the cream around my wound. She uses her thumb, and wraps the other four fingers around my ribs in a caress of sorts. A caress my mind and dick might focus on, if not for the fire in my blood from her rough doctoring. “My son cries less than you do.”
“Your son is a badass and never cries.” I look up at the ceiling, because she has no care for how rough she is on me, and it would be insane for me to let her know how much it hurts. “The other day, when you walked up and saw Max on his ass?”
The heat from her stare brings mine down.
“That wasn’t the first time he was knocked down. He’s kinda rough when you get him on grass and call it a competition. Max is practicing being a man already, running at the opposition, flattening me without remorse. Argh!” I cry out when she digs her finger into my ribs. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Just making sure it’s clean. I’d hate for you to die from sepsis.” Searching the counter for a moment, only to come up empty and bring her gaze back to me, she finds what she’s looking for in my hand. “Grazie.” She snatches the gauze and slowly begins peeling the protective paper away.