Perfecting For Love - A Standalone Novel (A Doctors Romance Love Story) (Burbank Brothers, Book #3)

by Naomi Niles

  He turned his head at an angle and looked at me carefully. “You know, I sort of like you. I didn’t think I’d find anyone who was just dead honest here; not New York City.”

  “Oh, we’ve sent all the liars over to Jersey. Go on, get your gear and I’ll see you upstairs when you’re done.”

  Chapter 4

  I trotted upstairs as quickly as I could. All I could think of was my dirty laundry I’d thrown on the floor in the bathroom that morning. I needed to get it out of sight, and quickly. I had been in a hurry, wanting to get to my interview. I had two hands full when I heard his voice behind me.

  “A little last-minute housekeeping?” The dimple was there again.

  “Okay, you caught me. I was in a hurry to get to my job interview this morning. Don’t tell me you’ve never left a mess behind.”

  He held both hands up waist high, the palms floating toward the floor. “Okay, okay, settle down. I wasn’t being critical, was just teasing you. So, you had a job interview today, too?”

  I nodded, pushing the rest of my clothes with my foot behind the hamper. “Sure did. You’re looking at a brand-spanking-new reporter.”

  “No kidding. Now there’s a coincidence. My folks used to run a small weekly back in Iowa. Spent a lot of time there as a kid. What made you choose that?”

  “You know, I can’t really put it into words, no pun intended. My dad taught me to have respect for people; old or young, rich or poor. There’s a part of me that wants to keep the voice of the underdog alive, to tell his or her story. We all need to be heard. Then, there’s the other side of me that is a bit of a rebel. My dad’s pretty strict; I guess you figured that out. He couldn’t be as strict with me as he wanted to because I was a girl. But he was still pretty tough on me. Dad didn’t want me to become a journalist. He wanted me to have a nice, ladylike job, such as a nurse or a schoolteacher. So, the first thing I did was go out and choose a career that would annoy him. Dad has always avoided the press and considered them pretty much a waste of a perfectly good education. Dad is used to taking and giving orders; he never explores the reasons why. There… now you have it. Why don’t we go into the living room so I can get dinner started?”

  Sean nodded in a way that told me he respected what I had said. “Can I help?”

  “No, I’ve got it. Consider this your day off. Go on over and pick something on the TV. Starting tomorrow, you’re going to be picking up that hammer, remember?”

  “Not a problem.”

  The upstairs apartment where I was living had an open floor plan. It used to be the sleeping and eating quarters for the firemen who stayed there. So, when I moved in, I just left it the way it was. I sold the bunks on Craigslist but kept the rest of it pretty much the same. The kitchen and living areas were divided by a counter where you could sit and eat while you watched television. I liked efficiency; I was never one for clutter. This suited me just fine.

  “How long have you lived here?” Sean was looking around, studying the pictures of the old days when the firehouse was still in use. “Wow. Look at that equipment. It’s a wonder they put the fire out in a one-story house with just that.”

  “Isn’t it? I just love this old place. It has so much character; so many stories began and ended here. Maybe that’s why it appeals to me; I like characters and I like their stories.”

  “I get that. I’m sort of the same way, except I’m not a writer. I want to help people, too, and that’s why I’m here. There were a lot of jobs for firemen between here and Iowa, believe me. But I thought if I came to New York City, I would learn more about people who come from different places around the world. Their stories would be new, interesting, and completely different from anything I have heard or been around before. I think that I’ve grown up fairly privileged because I lived in a safe place, had two parents, went to a good school, and had plenty to eat. Not everybody is so lucky. I hope I can help a few of them.”

  “I don’t mean to be a pessimist, but the city can be a pretty rough place.” I was chopping lettuce and the beef was browning in the pan behind me on the stove. “You’ll never be able to help everyone here. There’s just too many people and too many troubles. I admire you for wanting to give it a shot, though. I suppose it takes a pebble to make a ripple, and that’s enough to begin a wave.”

  “I like the way you think.” He was not being condescending or making a joke at my expense; he was completely sincere and I could see it in those gorgeous, blue eyes.

  “I like the way you look,” I blurted out and was immediately mortified. What had made me say such a thing?

  He chuckled. “Why, thank you. I don’t think I’ve ever been so charmed as I am right now. I happen to like the way you look, too.”

  I turned quickly to stir the beef, desperately trying to settle an awkward moment. I could be such an idiot sometimes. The beef was done and I pulled two, large bowls from the cupboard, lining them with tortilla chips and adding layers of beef, refried beans, green onion, cheese, and lettuce, and topped it all with sour cream and salsa. “Come and get it,” I said, holding the bowl out toward him and then placing it on the counter where he could retrieve it.

  We sat side by side on the sofa, only because that was the only place to sit. We each sat crisscross, a bowl in our left hand and a fork in our right. I hadn’t gotten cable installed yet, so the only thing I could pick up was Jeopardy.

  We took turns shouting questions for the game answers. Some of our questions were pretty off the wall and we came close to choking once or twice as we laughed. I was having a ball. I couldn’t remember spending time with a guy and having that much fun. I never thought of guys and fun in the same sentence. Well, maybe they had fun, but I just continued to think of them as someone who wanted to get into my pants. Ironically, there I was, wanting someone to get into my pants and he appeared to be the consummate gentleman. Damn those mothers in Iowa!

  Sean finished his salad and my bowl was already sitting on the coffee table. He picked it up and just as if he had lived there forever, carried it with his own into the kitchen and washed them out in the sink. “Are you already trying for a raise?” I teased him from my perch on the sofa.

  “Would it work?”

  “No way.”

  “Then I’m not. Listen, I have to be at the station house at seven. I think I’ll be probably back by six in the evening. What did you want me to get started on first?”

  Of course I knew the answer to that, but that was not what he was hired to do. I improvised. “If you don’t mind, why don’t you take some measurements of the square footage and maybe make some rough drawings about how we could divide it into three or four small apartments. Take into consideration things like the wet wall and access to the street or back parking. I’m pretty sure you know what you’re doing.” These last words were said with absolute certainty.

  I knew there was one problem with his staying there: eventually I would want to move away from being his landlord and jump his bones. That would be breaking my own rule, first of all, and secondly, it could muck up the whole thing and he’d take off on me. Then there was my dad to consider; he wasn’t going to be happy if he found out about this relationship. Platonic as it might have been, Dad knew what men and women did when they got together. He would jump to the worst conclusion and Sean would probably get fired. This was a bridge that would have to be crossed very cautiously.

  “Sounds good to me. I’ll be heading downstairs now. See you sometime tomorrow.” With that, he saluted me jauntily and locked the door behind himself as he left.

  The room felt almost claustrophobic suddenly. It was his, as if he had taken the air with him. Listlessly, I used the remote to surf back and forth between the two channels I could get. I wanted to go down and talk with him more, maybe play a game of cards, or even better yet, offer to share my bed. I had no idea what was wrong with me. I’d never had these kinds of thoughts before. Had I started a new chapter of my life simply because I was out of school and now had a job of
my own? Or was it all due to Sean Delaney and those gorgeous, blue eyes?

  Chapter 5

  I heard the door shut when Sean left the next morning. I rolled out of my warm bed and into a semi-hot shower. “This is one thing that’s going on his list,” I said to myself aloud. “I would like, just one time, to have a hot shower.”

  After dressing and a quick breakfast, I popped open my laptop and began writing. I was working on the piece about the life of a firefighter when my phone buzzed. “Hello?”

  John Warner was on the line. “Where the hell are you?”

  “I’m working; what do you mean?”

  “You’re supposed to be here in the office.”

  “I am? I thought I was supposed to be writing. I don’t need to come into the office to do that. I’m pretty much portable, you know?”

  “Don’t get smart. You’re going to write, all right, but I’m going to be looking over your shoulder for the first couple of weeks. I don’t want you turning in a bunch of garbage and expecting a paycheck in return.”

  “On my way,” I told him, slamming the lid of my laptop in anger. Only men like John Warner could get away with saying things like that. He was old school and no one would call him on it. No one, that is, except probably my father. I actually agreed with them. I sighed and changed clothes into something more office-like, and with my best Lois Lane appearance, I drove down to the newspaper office and walked in. As I had expected, there were two people there: Martha and John Warner. I was the third.

  “So, here I am. Where would you like me to sit?”

  “Sit there,” John pointed to a broken-down stenographer’s chair that was laying at a crazy angle against an old, Ludlow lead smelter.

  “There? Will that thing even hold me up?”

  “We won’t know until you sit down on it.” John was chewing on the stub of cigar in his mouth. It seemed that the cat had found a new mouse to play with. I could see I was going to have to earn my right to be there. This wasn’t a matter of a word count, but of paying your dues, as they used to like to say.

  “Not a problem.” I set the chair upright, dusted it with a Kleenex, and rolled it over to one of the old desks where I sat down. “So, where would you like me to start?”

  “What were you working on at home?”

  I was surprised by the question. “I was writing a piece on a day in the life of a New York firefighter.”

  John chewed on the stub of cigar and put one hand beneath his chin as he contemplated the idea. Eventually he nodded. “Not too bad.” He turned around and walked back into his office, slamming the door.

  Martha swirled her chair around and looked at me. “Well, you’re off to a blazing start.”

  “He’s pissed at me, isn’t he?”

  “Pissed at you? Hell no. If he was pissed at you, you’d be standing on the sidewalk downstairs. Write your story and mind your business. He’ll be out pretty soon and take a look at what you’re doing.”

  * * *

  True to Martha’s forecast, John emerged from his office an hour later. “Print it out,” he ordered me, pointing at my laptop. I connected to the network printed out what I had written so far. He read it, threw it at me, and said, “Rewrite it. Don’t sound like a 22-year-old girl. Sound like a goddamn man who’s carried a family out of a burning building. Your perspective is all wrong.”

  With that, he turned, and after slapping Martha on the shoulder, told her he was going to lunch and would see her whenever. She didn’t even look up, so apparently this was normal.

  I spent all afternoon rewriting the piece, and I had to admit that he had been right; the new version had a lot more humanity in it. If I hadn’t been the daughter of a fire chief, I don’t know that I would’ve had the insight it took to be real. I made note of that. It was the old adage that a writer should only write what they know. Whoever wrote that knew what they were talking about.

  I printed the finished piece out and laid it on John’s desk, packing up my laptop and smiling at Martha. Then, I left to go home. Sean was there, busily measuring with a tape measure when I walked in.

  “Hey,” I greeted him.

  “Hey, yourself. How was the first day?”

  “I should be asking you the same thing. How hard was my dad on you?” I sat my laptop and purse down on an old, wood chair and walked over to where he was measuring. “Do you need me to hold one end?”

  “That would be great. If you would just hold this up against that wall, I’ll take it from there.”

  “So?”

  “Oh, you mean your dad? Was trying to remember numbers. He’s a good guy, Gwyne. He’s tough, no question about that, but that’s the kind of man you need in charge when there’s a family’s life on the line. I’m honored to be working for him. I’ve already begun to learn.”

  “My, my. Are we jockeying for a little favoritism here?”

  “I’m surprised. That was sort of a nasty thing to say.” He was frowning and I couldn’t see the dimple.

  “You know what? You’re absolutely right. That was a totally bitchy thing to say and I’m sorry. Look, I had sort of a rough day, the first one and all. My boss makes my dad look like Mother Teresa. I wrote a story and he promptly threw it out. Made me spend all afternoon rewriting it.”

  “Well, isn’t that what you’re paid to do?”

  “Now who’s being bitchy?”

  “Hey, come on. Admit it. We have this in common. We have to pay dues before earning respect. You know how this works; I don’t have to explain it to you.”

  I picked up my purse and my laptop, then turned and faced him. “Once again, two points. I don’t seem to be able to say anything right today.” With that, I trudged up the stairs, went into my apartment, and went straight to bed.

  As I lay in the bed and stared at the ceiling, I could hear Sean downstairs. There was the open space around the fireman’s pole and it conducted sound exceptionally well. He was humming to himself, what sounded like an old, country hymn. I could hear the snap of the measuring tape and the scuff of his boots as he paced off general outlines for rooms. It was sort of comforting, to live there and know there was a man downstairs who was one of the good guys. I felt like I could trust him. I couldn’t say that about a lot of guys.

  I got up, made a couple of bologna sandwiches, and put on my robe. I padded quietly down the staircase and walked toward him. He looked surprised and that look softened as he saw what I was wearing. I hadn’t intended it to be provocative, but I could see that his eyes had that certain look. I loved that look. I handed him one of the sandwiches and perched back on the wooden chair.

  “You need my help?” I offered once again.

  “As a matter of fact, yes, I do. Would you come over here?”

  I stood up and set my sandwich where I’d been sitting. I walked over to where he was standing and looked around to see what he was doing. He was still facing me and when I looked up with a questioning look, he put his hands on my shoulders and bent down. He kissed me softly, but generously.

  “I’ve been wanting to do that since the first moment I saw you.”

  For the first time in my twenty-two years, I was absolutely dumbfounded. I had nothing to say. Then I realized something: I could actually be somewhat attractive when I kept my mouth shut. Maybe this wasn’t going to be such a disaster after all.

  Chapter 6

  John Warner was in a lousy mood again. I had become familiar with that attitude in our short time together and wondered whether this was really worth it. I had heard Sean leave early that morning and I found myself looking forward more to him coming home at night than to working at my new job. That was an interesting realization.

  I was sitting at my desk, working on some sideline stories. John had decided that we were going to do an entire series on New York City fireman. The stories behind the scenes, so to speak. “I want you to get your ass down there and follow the trucks. I want some real, human-interest stories. You know, the kind where the fireman saves th
e family dog, or the house explodes and it’s a matter of coincidence that no one was home at the time. Give me the news behind the news. That’s the only way papers like this survive.”

  I nodded, agreeing to do as he asked. “You realize, of course, this means I won’t be around the office very much. If I’m going to do on the scene reporting, I need to be on the scene.”

  “You can save the smart mouth stuff. I’m sure you give your Dad plenty of that. Of course you can’t sit around here on your ass. You need to get out there where the stories are. Yesterday was just an experiment to see how far I could push you. As of now, I’d say I can push you pretty far; as a matter of fact, about as far as I want to. But I’m a reasonable man and I understand that you don’t want to sit around here and rot like Martha and I. So, go ahead, get out there, and file your stories according to the guidelines on the sheet Martha gave you. If I see you in here again, it’s because I’m expecting to get your resignation. Got that?”

  I looked up at John, fairly stunned by what he had just said. If I ever figured him out, I knew I would be in serious trouble. He didn’t have to tell me twice. I snapped my laptop shut, grabbed my purse, and waved goodbye to Martha on my way out the door.

  Of course the first place I went was to Dad’s firehouse. There, I at least had some permission to get closer to the scene. When I arrived, I saw Sean was scrubbing floors. I tried not to embarrass him by making any unflattering comments. I knew how Dad worked; he liked to humiliate people, to bring them down to the lowest level, and then he would bring them up where he wanted them to be. It was his way of training them. If a fireman ever thought that his own life was worth more than the person he was saving, there wouldn’t be any more fireman. Therefore, their ethics had to be strong and their desire to help others even stronger. I simply waved at Sean and went up to talk to Dad.