When we reached the diner and pulled around to the back entrance of Fox’s apartment, I hadn’t changed my mind about the motorcycle itself, but I did remember exactly why I was so infatuated with the man riding it. Fox made life seem accessible, even ideas that I would normally be afraid of or at least apprehensive about. He was rock solid and level headed, two things I greatly admired. I didn’t like motorcycles, no. But I trusted Fox.
I had to smile when I caught sight of his face after he pulled off his helmet. He seemed exhilarated, relaxed, and most of all, happy. It was a good look on him. I hopped down from the truck and came around to help him as he started to unload the boxes and crates from the bed.
“I can do all this,” Fox insisted. “Go inside if you want, I’ll drive you home when I’m done.” His voice still sounded a bit guarded, like he was remembering our strangely stilted conversation at the warehouse.
I put my hand on his forearm, effectively halting his movements. He turned to me, his brow creased into a questioning look.
“I’m sorry about my reaction to your motorcycle,” I said, putting as much sincerity as I could into my words. “This wasn’t what I was expecting when you told me you had things to pick up, and I was a little unnerved by it.”
He nodded and started to speak. “I’m–”
“Wait,” I said, moving my hand from his arm to lay a palm on his chest. “It scares me,” I admitted, focusing on my hand where it rested. “It’s none of my business, but it scares me.” I slid my eyes up to his and was surprised to see emotion burning there. “Please be careful. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
Fox seemed at a loss for words. He put his hand over mine and held it tightly to his chest. My body began to relax from his warmth, and I leaned in slightly, wanting to be even closer.
“I promise,” he said finally.
Those two words had never meant much to me unless they came from Heather or a blood relative, but I took Fox’s statement as truth. “Okay.”
I disentangled myself slowly from our half-embrace and reached for what I hoped would be a light box, intending to carry it upstairs.
“Shit,” I grunted, earning a chuckle from Fox. “What’s in this? Bricks?”
“Close,” he grinned. “Books.” He grabbed the box from me, stacked another on top, and tossed me a big duffel that must’ve been filled with bedding or clothes.
Books. That’s right, Fox was a reader. I’d almost forgotten in the wake of MotorcycleGate. I followed him up the stairs quickly, my curiosity piqued. Not many people had large book collections on shelves these days, with the e-reader being so popular, but I’d kept all my favorites in their paper and ink form for nostalgia’s sake. That, and the fact that my e-reader was a first generation that wasn’t always reliable, like much of the technology in my life.
Fox switched on the light in the apartment and it took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust, but I blinked again because I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. The rooms were completely transformed – fresh paint, new fixtures, and were those hardwood floors? The tiny, formerly dated flat was nearly unrecognizable.
“Fox!” I exclaimed. “This looks amazing.”
He set down the boxes of books on the small breakfast bar and surveyed the space, looking satisfied. “It needed a few things. Your dad gave me a free hand.”
I dropped the duffle I was holding and walked through the cozy living room into the equally small bedroom. Sunlight streamed in from the western window, highlighting the crisp white comforter on the platform bed and the gleaming new floors. Last time I saw this room it had been piled high with files of old receipts and produce orders. I couldn’t believe what a difference Fox made in such a short span of time.
Well… Couldn’t I? He’d made the same difference on me. I spun around and headed back into the front living area. Fox had opened the boxes of books and was beginning to place them on the empty bookshelf tucked into the corner. I quickly scanned the titles and authors as he arranged them.
Vonnegut, Dostoyevsky, and a little Shakespeare. Tolstoy’s War and Peace, which I expected. Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude, which I did not expect but should have. A small collection of poetry, including Whitman and Frost. Some Christopher Moore, which made sense, and a few political autobiographies. Hunter S. Thompson, John Updike, Faulkner. Books about war, history, and fire. A Smokejumper’s memoir and a few on survival. It reminded me that riding the motorcycle was in no way the most dangerous thing Fox had ever done.
Pushing that thought from my head quickly, I held up a worn copy of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. “Favorite of yours?” I asked with a smile, noting the tattered cover.
Fox looked over and flashed me his dimple. “Gotta love Twain.”
“I might have to raid your collection,” I mused, picking through the remaining titles in the last box. “You have quite a few I haven’t read.”
“Be my guest,” Fox said, shelving what looked to be an early edition of London’s The Call of the Wild. I loved that he had the perfect mixture of adolescent favorites, classics, and mature, masculine nonfiction.
Silently, we finished arranging the books together. I was acutely aware of Fox beside me, like always, but in his apartment, his personal space, it seemed even more intimate. When Fox ran outside to bring up more boxes, I sat down heavily on the futon he had functioning as a living room couch. Looking through Fox’s books was the best insight I’d had to him so far. It confirmed that he was just as multi-faceted and interesting as I’d thought. Maybe too much for my own good, especially if he wasn’t going to be here long.
But neither was I, I reminded myself. I had an exit strategy already in place. Take one day at a time and keep your eye on the prize. Fox had his stuff shipped here, which meant something, for now anyway.
I jumped up when he came through the door with another couple boxes stacked in his arms and the last big duffel strapped across his chest.
“Fox! Is that everything? Why didn’t you let me help?” I cried.
“I’ve got it,” he said, easily hefting the boxes up as he walked into the bedroom. I followed him without thinking, intending to help unpack. He stacked them neatly in the corner, dropped the duffel into the closet, and turned to face me. “Can I take you for a late lunch? As a thank-you for helping me?”
A thank-you for what? I thought. All I did today was give you a hard time about a motorcycle you obviously love, then carry one bag of pillows while you moved a small portion of the New York Public Library up two flights of stairs.
“Um, sure.” I glanced at my watch. Still plenty of time before I needed to pick up Annabelle.
“How about barbecue?” he suggested.
Barbecue meant sticky fingers, sauce on my face, and corn in my teeth. Abort. Abort. “That sounds good.” I’d just grab some extra napkins and hope for the best.
“Great,” he said, taking my hand. I felt the jolt from his touch that was becoming almost familiar or, at least, anticipated. “Let’s go.”
* * *
Fox pulled up in front of my house after the most fastidious barbecue date ever – although if I was being really honest, his presence was so absorbing that I didn’t even really think about food on my face – and turned to me.
“What are your plans for dinner?” he asked.
I laughed. “Um, we just had lunch.”
He flashed his dimple. “I know.”
When he didn’t elaborate, I shrugged. “Probably spaghetti… it’s one of Annabelle’s favorites.” That reminded me, I needed to run to the grocery store after I picked her up. Garlic bread with our pasta was a must.
“Can I come by later?” Fox asked. “I’ll bring dessert.”
My heart stuttered at the hopeful look on his face. Fox rarely gave away his thoughts with an expression, but lately I felt like he was becoming an open book. “Sure.”
He leaned toward me, reaching for the passenger door handle. I held my breath as his lips b
rushed gently over my cheek. “See you soon, Avery.”
Chapter 12
When Fox rang the doorbell at six p.m., I had everything nearly ready for dinner. The spaghetti was almost done, the sauce – with some sneaky vegetable additions for Annabelle – simmered quietly on the stove, and the garlic bread had five more minutes before it needed to be pulled from the oven. I put together a small green salad at the last second, feeling like the table could use a little more color. And who knew? Fox seemed to have a way of getting Annabelle to eat things, so I was optimistic.
I ran to the front door, Annabelle at my heels.
“FOX!” she cried when she saw him standing on the porch.
“Hello, ladies,” he grinned. I took the pie box from his hands – one of Heather’s, smart man – and gestured for him to come in. Annabelle hopped up and down excitedly while he removed his boots and stowed his messenger bag near the door.
“Do you want to color with me, Fox? Or see my room?” Annabelle twirled in a circle. “I have lots of dolls!”
I was about to save Fox from being subjected to what would likely be a three-hour tour of Annabelle’s bedroom, but the thought struck me that she’d never once asked Chase to play with her, much less show him her toys. Granted, he usually came over when she was already in bed, or getting ready at least, but Annabelle was an unusually perceptive little girl. Somehow, she could sense when someone was merely tolerating her presence rather than enjoying it.
“I’d love to,” Fox told her.
I watched Annabelle grab Fox’s hand and start to tug him down the short hallway. He glanced back at me with a shrug and a small smile, and I smiled back, shaking my head as I walked into the kitchen to stir the sauce. Every now and then I could hear Annabelle’s sweet, high voice piping up and Fox’s low chuckle at whatever she’d just said.
I was just about to call them in to eat when my phone rang. Glancing at the caller ID, I saw that it was Chase.
We hadn’t spoken since the morning after I’d abruptly left the bar, when I'd told him I thought we should take a break. I knew he’d been in and out of town, but I hadn’t heard from him and I was fine with that. I didn’t stop to dwell on how hard it was to fit Chase into my life while Fox seemed to blend in seamlessly.
“Hello?”
“Hey, babe!” Chase’s voice sounded far away. “How’ve you been?”
“Fine,” I said absently, ladling sauce over the plates of spaghetti. Now without even that small spark of anticipatory excitement I used to get from hearing his voice, I could compartmentalize my feelings much more easily. Chase was firmly in the friend zone, while Fox pretty much monopolized the whole field.
“That’s good,” he said. “I’ve been super busy, you know, with work stuff. Sorry I haven’t called, but you know how it is.”
“No problem,” I said, shuttling the plates to the table. I grabbed the bottle of sparkling apple cider I’d picked up at the store and poured three glasses. Annabelle was crazy for fizzy juice, as she called it, and I was feeling festive.
“Okay, well, I just wanted to let you know I’ll be gone for another week, but maybe we can get together after that?”
An alarm bell went off in my head. Get together? Why? Did Chase not correctly remember our conversation from the other morning? I wasn’t sure what to say. “Um, maybe?”
“I miss you, Avery,” Chase admitted.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. “You do?”
He laughed uncomfortably. “Well, yeah. Don’t you miss me?”
“Chase, we talked about this,” I started. “Remember? We decided to cool things off?” And by cool off, I meant freeze into an unsalvageable glacier? I sat down at the table, nervously wringing the dishtowel in my hands. I couldn’t believe this. It had taken all my courage to break it off with Chase and now he was acting like it had never happened.
“I know, babe, I know,” he said, and I felt relieved. My ease was short-lived when he continued. “But I don’t want to lose you. So when I get back into town, say you’ll see me. Just for dinner or something, okay?”
I thought of Fox, playing with Annabelle in her room, her happy giggles drifting out into the hallway. I thought of the day we’d had together, all of the moments when my heart soared and my fingers trembled. I thought of his voice and the look on his face when he promised me he wouldn’t be reckless on the motorcycle. And I had my answer.
“I don’t think so, Chase,” I said slowly. “I’m sorry.”
He sighed. “Don’t say no yet, Avery. Just think about it.”
“That’s probably not–”
“I’m not giving up,” he interjected. “I’ll call you when I get back.”
Now it was my turn to sigh. “My answer will be the same.”
“We’ll see,” Chase said, his vulnerability gone and usual cockiness firmly back in place. “Goodbye, Avery.”
He disconnected and I sat for a moment, processing the conversation. Fox cleared his throat behind me and I almost groaned. How long had he been there and what had he heard? When I spun around to face him, the look on his face answered both of my questions.
“Chase?” he asked casually.
“Yes,” I admitted. “I’m not sure what he wanted.” That was kind of true. I knew what Chase wanted, I just didn’t know why. There were plenty of other girls out there who would love to be Mrs. Chase Dempsey and host luncheons and plan charity fundraisers while popping out a football team of children and making sure their lipliner was always perfectly applied. He’d be much happier with one of them.
“I can guess,” Fox said dryly, and I laughed.
“It doesn’t matter,” I told him, taking the garlic bread out of the oven. Fox flicked open the childproof cabinet, selected a knife, and smoothly started slicing the bread. I looked around. “Where’s Annabelle?”
He finished with the bread and put it into the napkin-lined basket I offered. “Dressing for dinner.”
“Oh, Lord,” I laughed, and turned just in time to see Annabelle make her way into the kitchen decked out in full princess regalia. The child had really raided the dress-up box this evening, sporting her favorite pink tutu, green fairy wings, and a sparkling costume tiara. Her neck and wrists were completely covered with plastic necklaces and bracelets, as well as a collection of rings spinning on her little fingers. She reminded me of a tiny elderly woman, wearing all of her jewelry at once to a fancy gala event.
Annabelle was a spectacle, but Fox took it all in stride. “Let me pull out your chair for you, your highness.”
“Thank you,” she said seriously, settling herself into her booster and arranging her skirt. As soon as she spotted the sparkling cider, all sense of decorum vanished. “Fizzy juice!” she squealed.
“Eat some spaghetti first,” I warned her. “Don’t fill up on juice.”
She spread her napkin across her lap and picked up her fork. I put some salad on my plate and passed the bowl to Fox.
“What about me?” Annabelle asked.
“You want salad?” I asked her skeptically.
She watched Fox serve himself. “Yes. Is it magic?”
“Sure,” I replied, sneaking a glance at Fox. He was focused on his plate but I saw a hint of dimple.
Annabelle smiled as Fox scooped a bit of salad next to her noodles. “I love magic salad,” she said, taking a big bite. “Do you, Fox?”
“I do,” he said. His eyes darted to mine quickly and held. “It’s my favorite.”
Annabelle chattered on about magic and fairies and princesses while Fox and I just stared at each other across the table. My awkward conversation with Chase was long forgotten, burned out of existence by the heat in Fox’s eyes. No one had ever looked at me the way he did. And I was pretty sure no one else could. We were finding our way to each other, every day a little closer.
* * *
Two hours later Annabelle went protestingly off to bed, but not before she conned Fox into reading three bedtime stories to her and her dolls. The idea t
hat he could not only accept my child but enjoy her was overwhelming. Part of me worried that she was growing too fond of him, getting too attached before I could navigate the reality of our relationship. There was more between us than some casual hand holding, but we hadn’t addressed it yet. I wondered when we would.
Fox and I settled on the living room couch with mugs of tea. I needed to sleep tonight, and while Fox could evidently drink pots of coffee at all hours, I couldn’t. I swirled my tea bag around, watching him out of the corner of my eye as he sipped.
“Can I ask you something?”
He raised an eyebrow at me over his cup. “Sure.”
“Did you consider other careers besides firefighting? Or did you always know exactly what you wanted?” I’d been thinking a lot about this lately as it applied to my own life, and since I wasn’t ready to answer it myself, I figured I’d ask Fox.
He thought for a moment before he replied. “I’ve always known I would be in public service. My brother and I both decided that when we were boys. Lucas took another path, but I followed through.”
“Was it what you wanted, though?” I persisted. Something in his voice seemed off.
“Sometimes what you want and what you should do aren’t the same thing.” He paused. “For me, being a firefighter and a medic was both.”
His words resonated with me. I felt like I was constantly stuck between what I had to do and what I wanted to do, with no reprieve. What I wanted was to pack up Annabelle and move out of this town tomorrow to somewhere I could breathe, somewhere I could look around and feel excited, like I had a real future. But what I had to do was wait it out, scrimp and save, and try to get a game plan in place that wouldn’t put us in jeopardy of not having a roof over our heads or food on the table.
What I wanted to do right now was toss my cup aside and jump into Fox’s arms and wrap my legs around his waist. What I wanted was to bury my hands in his thick blond hair, pull him to me and let him kiss me until we were breathless, or at least breathing the exact same air. I didn’t just want it, at times I was certain that I needed it.
But what I should do, and what I would do, is tread carefully until I was sure where I stood with him. What I should do is not get too attached to a man who had plans to head far away just as soon as he was completely well. Whenever that might be.
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