The Men On Fire: A Complete Romance Series (3-Book Box Set)

by Samantha Christy

  “Sure. What do you want me to sign?”

  Nora looks around the table. Then I hand her a menu. “Here, how about this?”

  “It’s a menu,” Nora says.

  “Yeah, a Mitchell’s menu, signed by Baylor Mitchell.”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s a great idea.”

  As Nora chats up Baylor, Kyle asks me about Sara. I tell him she was moved to a rehab facility yesterday. He’s pleased. I get the idea he, like Dr. Miller, didn’t think she had a chance at any kind of meaningful recovery.

  “Sara Francis is one tough chick,” I say.

  Baylor stops talking and turns to me. “Did you say Sara Francis?”

  “Yes.”

  “I know her. She’s doing a painting for me.”

  My jaw drops. “She is?”

  Baylor snuggles closer to her husband. “She’s making a painting of our engagement. She’s super into details. She tracked down the small jet Gavin proposed in and even talked the pilot into taking her up for a short flight.”

  “Yup, that’s her,” I say. “But I’m sorry to say, it might be a while before you get the painting.”

  “Oh, really? Why?”

  “She was in an accident a few weeks ago. A bad one. She’s having to learn how to walk again. And I’m afraid she’s lost some of her memories. I don’t think she remembers making paintings for people.”

  “Oh, that’s horrible,” she says. “I mean, not for me—I can always get another painting—but for her. Is she going to be okay?”

  “She’s been moved to a rehab center. She’s doing better than anyone expected.”

  “Well, that’s good. Is there anything I can do?”

  “Are you friends?” I ask.

  “No, not really. I found out about her from my brother-in-law who is a photographer. Why do you ask?”

  I look down at the table. “Because she could use friends.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Not many people have come to see her,” I say. “I guess she wasn’t what you’d call a very kind person. But I don’t see it. She’s been nothing but kind the past few days.”

  “She was a bit of an arrogant one,” Baylor says. “But I thought that just went along with the territory, being a sought-after artist. Even so, it must be horrible to be in the hospital and not have visitors.”

  “Well, her cousin is there sometimes, but she has twin toddlers, and Sara has a fiancé, but his job keeps him away most of the time.”

  “She has you,” Aspen says, standing behind me.

  I hadn’t realized they had arrived.

  “Doesn’t she?” she says. “My brother here visits her every chance he gets.”

  Nora’s eyebrows shoot up. “You do?”

  “My company responded to her accident,” I say. “I felt bad for her.”

  Aspen and Bass share a look.

  “I’d be happy to visit her,” Baylor says. “But she won’t have any idea who I am. Do you think that’s okay?”

  “I’m sure she’d love for you to visit. A famous author? Who wouldn’t? Maybe you could take a few books to her.”

  “I’ll go, too,” Ivy says. “I’ll bring flowers.”

  I smile. “Thanks, guys. I appreciate it.”

  Nora spends the rest of dinner fawning over the famous author and the all-star baseball player at our table.

  I spend the rest of dinner wishing I were eating a cheeseburger and playing Go Fish.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Well, you look like shit,” Justin says when Brett comes around the corner. “Don’t take that the wrong way, Lieutenant.” Justin laughs. “Actually, no—that’s exactly the way I intended. You tie one on last night? Looks like you have one hell of a hangover.”

  Brett goes straight to the coffee machine and pours himself a cup. He stands there with his back to us, just drinking and breathing.

  “I was in California,” he says. “Just got back at five o’clock this morning.”

  “You were in California?” Bass asks in disbelief. “But you were on shift forty-eight hours ago.”

  “Flew in and out yesterday,” Brett says, still not turning around.

  “Why would you do that?” Justin asks. “Isn’t Amanda coming home tomorrow?”

  “No,” Brett says. “No, she’s not. She’s not coming home ever, apparently.”

  The sound of chair legs scraping against the tile floor echoes off the walls as we all stand up and circle around Brett at the kitchen counter.

  “What happened?” Bass asks.

  “She got offered a job. A better job than she has here. So, she’s staying.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Asked me to box up her stuff and ship it. She said she hired a lawyer, too.”

  “What the hell?” Justin asks. “She’s not taking Leo, is she?”

  Brett shakes his head. “No. She hired a divorce lawyer. She doesn’t want me or Leo. I suppose that’s the silver lining if there is one.”

  “You should be happy this happened now and not when Leo’s old enough to be messed up by it,” Justin says.

  “Happy?” he bites, looking at Justin like he might strangle him. “You think I should be happy about this? My goddamn marriage is ending. My son is losing his mother.”

  “A mother he never really had,” Justin says. “And don’t kid yourself, you’ve had nothing resembling a marriage this past year.”

  Everyone shoots Justin a scolding look. It’s one thing that we’re all thinking these things, quite another to say them out loud.

  Brett walks away, taking his coffee over to the table. He sits down and puts his head in his hands.

  J.D. puts a hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t you sit this one out,” he says. “I’ll call headquarters and get someone to cover for you.”

  “No way,” Brett says. “You want me to go home and think about the fact that I just became a single father? I know exactly how it feels to grow up without a mother. But at least mine didn’t leave on purpose. How do I tell my fifteen-month-old son that his mother doesn’t love him enough to stick around? No thank you. Being here is exactly what I need today.”

  The alarm sounds, putting us all into action to respond to a residential structure fire.

  “That’s our wake-up call,” J.D. says. “Time to put on our dancing shoes.”

  In the rig on the way to the call, I think about Brett and everything he’s had to overcome in his life. Losing his mother in 9/11 was horrible. And now this.

  “We should do something for Brett,” I say.

  “Like what?” Bass asks.

  “I don’t know. Offer to babysit or something? At the very least, we should pass the boot.”

  “That’s a given,” he says. “He’s one of us and we take care of our own.”

  I nod, wondering if I’ll ever be able to say the same. I don’t try to pretend like I’m one of them. Everyone knows I’m filling in for Noah. But let’s face it, I’m a man without a home. A sheep without a flock. A player without a team.

  I really, really want a team.

  Bass swats my arm with the back of his hand. “You’re one of us, too, Andrews. We got your back whenever you need it.”

  “Thanks, bro.”

  We pull up in front of a house with smoke spewing from the front door. A lady in a bathrobe is standing on the sidewalk, holding the hands of two small children.

  We hop out of the truck. “Anyone else inside?” Captain Dickerson asks.

  “My husband!” she screams. “He was still sleeping upstairs. I was fixing breakfast for the girls.” She covers her sobs. “Please save him.”

  “Briggs and Hanson, take the back,” J.D. says. “Andrews and I will take the front. Squad—get ready to attack.”

  As J.D. and I put on our masks and head in the front door, I wonder why he paired us the way he did. Usually, in a fire, J.D. pairs me with Bass.

  “There,” I say, seeing the stairway through the smoke.

  I look beyond the stairs and see the fain
t glow of fire. Coming in from the back, Bass and Steve will be in a good position to handle it.

  J.D. and I quickly ascend the stairs into the murky, smoke-filled upstairs hallway. It’s hard to see anything.

  “Fire department. Call out!” J.D. yells through his mask.

  I walk through a doorway on the right and step on a toy. “Kid’s room,” I say.

  The room on the left is not so easy to label. J.D. goes deep inside the room before he darts out. “Bunk beds,” he says. “Not the master.”

  “Fire department. Call out!” he shouts again.

  Finally, we come to a third open door. The smoke is not as thick in here and I can clearly see a man on the bed. “Got him,” I say, making my way to the head of the bed. “He’s still breathing.”

  I get the man onto my shoulders and J.D. leads the way down the smoke-filled stairway.

  Out front, the woman comes running up to us as we put her husband onto a gurney. “George!” she shouts as Debbe and Ryan tend to him with an oxygen mask.

  The man is finally awake and coughing. He reaches up and touches his wife’s face. “The girls?” he asks through his mask.

  “They’re fine,” she says.

  J.D. turns to me as we walk back into the house to help put out the fire. “Why the hell do people sleep with their doors open?”

  Ten minutes later, the fire is out. I point to the wall behind the charred clothes dryer. “Point of origin,” I say. “Damn, people. It takes three fucking seconds to clean out your lint filter, and ninety bucks a year to have the duct cleaned out and this won’t happen.”

  The other guys shake their heads. If we each had a nickel for every house fire that was started by a dryer vent …

  Back at the station, J.D. finds me fresh from a shower. “Sit down,” he says, motioning to the bench in front of my locker.

  I finish pulling my shirt over my head. “What is it, Captain?”

  “You did good today,” he says.

  “I did my job today. Same as everyone.”

  “And the other stuff? How are you dealing with that?”

  “You mean car accidents?”

  He nods.

  “I’m dealing,” I say. “Why?”

  “I’m just hoping you’ll give me a reason to recommend you if anything ever comes up on Engine 319.”

  I cock my head to the side. “Is there something you’re not telling me, Captain? Is Noah not coming back?”

  “Noah is fine,” he says. “He’ll be back in a few weeks as planned. Just give me a reason, Andrews.”

  “I’ll try my best,” I say.

  After he leaves, I’m excited and pissed at the same time. Excited because he wouldn’t have mentioned it unless he thought there was a possibility of an opening. Pissed because, clearly, I haven’t proven myself to be the obvious choice.

  ~ ~ ~

  I’m getting in a workout at the gym in the firehouse to pass the time between calls when my phone rings.

  “Hi, Joelle. What’s up?”

  “I hope I’m not bothering you. You said you wanted me to update you if anything happened,” she says.

  “It’s never a bother. Tell me.”

  “Well, the therapists told me this afternoon that she’s not progressing as much as they’d like.”

  “What do you mean? She killed it yesterday. She stood up and even took a few steps.”

  “I know. They told me. They also said that once that happens, things usually move along quickly. Sara should be making improvements in leaps and bounds, but she seems to have stalled. They think she may be suffering from depression.”

  “Depression?”

  “They said it’s not uncommon. But whatever it is, it’s affecting her motivation. And she’s still not talking much at all.”

  “Damn. I’m sorry to hear that. Was Oliver there today?”

  “He was here when I showed up about an hour ago. He and Sara were watching TV when I arrived.”

  “What do you think of him, Joelle?”

  “He’s very charming,” she says. “I can tell he’s not all that comfortable being around hospitals and such, but it does look like he’s trying.”

  “I’m glad he’s showing up every day.”

  “Me, too. Oh, hey, there is a bit of good news. They took out Sara’s catheter today.”

  “They did?”

  “Yes. Apparently, she started fussing about having to pee, something she hadn’t done until today. She still can’t walk to the bathroom, but with help, they can get her there so she can take care of things.”

  “I’m sure that will help her feel more normal.”

  “Let’s hope,” she says. “But if there is anything you can think of to help her out of her funk, please let me know.”

  “You’re her cousin, Joelle. You’d know more than I do what would help her.”

  “That’s not true, Denver. I’m not sure how it happened, but it seems you know Sara better than anyone at this point. And she seems to respond to you over everyone else.”

  I sigh. That wasn’t my intention. I just knew she needed someone to be there until Oliver showed up.

  “Maybe I should back off,” I say. “Let her get more accustomed to Oliver.”

  “Please don’t,” she says. “You are playing a huge part in her recovery. That’s more important than anything at this point.”

  I remember Krista telling me the same thing before we left the hospital.

  “Okay, I’ll be there tomorrow morning after I get off shift.”

  “Good. Thanks, Denver.”

  “No need to thank me.”

  After our call, I think about Oliver and how difficult this must be for him. What if her memory never returns? Chances are it won’t. What lengths will he have to go to and what hoops will he have to jump through to get her to fall in love with him again? And what if she doesn’t? Who says that just because she fell for him once, she will a second time? How long does he try? Weeks? Months?

  I just wonder if there is anything I can do to help it happen.

  I decide to text him.

  Me: Can we meet for coffee in the morning?

  Oliver: I suppose. What’s up?

  Me: I just thought we could get to know each other better.

  Oliver: I’m spoken for, mate.

  I laugh. Who knew he had a sense of humor?

  Me: I’m not into Brits. Unless they’re tall and busty, that is.

  Oliver: Good to know. How about you swing by our place. Sara has a great cappuccino machine.

  Me: Text me the address. I get off at 8:00 and I’ll come right after.

  He texts me the address and I notice it’s in a very trendy part of Manhattan. It’s out of the way, not even remotely close to where I live or the rehab center. But I’m glad he invited me. I’m not sure why, but part of me wasn’t even convinced they really lived together. It was just a feeling, I guess. It will be nice to see their place.

  Then I wonder if Sara even knows where she lives. More than likely, when she and Oliver moved in together, they got a new place. Maybe when she goes home, it won’t even feel like home—an apartment she doesn’t remember with a fiancé she doesn’t know.

  Sara needs more familiar things in her life. More familiar people.

  I decide to take a chance and call Lydia. After all, what’s more familiar than an old friend?

  Chapter Fifteen

  I look around the expansive loft apartment, seeing once again how the other half lives. I mean, I pretty much know how the other half lives because I’m staying in the townhouse owned by an MLB all-star. But this is nothing like Sawyer and Aspen’s place. This place screams modern artist.

  The ductwork on the ceiling is exposed. One entire interior wall is brick, another consists of huge picture windows overlooking the city. The floor is painted cement. The countertops are white quartz.

  I stand in the center of the living room and spin around, trying to imagine Sara here. I can’t. This place doesn’t seem like her
at all.

  “Would you care to take a peek in her studio?” Oliver asks.

  “Her studio? She works here?”

  “She does. Most artists work out of their homes.” He leads me to the rear of the apartment where there are two doors. He points to one. “That’s our bedroom—sorry, mate, no tour of that one. It’s a ruckus in there without Sara picking up after me.”

  He opens the door to her studio, and he might as well be opening the door to another world. This is Sara, I think. Not back there with the clean lines and sterile floors. This room, with half-painted canvases, splatters and drips of paint dotting the floor, tubes of various colors and brushes of all sizes scattered about a workbench that I could swear is an old door—this room is Sara.

  There are some paintings on the rear wall, some of which I’ve seen on-line. The expansive windows offer a view over the tops of some neighboring buildings with the picturesque George Washington bridge off in the distance. Definitely an urban view that I can see would be inspiring to an artist.

  “Wow,” I say, admiring both the view and her paintings.

  “She’s very talented,” he says.

  “So you help sell her paintings?”

  “I sell her,” he says. “Her vision. Her talent.”

  “I hope she can continue to paint,” I say, running my fingers across the top of some brushes sticking out of a mason jar. “Do you think talent like that is forgotten?”

  Oliver shrugs. “I like to think talent is inherent. Besides, she was talented even before she started selling her paintings. So even if she can’t remember how successful she is, I’m sure she remembers how to paint.”

  I stare at all the supplies in her studio.

  “Come on,” Oliver says. “Let’s have some cappuccino.”

  We spend the next thirty minutes talking about all the places he’s been. All the places Sara’s been that she doesn’t remember. He shows me some souvenirs on the shelves. An Akubra ‘Crocodile Dundee’ hat from Australia. A Pashmina shawl from India. A beaded necklace from South Africa.

  “You should show these to her,” I say.