Chasing Fire (Gilded Knights Series Book 2)

by Emilia Finn

So I nod. “Okay.”

  His eyes light up. “Okay?”

  I nod again. “But I want the radio, and I want texts while you work. If you make me cry, even one single time, then this agreement is over, and you’ll forever be on my shit-list.”

  “Deal.” Like this really is a business deal, he grabs my hand and shakes. “Absolutely, deal. Tonight?”

  I bark out a laugh. “It’s already almost dinnertime, and Max is tired, so nope. This is it for us. Once we’re done, we’re going home and settling in for the night.”

  “Tomorrow night,” he counters quickly. “And… a movie tonight.”

  “A movie?” I lift a brow in question. “Didn’t you just hear what I—”

  “I’ll walk you both home after we eat, you can do what you need to do, bathe him, put him in jammies, make some popcorn and check your emails. But then I wanna watch a movie. The three of us. Totally innocent.”

  “That’s what you said about us coming here.” I glance to my pasta, and finally pick up my fork. “Come for a walk to my house, Idalia. It’s totally innocent.”

  Laughing, Nixon only turns on his stool and gets started on his meal. “I didn’t start that. You did.”

  Yeah, I know. But still, “I have an early start tomorrow, so it has to be an early night for us.”

  “Scout’s honor.” He brings a hand up and salutes me. “Swear. One G-rated film, a bowl of popcorn, and like, three side-eyes to stare at your pretty face.”

  “Ha.” I shake my head and start scooping food onto my fork, but then my snicker makes way for sobriety. “You care?” I meet his eyes. “Really?”

  He nods. “So much that it’s gonna hurt if you change your mind. Just…” He exhales a silent laugh. “Don’t make me cry, okay?”

  12

  Nixon

  Date Night

  It’s almost five, the day after our movie evening and early night in, which means I should have clocked off from the station a couple hours ago, but instead, I chose to stay on and keep myself busy. If I went home with hours to wait and these anxious flutters in my stomach, I might have ended up climbing the walls.

  Instead, I guess I choose to annoy the other crew to the point of them climbing walls.

  But since I’m technically not on shift, I don’t feel a single lick of guilt for taking out my phone every few minutes and texting Idalia.

  I’m safe, all is well with the world. I got your radio, but don’t tell anyone where you got it… it’s now stolen property. Oh, and I’m kinda psyched for our date. I’m heading home in a sec, showering, changing, then I’m gonna be on your doorstep at six. Be ready!

  I hit send, grin like a child, and say nothing to anyone about the radio I placed in my truck a few hours ago. Handset, battery, charging station, and an instruction manual to get her set up.

  Because she cares.

  I was long ago banished from hanging out downstairs, so I work around my office instead. It feels weird being in here. I never use it, except when the brass wants me typing shit up, or formally chewing someone out—neither of which I make a habit of doing.

  My eyes jump back to the clock every thirty seconds or so, my heart galloping in my chest. So when my phone dings, I dive for it and unlock the screen with lightning-fast speed.

  Idalia: I’m dealing with incompetenza! Why is it so fucking hard to do a job, Nixon? Huh? You see an ad in the newspaper, you think to yourself, ‘that job description matches the things I can do,’ you attend an interview where you reiterate you can do those things, and then… What? You get the job, and your brain explodes, at which point, you realize you can’t do shit? Merda!

  Idalia: Also, I’m glad you’re safe at work. I had no clue how serious you would take this, but I’m counting back now—twelve texts in twelve hours—Nixon Rosa can meet the job brief. Grazie.

  Smiling, at both her tantrum and her quick math, I hit reply and begin typing: Twelve in twelve… is that too many? I have to admit, I kinda like texting you, so unless you start screaming at me in Italian, I’m probably gonna keep doing it. Who is annoying you at work? What have they done to earn your wrath? And how’s Max? Any new words today?

  When I hit send and my eyes invariably jump back to the clock, I slip my phone into my pocket and call it a day. One hour to get out of here, drive home, shower, touch my cock in an attempt to burn away the want of this woman, especially after our almost there of yesterday afternoon, then I can get dressed, drive to the Oriane, walk up six flights of stairs, and then… only feel mildly guilty for arriving forty or so minutes early.

  My phone dings in reply, but I save it for the truck as I swing out of my office and onto the grated landing. I pass guys I’ve known for years—some I trained with, and others I shuffled onto other shifts because their work ethic and mine didn’t gel.

  Unlike Idalia, who needs her staff to work all the time, on all shifts, I have the freedom to move mine out and make them someone else’s problem. If they continue to not do their job, then I have reports I was forced to type up sitting in wait to condemn them, so when the problem in question run out of crews to shuffle through, they’re dismissed.

  I pass firefighters who sit in the breakroom, farting amongst themselves and watching a professional fight on the TV, then I swing past this shift’s boss and wave in farewell. “Chad.”

  He raises a hand in goodbye, “Rosa. Catch you in the morning.”

  “Nope, not me.” And that knowledge makes me giddy. “I’m off for forty-eight.”

  “Psht.” He waves me off, but it’s no longer a goodbye. Instead, it’s transformed to ‘get the fuck outta here’. “Some people have the life. Don’t mind us, still on shift and waiting for someone to come relieve us.”

  “You’ll be fine.” When my cell dings a second time, I take it from my pocket and read as I walk.

  No new words from Max, but he’s pretty smiley today, so that’s nice. We had a function here this morning—lots of people—but he’s survived most of the day without headphones. That’s a pretty big deal. It’s a sensory thing; he likes muffling that sound. But I guess Arlo’s constant noise is helping him adapt.

  Twelve in twelve isn’t too many, considering I’ve had a smiley day too. You keep doing that, and we’ll be okay.

  And my head of housekeeping, that’s who’s annoying me! He came with decades of experience and glowing recommendations, but now I’m starting to think these people wrote them hoping that someone else—me—would take him off their hands. He’s supposed to be some kind of revered expert in his field, but all I see is a guy who wants me to pat his head and tell him what a good boy he is. It’s sending me crazy!

  But I’m heading upstairs in a moment. Showering, washing my hair. Then I have a date. So I’m going to shake this other nonsense off and count down the minutes until I get a glass of wine.

  The fact she has a date—with me!—makes me grin as I step out of the firehouse and into the cool air outside. I glance up at the sky, the waning sun, and to my left, at Diana, as she glistens after a wash.

  I fucking love my life, and it’s only going to get better now that Idalia was brave enough to say yes to testing whatever we have. It’s chemistry, and it’s sexual tension; those, I’m certain of. It’s a battle of wits, and a fun game of cat and mouse. It’s a gentle push and pull, because Idalia has trauma revolving around fire that she needs to work through.

  But I’m not such an asshole that I can’t accept my part in all this. I’m a workaholic. I love fighting fires, and though I should have gone home hours ago, everyone knows I stayed because I have a dependence on my job.

  It’s my purpose. It’s where my heart lies, second only to the love I have for my family.

  But now, I have my own choices to make, my own neurosis to work through. Do I have room above family and work for an Italian beauty and her cute-as-hell son, or do I continue to rely on the station to get me from day to day?

  As though the universe hears me, the sirens bleat at my back and bring me ar
ound out of habit. Years and years of training propel me forward, toward the rack that holds my turnouts.

  Normally, after that, I would race for communications. Then, while Sloane drives, I would begin planning our assault on whatever fire is breathing our oxygen.

  My heart thunders anew, but for a completely different reason.

  All day long, it has beat for Idalia and the anticipation of what’s coming tonight, but now it races because I stand in the middle of my station while the alarms scream and firefighters run from turnouts to their trucks.

  These men were sitting on recliners only a minute ago… watching TV, planning their dinner, and deciding who would cook. Now they’re dressed in their PPE and throwing themselves into an engine not named Diana.

  And I stand in the way, fighting my instincts and crushing my phone in my hand while my eyes wheel around and my brain scatters.

  I should jump into the truck and go with them. Help out. Kill that fire.

  But my phone, small and delicate in my hand, reminds me of the promises I’ve made.

  It’s not that I would bail on a blaze that popped up while I’m on shift, but the issue now is that I’m not on shift. Going with them now would be me choosing work over Idalia. It would be me choosing to fight a fire not meant for me, and having no care for Idalia’s or Max’s feelings.

  “Rosa?” Chad’s bellowing voice pulses in my ears. The rig he rides in jumps forward, then stops just feet from the bay doors as the lieutenant pokes his head out the truck window. “Staying or going?”

  The engine’s sirens wail. No doubt, Idalia already hears them. This town isn’t big enough that we don’t hear everything going on with the first responders.

  “Rosa?”

  “No.” I step back and feel my answer escape on an exhale. “I’m not coming.”

  “Alright.” Instantly, Chad pulls back into the truck and waves to his driver. “Let’s go.”

  My phone vibrates in my hand—not a text, but a call.

  Looking down, I see Idalia’s name, and though the truck’s sirens are too loud to hear over, to speak over, I still answer and bring the phone to my ear. “Hang on,” I shout. “Give it a second!”

  “Nixon?” I hear her. Her voice, her worry, her bone-deep fear for the people in her life when it comes to fire. “Are you on that truck? Nixon?”

  “Hang on, babe.”

  I make my way to my Ford, since the truck leaving is still too loud, too close. Climbing into the cab, I shut the door and block out a lot of the noise.

  “Hey.” I let my head drop back until it thunks against the seat. “I’m here.”

  “You’re not in that truck?” she exhales. “Really?”

  “Not my shift,” I tell her. “Not my responsibility.”

  “Really?” Her voice shakes. “But you’re at the station, right?”

  “Yeah, but I’m in my truck now. I was heading out when the alert came in.”

  “Did…” She hesitates. “Did you want to be on that truck?”

  “Honest answer?” I switch my call to speaker, then I set the phone on the dash so I can still speak as I drive. Then, starting the engine, I slowly pull out of the parking lot of my station and force myself not to turn left… not to follow the crew that just fled this place. “Yeah. And any other time, any other day, I’d have jumped in. More men always makes for a lighter load.”

  “So why didn’t you?” she whispers. Her voice breaks, and the nerves pulsing over our call are enough to knot my stomach. “Why, Nixon?”

  I smile and turn toward my place. “Because I have a date tonight. I’m heading home now to shower. Then I’ll be on your doorstep. So you and Max had better be ready.”

  “Me and Max?” she asks. “Really?”

  “Yeah, I booked a table for three at this local pizza place. There’s this dude who works there, a kid, really. Eighteen or so. He was the boyfriend of someone we used to know, but he’s an asshole. So in my family, if we’re ever eating out, we tend to go there and troll the fucker.”

  “So you…” Idalia laughs. “Hold on. There’s a lot to unpack there.”

  “There is?” I pull into my driveway and cut the engine. “What’s tripped you up?”

  “First of all… Max? You made reservations so he could come too?”

  “Of course. What, you think I wanted you to tie him to a tree outside?”

  “Well, no,” she snickers. “But most people in my situation would get a sitter. In fact, that’s exactly what I did. Arlo is staying late tonight,” she continues. “She can go home once I get back from dinner.”

  “Oh… well…”

  In my mind, I had this image of the three of us eating our dinner and fucking with the guy who’s earned Rosa family hatred for all of time. Hell, now’s as good a time as any to start a new generation of hating the guy who dumped his girlfriend because she got cancer and lost her hair. But now Idalia’s saying there’ll only be two at dinner. Which perhaps means less spit-wad shooting, and more touching… more talking… more Idalia.

  I clear my throat. “Alright then. So it’ll just be me and you?”

  “Just me and you,” she confirms. “I’m not quite ready to toss my crowd-anxious child into the dating life. But, Nixon?”

  I stop at my front door and slip the key into the lock. “Yeah?”

  “Thank you for considering him in your plans. That means a lot to me.”

  “Of course. Whenever you think it’s time, you let me know when to book a table for three. No pressure. It’s all on you to decide, whenever you’re comfortable.”

  “Thank you. Now, the kid we’re trolling?”

  I bark out a loud laugh. “Asshole thinks he gets to decide who has the luxury of feeling good about themselves. He messes with girls’ heads, and he has absolutely no remorse for it. So it’s family tradition now to sit in that restaurant and stare the prick down until he wets his pants.”

  “And that’s not…” She hums under her breath for a moment. “Toxic and mean?”

  “It totally is,” I admit. “But so is he, so it is what it is. I’m walking in my front door now, so how about we hang up, I shower, then I’ll be at your doorstep in a little bit?”

  “Or you could shower and video call me at the same time.”

  “Or I could—” My stomach drops. “Huh?”

  Laughter peals from her end of the call. “No? I had no clue you’d become so shy once you finally got consent. But okay. We’ll go slow.”

  “Wait, no—”

  “See you in a little bit, Nixon Rosa.”

  I was already in desperate need of release before my phone call with Idalia, but now, after a single phone call, a shower where I had to touch myself, I had to, and a painfully long drive across town—long for me, but in reality, it’s about a three-minute commute—I head through the front doors of the Oriane and look around with a smug grin.

  This is all hers. The gleaming chandeliers and the polished staircase. The newly painted walls and, in some places, wallpaper that gives that feeling of old luxury.

  I walk straight past the check-in desk, past the blonde doing her schoolwork while she awaits her next guest, and then I step onto the staircase and study the ornate carvings. The paintings on the walls. The flower arrangements—Rosa flowers that show not a single wilt.

  I head upstairs in jeans and a button-up shirt. My sleeves rolled to my elbows, my shirt underneath, crisp and washing-machine fresh. I brushed my hair—that’s new—and I don’t have a hat on—also new. My palms sweat from nerves, and my stomach jumps every time I hear a noise from above.

  I pass room after room, most of which have a name rather than a number, and when a housekeeper steps out of one, stocky and round, I smile and move to the right to allow room for her cart.

  “Nixon?”

  “Mrs. Betts.” I tip my hat, though of course I wear none, then I continue on up and try not to focus on the ball of nerves settled in my throat.

  It threatens to choke me, promi
ses to make a dick of me, taunts me as I climb each flight of stairs and my oxygen struggles to pass the bundle.

  “Fuck.” I bring a hand up to swipe my brow. Am I sweating more than usual? Am I freaking out, or is this normal first-date jitters?

  “Nix?”

  “Argh!” I spin at a woman’s snapped word, press a hand to my chest, then I snarl when I find it’s only Arlo.

  “You little shit,” I hiss. “You scared me.”

  “You?” Laughing, she skips up to where I stand, and slides her arm around mine so we walk side-by-side. “No way could such a strong, brave man get scared because an itty-bitty girl said his name. No way,” she admonishes. “Not you.”

  “Shut up.”

  “You nervous for your big date, Lieutenant?”

  “Mind your business.”

  “Ah, but see, it is my business. Max is my little dude, and because of this little shindig of your doing, I’m working late. Thus, Lieutenant Rosa, my business. You’d better bring back some mozzarella sticks.”

  “I’m gonna eat them all,” I threaten. “And I’m not bringing a single damn thing back to you.”

  “Oh dear,” she faux pouts. “It would be a crying shame if I had to call Idalia every twenty minutes tonight. Maybe Max stubs his toe just as your drinks are served. And maybe he misses her and wants a hug just as your entrées make their appearance.”

  “Asshole.”

  Giggling, she squeezes my arm tighter as we approach the fifth floor. “That’s not a nice thing to say about a child.”

  “I was talking about you,” I snarl.

  “My point stands,” she snickers.

  “The more you annoy me, the less mozzarella sticks you get.”

  “Well, I was getting none a minute ago, and now I’m getting some. That’s called progress.”

  “It’s called extortion.”

  “Tomato, tomahto. Bring me garlic twists, and I’ll make sure he doesn’t make a peep till tomorrow morning.”

  “Make it so she doesn’t have to worry for an entire night, and I’ll cook the garlic twists myself.”