by Kathryn Shay
“Coward,” she yelled after him.
Chelsea had called Jake that on their last night shift, too, and for the same reason….
“What’s this?” he’d asked as she’d handed him papers. He’d been on late watch, and she’d come out about three with a handful of documents.
“I was at headquarters today getting some insurance forms and I saw these on the counter.”
Frowning, he’d scanned the papers. The bleakness in his eyes when he looked at her almost made her wish she hadn’t gotten them. “I’m not taking the captaincy test.”
“Why?”
“A lot of reasons.”
“Give me one.”
“I’d have to move if I made captain.” Since every shift had a lieutenant but each house only had one captain and Ed Knight held the position in Quint 12, Jake would be forced to change houses. “I don’t want to leave my group.”
“It might be worth it.”
He stared at her. “Maybe. But I’m not going to do it. I gave up those dreams a long time ago.”
“Yeah, well, maybe that was a mistake.” She sat on the desk and swung her feet.
He picked up his coffee and sipped it.
“You’re the best officer I’ve ever worked under. You’re only forty, Jake. You could still be battalion chief if you wanted to.”
“I don’t want to.”
“You know what? I think you’re a coward.”
“What?”
“Afraid to risk.”
“I take risks every day on the job.”
“Not emotional ones. Go for the exam.”
“Read my lips, Whitmore—I don’t want this.”
She shook her head. “A liar and a coward. Jeez, who would have thought….”
A HALF HOUR later, Chelsea was with Dylan and Beth in the common area of Dutch Towers watching Jake escort Mrs. Lowe to the elevator. The old woman reached up and gave him a big hug. Something shifted inside Chelsea at the sight; she turned away to distract herself.
Dylan lifted his nose from the book it had been buried in and asked, “How about this question. What’s the NYFD training academy called?”
Beth rolled her eyes. “The Rock. That one’s a snap. You’re going soft on us, O’Roarke.”
“All right, smarty. What did they call firefighters before the common usage of SCBA masks?”
“Even I know that,” Chelsea said. “Leather lungs.”
“Jeez, I can’t score tonight.”
“Well, let’s go home and see what we can do about that, Boy Wonder.”
Dylan glanced at the baby. “Oh, sure. As soon as we get comfy, hungry Tim will wake up.”
“I just fed him. He’s out for the count.” Beth smiled at her son.
Chelsea checked her watch. “Hey, I’ve got an idea. It’s only eight o’clock. Why don’t I take Timmy home with me, and you guys go out on the town for a while? You can pick him up later.”
Beth said, “Really?”
“Yeah, he’ll be fine. France and I watched him when he was littler than this.”
Dylan’s eyes twinkled at Beth. “Maybe we can go dancing.”
“Maybe.”
“We can stop home first and change.”
Beth shook her head. “If we stop home, we’ll never get out of there.”
Dylan pulled her close and whispered something in her ear that made his wife giggle.
“You sure you want to do this?” Beth asked Chelsea.
“He can be a pain if he wakes up and won’t go back to sleep.”
“I think I can handle it.”
“There’s diapers and a bottle in there if he’s hungry,” Beth said, handing her a diaper bag. “We’ll call you and let you know where we are.”
Dylan kissed Beth’s ear. “Maybe.”
Chelsea pointed to the baby’s carrier. “This is a car seat, too, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Dylan said. “Just strap him in the back.”
“All right. Now get out of here.”
The O’Roarkes beat a hasty retreat just as Jake came back. He glanced at the baby with raised brows. “They forgot their son.”
Chelsea chuckled. “No, they didn’t. I’m baby-sitting.”
“You are?”
“Yeah, just for a few hours.”
“Hmm.” His look was intense. Chelsea feared he was going to ask to help. For a second she created a vivid fantasy of the two of them, cuddling up, watching the baby.
“Well, I’d best be going.” She pretended to concentrate on collecting her belongings.
“You’ll need help getting him to the car.”
She looked up. His face was neutral. “Oh, okay.”
After some fancy maneuvering, they managed to secure a still-sleeping Timmy into the back of Chelsea’s Camaro. She glanced at Jake before she got into her car. “Thanks.”
“Chelsea? Do you wa—”
“I’ve got to go. I appreciate the help.”
Without waiting for a response, she slid into the front seat. She could see his legs tense as his hand grasped the top of the door. It seemed to take an eternity before he closed the door. When he did, she breathed a sigh of relief.
She stuck the key into the ignition and twisted it. Nothing. Damn, she’d been having trouble with the starter and had an appointment to get it fixed tomorrow. Please, God, let it work tonight.
She tried again.
Still nothing.
Cursing the fates, she dropped her head to the steering wheel.
CHELSEA OPENED the door to her house as Jake followed her, carrying the baby seat with a sleeping Timmy O’Roarke in it. Her hands shook at the intimacy of the scene—a man and a woman bringing a baby home. For a minute, some of her youthful dreams besieged her; she’d thought she wanted a good job, a good man and a baby or two. Damn, she wished this hadn’t happened tonight!
Jake set the carrier on the floor in the center of the living room between the leather couches. Then he turned to her.
His face was cast in shadows, but it was nonetheless clear that some conflict was smoldering inside him. “Can I do anything before I go?”
“No, it’s under—”
A piercing wail split the air. Jake gave a start, and Chelsea jumped; they both laughed. “The kid’s awake,” she said, circling Jake and bending to pick up Timmy.
Quickly she unsnapped him and scooped him up. “Shh, sweetheart, it’s okay. Aunt Chelsea’s here.”
She began to walk him. The crying continued. Frowning, she started to croon. The crying got louder.
“I know he’s just been fed. And Dylan changed him right before you came over.” Jiggling him up and down, she whispered again, “Shh, baby, shh.”
Timmy began to cry in earnest, then, and her heartbeat escalated. Could something be wrong? Oh, God, not with this baby, please. Dylan and Beth—
“Here, give him to me,” Jake said. “Let me try.” Jake reached for the baby and placed him against his shoulder; Timmy nuzzled into him. And stopped crying immediately.
Chelsea’s mouth fell open. “What’d you do?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. He always reacts to me like this. I pick him up and he stops bawling.”
“That’s odd.”
“Apparently not.” He soothed Timmy’s back with a big, strong hand. “When Jessica was a baby, she was the same way with Ben Cordaro.” His face lightened, his gray eyes amused. “Once when I was on nights, she cried so hard Nancy got scared and called Ben to come over. Jess stopped crying right away for him.”
“I’ve never heard of that.”
He shrugged. “Some babies just have good taste, I guess.” He glanced around the room. “So, what should we do?”
They both knew what he was asking. Being thrown together like this wasn’t good. They were making a valiant attempt to avoid it—or at least they would as soon as things quieted down.
Chelsea suggested, “Well, why don’t you rock him for a bit, then we’ll try to put him down. You can lea
ve when he’s asleep.”
“Sure, whatever you say.” He scanned the living room impassively. “Where’s the rocker?”
“Upstairs in the sitting room off my bedroom, remember?”
The impassive mask slipped. “I remember.”
Quickly she turned. They proceeded upstairs and down the hall. Dusk pervaded the back room, enveloping them in a surrealistic glow. As Jake sought the white wicker rocker and sat down, Chelsea could see Timmy’s little hands clutch the black T-shirt. Jake settled himself and brushed the baby’s head with his lips. Chelsea’s stomach flip-flopped.
“This brings back memories, I’ll bet,” she said.
“Yeah,” he replied.
After dragging out the cradle her grandfather had made for her, Chelsea crossed to a trunk in the corner and drew out a soft blanket. She used that and a pillow to build a nest for the baby. Then she sat on the couch, her legs curled under her.
“Do you want to have kids?” he asked quietly.
“I did.”
“Did?”
Running a hand through her hair, she blew out an exasperated breath. “This stuff with Billy has really soured me on men.”
He frowned.
“I know, I know, they’re not all alike.” She touched her cheek. “But it’s hard to forget how he turned on me, how I thought I could trust him and I couldn’t. What if I really fell in love and the man did that to me?”
He nodded. “There’s nothin’ like somebody you care about turning on you.”
She waited.
“When Danny turned on me, it felt like high treason. I couldn’t handle it. I shut everybody out for a long time. Including my wife.”
“Is that why you divorced?”
“Uh-huh.” He stared into space. “I tried the same with my buddies. But Ben Cordaro wouldn’t let me. I maintained some male friendships, but that was about it. And Jess, of course.”
“No women?”
He shook his head.
“How long have you been divorced?”
“Eight years.”
“I can’t believe nobody’s snagged you.”
Something flared in his eyes, and she cursed her tongue. Occasionally the old Chelsea surfaced. She stood. “Well, let’s try to put him down now.”
He rose, walked to the cradle, eased Timmy away from his chest and placed him in the bed. The baby stirred, and Jake tipped the finely crafted wooden bed back and forth, soothing Timmy with his other hand. When he quieted, Jake kept up the motion for a moment, then straightened. All was silent. Jake smiled at Chelsea over the cradle. She smiled back.
The phone rang.
And Timmy began to cry.
Ten minutes later Jake was rocking him in the chair again. It had been Dylan on the phone, unabashedly telling Chelsea he and his wife could be reached at home; he asked if everything was okay and what time they should pick up the kid. After she hung up, she turned the Yankees game on low and offered Jake something to drink. They sipped from bottles of beer, looking at the screen.
“Think they got a chance for the pennant?” Chelsea asked, sitting on the floor and leaning against the couch.
“Yep. I’m hoping for another sweep like in ninety-eight.”
“My father loved the Yankees. He always wanted to play for them.”
“What was he like?”
“Young, handsome, not around much.”
“Did you go to his games?”
“As many as I could. I had to go to school.”
“Did he pitch?”
“Yeah.” She focused on the TV. “Wow, look at that. Paul O’Neil caught it barehanded.”
“Did he teach you to pitch?”
“Yep.”
“Chels, I—”
“Look, isn’t your arm getting tired? I could hold him.”
She was trying to get rid of him, Jake thought. She didn’t like the intimacy of the situation, the direction of the talk. And he shouldn’t, either. Just as he shouldn’t like watching the game with her or the fact that she was fun and interesting and bright.
He should go. He knew that. So he stood. “All right, let’s give Pavarotti here another shot.” Gently he placed Timmy in the cradle. This time, Timmy didn’t need the phone to wake him. The motion did it.
Chelsea beat Jake to the cradle and picked the baby up. “I’ll change him. That’s probably it.”
It wasn’t.
“Should I try a bottle?”
“Go ahead, but didn’t Beth just feed him?”
She rummaged through the diaper bag, found the bottle and tried to stick it in Timmy’s mouth. He spit it out at her as if it was poison.
Exasperated, she looked at Jake. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Here, give him to me.” He took Timmy and cuddled him. Of course the kid stopped crying. Jake had to smile. It felt kind of good.
“Jake, you can’t hold him until eleven o’clock.”
“Want me to leave you alone with a screaming baby?”
“God, no. I forgot kids could cry at that decibel level.”
After another few minutes of rocking, Jake said, “I’ve got an idea. Lay a couple of blankets on the floor there.” Chelsea did. “Now grab me a few pillows.” Following his directions, she padded a six-by-six area. Jake dropped to his knees, then lay back against the pillows with the baby. He stayed that way for a few minutes, stretched out with Timmy on his chest, then eased the child to the floor very close to his body. Timmy could still feel and smell him. He placed a hand on Timmy’s back and soothed him when he stirred.
Miraculously Timmy stayed asleep.
Chelsea breathed a sigh of relief.
“There, now I don’t have to hold him. I’ll just stay close.”
Chelsea smiled, and Jake’s insides clenched. “Grab me my beer, woman,” he said gruffly.
She arched a brow.
“Hey, better do as you’re told or I’ll get up.”
She laughed quietly and reached for the beer.
Jake and Chelsea watched the game like old buddies, sipping beer and talking intermittently. Jake felt his eyes grow heavy, and he sank into the pillows. It was the fourth inning, the Yankees were ahead and he’d had a beer. His eyes drifted shut.
“Jake.”
He gripped the pillow. God, he was having this wonderful dream. He knew it was a dream, but he didn’t want to let it go. Chelsea was dressed in the ice-blue negligée, but her body was burning with heat as he slid the shift off her creamy shoulders—
“Jake, wake up. It’s almost eleven. Beth and Dylan will be here any minute.”
He stirred but didn’t open his eyes. Her hair shimmered around her bare shoulders, and his fingers went to it, buried themselves in the heavy mass. Hmm, so soft. He raised his thumb to her mouth and outlined her lips. Even softer.
He moaned.
Chelsea said, “Jake, please, wake up.”
Reluctantly he opened his eyes. She was kneeling above him, like in the dream. But she was dressed in a yellow T-shirt and shorts instead of blue satin. He reached for her, anyway. “Chels?”
She swallowed hard. “You fell asleep.”
He blinked. “For how long?”
“About an hour.”
“Oh, jeez, I’m sorry.” His hands were still on her. “I haven’t been sleeping well at night.” Fully awake, he glanced to the side. Timmy snuggled against him like Jess used to do on the bumper in the crib. “Did Paul Revere sleep, too?”
“Yep, the whole time.”
He chuckled, and she tried to pull away. Sobering, his grip tightened, causing her to lean further over his chest.
“I was dreaming.”
She stared at him.
“About you.”
“Jake, don’t.” She tried to draw back.
“Wait a second.” One hand left her shoulder and traveled to her hair. His fingers threaded through it. In comparison, the dream had been a weak preview. The golden locks were silky and soft and unbelievably seductive.
>
“Jake…”
His other hand went to her mouth. “Shh, I know. Just for a minute.” The pad of his thumb rubbed gently, thoroughly.
Her stiff shoulders softened. Their eyes locked. When his lowered, he could see her breasts beginning to rise and fall fast. His gaze traveled to her lips.
His hand tightened in her hair.
She leaned forward.
He came an inch off the pillows.
And then the doorbell rang.
And the baby started to wail.
CHAPTER TEN
LIKE A HEAD OF STATE leaving a peace conference, Local 601 union president Sammy Samuels strode out of the meeting with Jake, Chief Talbot and his two deputies and headed for the firehouse kitchen, where they would eat lunch with the crew. The long table had been set for twelve, and the spicy smell of oregano and tomato sauce wafted through the building.
Taking a seat, Sammy motioned for the others to sit near him. “Quick, before the ladies come. Listen to this one. A fireman came home one day and told his wife, ‘We’ve implemented a new system at the fire station. Bell one rings, and we all put on our turnout gear. Bell two rings, and we head for the trucks. Bell three opens the bay door, and we’re gone. So, from now on we’re going to run this house the same way. When I say Bell One, I want you to strip naked. When I say Bell Two, I want you to jump into bed, and when I say Bell Three, we’re going to make love all night.’ The next day, he came home from work and yelled, ‘Bell One.’ His wife took off all her clothes. He then yelled, ‘Bell Two,’ and his wife jumped into bed. Then he yelled, ‘Bell Three,’ and they began to make love. After two minutes, his wife yelled, ‘Bell Four!’ The husband asked, ‘What’s Bell Four?’ And the wife replied, ‘More hose! You’re nowhere near the fire!”’
Everybody laughed, and Jake relaxed. Though Chelsea and the chief’s secretary weren’t in the kitchen yet, he was wary of sexually explicit jokes in the firehouse; they could be a powder keg, depending on the circumstances. This story was cute, though, and harmless. Chelsea would have laughed.
Chelsea, whom he’d almost kissed two nights ago.
His hands curled into fists. How could he have been so stupid? The memory of what she felt like poised over him and where it might have led was still with him today and had kept him awake for two nights running. He’d tried to outdistance it by lifting weights and jogging, but exercise hadn’t helped. Even dinner last night with Ben and Diana and Ben’s parents, Gus and Grace, hadn’t driven it from his mind. He wanted a woman, wanted Chelsea, but he couldn’t allow himself to pursue her. Too much was at risk. As he took his seat at the table, he was glad for a good cause to distract him.