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

by Samantha Christy

  “Andrews, get down here!” someone yells.

  I get out of my cot—the one in the corner that’s designated for the floaters—and put on my shoes as I wonder why the hell everyone else is already awake.

  When I make it down to the kitchen, everyone in the firehouse is standing at attention.

  “What’s going on here?” I ask, suspiciously.

  J.D. nods to Steve. “Steve got his transfer,” he says. “And while nothing has been made official yet, I talked to Chief Mitzel and the commissioner yesterday, and pending final approval, it looks like you’re set to become the newest member of Engine Company 319. So—unofficially—welcome aboard.”

  “Seriously?” I look around at all the smiling faces. “Are you guys okay with that? I mean, considering …”

  “I wouldn’t have recommended you without asking them first,” J.D. says.

  Bass is the first one to shake my hand. “Welcome to 319, brother.”

  I pull him in for a hug. “Thanks, man. I know you had a big hand in this.”

  “You did this all yourself, Denver.”

  I see something being thrown around the room between the guys. It looks like a shirt. They all start playing keep-away from me. “What is it?” I ask, trying to grab it.

  Bass snatches it out of the air and holds it up to his chest. It’s an FDNY Engine 319 t-shirt. “For you,” he says.

  I smile proudly. I reach for the shirt, but he pulls it back and turns it around. That’s when I see the name on the back. Well, it’s not a name, exactly. It reads, ‘Prisoner 3876463.’

  My jaw goes slack as they all double over laughing.

  “Welcome to 319, convict,” Steve says. “I can’t think of a better convict—er, man—to take my place.”

  I shake my head, knowing I’ll probably never be able to get rid of that nickname. It seems like once you’ve been given one, it tends to stick. But in this moment, I don’t care. Because I finally have a home. A family.

  And after all the pomp and circumstance, I realize the first person I want to tell is Sara.

  ~ ~ ~

  “To my lovely fiancée,” Oliver says. “Five weeks ago, I thought I might lose you. But you overcame all the odds, and tonight, you’ll walk out of here on your own two legs without any wheelchairs, walkers, or support belts.” He raises his glass. “To Sara.”

  “To Sara,” the rest of us say, before taking a drink of two-hundred-dollar-a-bottle champagne.

  “Oh, wow. That’s good,” Sara says, tasting the first alcohol since before her accident.

  “Nothing’s too good for you, luv,” Oliver says.

  Sara studies the bottle of champagne. “We don’t normally drink this, do we?”

  “Of course we do. It’s your favorite.”

  “Do I … drink a lot?” she asks tentatively. “I mean, Lydia and I, we liked to go clubbing sometimes, but I don’t remember being a lush or anything.”

  He laughs and then leans down to place a kiss on her temple. “You drink the proper amount.”

  Donovan leaves the room for a minute and then comes back in with a box. He nods to her painting supplies in the corner. “We can put her things in this,” he says.

  I take the box from him. “I’ll do it.”

  While the four of them sip champagne and talk about Sara’s time here, I pack up her paints, canvases, and brushes. She must have a dozen canvases here. Each one holds a memory for me. And as I put them in the box, one after the other, I see what progress she’s made since the first day of drawing simple circles.

  Her latest paintings are landscapes. One is the street she grew up on. She painted it completely from memory. Another is the courtyard here at the rehab center. Others are places she can’t even explain or remember. The doctors say it’s not likely these are actual memories, even in her subconscious. The more plausible explanation is that Sara is trying to create a memory from the information given to her by either Joelle or Oliver.

  I stare at the paintings, wishing I could take one home with me, but knowing it wouldn’t be appropriate to ask.

  They are really good. Brilliant, even. But I have an untrained eye. Oliver tells me her paintings are rudimentary at best. He says she clearly has the skills, but the talent she once possessed is lacking.

  I asked him if that bothers him. If he would see her the same way if she wasn’t able to be the famous painter she once was. He told me he doesn’t love her because of her painting. And damn it if I don’t respect him for that.

  “Can I open this?” Sara asks, holding up the gift bag I brought her.

  “If you want to,” I say.

  She reaches into the bag and pulls out a collection of CDs. Her hand covers her mouth as her eyes mist up. She looks through the various cases. “You bought me the entire Beach Boys collection?”

  “You’re the happiest when you listen to them. So I thought if you ever feel down or depressed, you can just play one of those.” I nod to the bag. “There are two more things in there.”

  She pulls out a deck of cards and smiles.

  “I didn’t want you to get rusty,” I say.

  “And what’s this?” she asks, pulling the last item out and turning it over in her hands.

  “It’s a journal,” I say. “So you’ll never forget anything ever again.”

  We share a look, but it’s more like a glance. A glance with more meaning than anyone in the room could possibly understand. And then it’s gone. It’s gone because we both know that a woman about to go home with her fiancé should not be sharing glances with a man who is not her betrothed.

  “Mr. Compton?” someone calls from the doorway. “Can I steal you for a minute to fill out a few things on Sara’s discharge papers?”

  “Sure thing,” Oliver says, putting his glass down. He nods at the gift bag contents. “Nice gifts, mate.” Then he turns to Sara. “Wait until you see the welcome home gifts I got you.” He leans close to her, but the rest of us can still hear. “Couldn’t bring them here. They’re for your eyes only. Or maybe mine.”

  Sara looks a little green as he walks out the door.

  She runs her finger along the binding of the leather journal. “It’s perfect,” she says. “I’ve never been given more thoughtful gifts in my whole life.” Then she frowns. “At least I don’t think I have.”

  “Are you sure it’s okay if I bring the twins by your place next week?” Joelle asks.

  Sara’s face lights up. “Of course it’s okay. I can’t wait to meet them. Maybe seeing them will spark a memory.”

  “I doubt it,” Joelle says. “You didn’t ever want to spend much time with them before. You always made excuses why you couldn’t come for a visit.”

  Sara’s face falls. “I’m so sorry, Joelle. I swear this time I’m going to be a good … uh, what am I to your kids?”

  Joelle shrugs. “Second cousins? First cousins once removed? Heck if I know.”

  “How about I just be a good friend,” Sara says. “To you and them?”

  “That sounds great to me,” Joelle says.

  Donovan puts a gentle hand on Sara’s arm. “Please don’t get upset if going home doesn’t help the memories return. You know what all your doctors have said. I don’t want you to have unrealistic expectations.”

  “I know. I know,” Sara says. “My memory is most likely gone for good. But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try, right?” She looks at me. “You’ll help, won’t you, Denver? Oliver says he’ll take me to some of my favorite places. The doctors don’t want me to leave town just yet, not until I’ve had the feeding tube removed and I’m done with all my therapy, but there are lots of things we can do around town to try and spark my memory. You’ll go with me, too. Won’t you?”

  Oliver steps back into the room. “I’m quite sure Denver has better things to do than follow us around the city chasing your memories.”

  Sara looks sadly at the floor.

  “Besides,” he says. “The doctors say the best thing you can do is try
to get back to your normal daily routine.”

  “How can I get back to my normal daily routine if I have to come back here for outpatient therapy every day?” Sara asks.

  “Even so,” Oliver says, “I’m sure Denver is eager to get back to his.”

  Sara’s eyes find mine. I can see her struggling. But who am I to say Oliver is wrong? She should get back to her life. She should get back to her fiancé. I’d just be in the way of all that.

  “That’s not what we agreed upon, Ollie,” Sara says.

  Sara is upset.

  Oliver looks frustrated.

  “You know I’m trying,” she says. “I’m trying to be the person you want me to be. And I appreciate the patience you’ve shown me. But we agreed that Denver would be in my life. In our lives. He’s my friend. Maybe even my best friend. I’ll go home with you, but he’s free to come over whenever he likes.” She looks over at me. “That is if he wants to.”

  “Of course I want to,” I say. “I’ll help in any way I can. We all just want what’s best for you, Sara.”

  She nods, relieved. “Good. Then I guess I’m ready to go home.”

  Oliver picks up the box of her art supplies and grabs her small suitcase, rolling it towards the door.

  Sara makes her way around the room, hugging Donovan, Joelle, and me.

  Donovan wipes a tear that escapes his eye. “I don’t know why I’m crying. I’ll still get to see you every day.”

  Sara’s eyes are wet, too. It must be hard for her to leave the one place she feels safe. “Thank you all,” she says. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”

  She’s speaking to everyone, but she’s only looking at me.

  “We’ll see you soon,” I say.

  Sara stops in the doorway, looking around the empty room before her eyes catch mine again. She looks at me the way she did the night we met. Her eyes hold mine just like they did in the mirror. She’s scared. She has no idea what’s coming next.

  “Come on, hun,” I hear Oliver say from the hallway.

  Sara gives me a sad smile. And then she turns and walks away. Of course she does. She might be afraid of going home. She may be worried about her future. But she’s also the strongest woman I’ve ever met.

  Joelle picks up a book off the table. “She forgot this. I’ll just run it out to her.”

  I back up until my calves hit the chair behind me. I sit down and take a deep breath.

  Donovan sits on the end of the bed and studies me for a minute. “You keep saying you want what’s best for her,” he says. “But did you ever stop to think that what’s best for her is you?”

  Part Two

  Sara

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “When you’re ready.” I hear Oliver’s voice swim around in my head as I put away the negligees he gave me as my coming home gift last night.

  He was the perfect gentleman. As promised, he slept on the couch. He didn’t ask me to model his purchases. He didn’t do anything more than give me a soft kiss goodnight.

  In my closet, I look through my clothes. I know they’re mine, but it feels like they’re someone else’s. In the corner, however, there is a collection of paint-splattered shirts and yoga pants. I must wear these when I work. I sift through them and pick out something to wear, feeling comfortable for the first time since arriving home last night.

  Home.

  I shake my head because when I think of that word, all I can see is the house I grew up in or the rehab center I lived in for three weeks. Three weeks—that’s all it took for me to consider it a safe place. Maybe that’s all it will take here as well.

  I run my hand along Oliver’s dress shirts, hung neatly along one side of the closet, and I wonder if that’s how long it will take for me to consider him a safe place.

  I wander through the kitchen, opening drawers and cabinets to get the feel of my new surroundings. I look at the photos displayed on our bookshelves, hoping I might discover something about myself. Praying something will spark my memory against all odds.

  Then I spy the bag containing Denver’s gifts. I pull out the journal and turn it over in my hands. Suddenly, I find myself searching the apartment for a diary. I remember keeping one as a child. Maybe I kept one as an adult, too.

  I go back into the bedroom and rifle through my dresser drawers, sneezing at the dust I unsettle. I get down on my knees, something that isn’t as easy as it used to be, and feel under the mattress, hoping my hand will come out with the answers I’m searching for—the missing links to the past three years of my life. But nothing.

  Then I search my studio, but somehow, during my search, my desire to find a diary is overtaken by my need to paint. I stand in the center of the room, inhaling the intoxicating scent I’ve loved since I was a little girl. And just like the old, spattered clothes I’m wearing, this is where I’m comfortable.

  I run my hand along the old door from my parents’ house, closing my eyes as I remember them. Thank God I didn’t lose all my memories. I look at one of the pictures on my studio wall, one I remember painting shortly after they died. It’s the one of them holding me as a baby, right after they adopted me. They looked so happy.

  Inspiration strikes and I put a blank canvas up on the easel. I get my paints and brushes ready and get lost in my creation.

  “That’s lovely,” I hear Oliver say as he startles me from behind. “What is it?”

  I shake my head, not really knowing the answer to his question. “Just something I wanted to paint,” I say. My stomach grumbles and I look at the clock, realizing I lost track of time and have been in here for the better part of the day.

  I watch his face as he stares at the painting.

  “I know you don’t think my paintings are good, Ollie.”

  He pulls me to his side. “You’re recovering, Sara. It’s understandable that it will take time to gain all your abilities back.” He kisses my head. “And I do think it’s good.”

  “Just not great,” I say.

  “Does it still make you happy to paint?” he asks.

  “Of course.”

  “Then that’s all that matters, isn’t it? You don’t need the money. You never did. Whether or not you ever sell another painting, you’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.”

  “Do you really think so?” I ask, turning to look up at him. “I mean, truly, in your heart, do you think everything will be okay?”

  “I know it will be,” he says confidently.

  He grabs my hand and leads me back into the living room. I sit on the couch, realizing just how exhausted I am from painting all afternoon.

  “How do you know, Ollie?” I study him as he loosens his tie and takes a seat next to me. Then I add, “Why do you love me?”

  He looks surprised by my question. “What kind of question is that?”

  “I really want to know,” I say. “Apparently, I’m a raging bitch, so what is it about me that made you love me? Do you just love raging bitches?”

  He laughs, stretching his legs out and putting his feet up on the coffee table. “No, I don’t love raging bitches,” he says. “You weren’t that way with me. In public, you might have been a pretentious artist, but when we were together, you were lovely. I’m not saying you were perfect. Lord knows I’m not either. But we were perfect together.”

  “We were?”

  “We will be again,” he says. “You just need to give it time.”

  I pull a pillow onto my lap. “But how can you be sure? I don’t really know you, Ollie. It’s hard to explain, but you’re this person who’s in love with someone I don’t even think I am anymore. How do you know you can love the person I am now?”

  “Because we’re soulmates, luv. And when two people are meant to be together, nothing can stand in their way.”

  He tucks a piece of hair behind my ear and it makes me think of Denver, who did that very same thing just a few days ago. I close my eyes, my heart wanting the man next to me to be the man who rescued me, but my head knowing he can�
��t be.

  Give it time, I tell myself.

  “So, do you feel up to cooking, or shall we ring for some takeout?”

  My eyes fly open and I ask hesitantly, “I … cook?”

  “You adore cooking.” He waves his hand around the apartment as if showcasing it. “The kitchen is one of the reasons you love this place. And the doctors said you should try to get back to your normal daily routine.”

  “You’re going to have to tell me just what that is,” I say.

  “Yes, I suppose I will. Do you want a run-through?”

  “Please. What was a typical day like for me?”

  “Well, let’s see. I suppose it would start off with a bit of a good shag,” he says, leaning over to kiss my cheek. “You always did prefer a morning shag to an evening one.”

  I feel myself blush. “Then what?” I ask.

  “Then you’d make breakfast, which was usually cappuccino and a bagel, or something to that effect. Then you’d throw on something like you’re wearing now, and I wouldn’t see you until dinner when you’d emerge fresh from a shower, usually wearing something stunning. You’d cook us dinner. Something brilliant. Sometimes we’d go out. Sometimes we’d go clubbing. Sometimes you’d go off with your mates and I’d go off with mine.”

  “I thought I didn’t have any friends,” I say.

  “You have friends. Lots of them.”

  “But why didn’t anyone show up for me? Why hasn’t anyone called?”

  “Because your friends are just as pretentious as you were, hun. And I suspect none of them want to believe that what happened to you could happen to them.”

  “Joelle said we traveled a lot.”

  He nods. “We did. We do. I’m just sorry the doctor has restricted you from flying.”

  I shake my head in confusion. “Where would I even go?” I ask. “I’m not doing those kinds of paintings anymore.”

  “To England, I suppose. You loved it there.”