The Firefighter's Christmas Reunion

by Christy Jeffries

  “I was just glad they kept their I do’s short.” Jonesy made a tsking sound. “All these kids with their outdoor ceremonies... Even with those heat lamps, I ’bout froze my tail off. At least they had some good country and western music afterward for the dancing.”

  “Biggest wedding I’d ever been to,” Scooter added. “How many people you think Officer Carmen has in her family? Couple hundred? And that caramel cake? I’ll tell you what, if I was lookin’ to find myself a Mrs. Deets, Carmen’s Aunt Lupe would be at the top of the list.”

  “You crazy ol’ fool.” Freckles shook her head, not a single strand of peach-colored hair budging out of the teased pile on top. “Aunt Lupe only gave you an extra slice so that she wouldn’t have to dance with you.”

  “She’s got you there, Scoot.” Jonesy slapped a hand on the wood table, making the silverware jump as he laughed hard enough to make the booth they were sitting in vibrate. Isaac joined in to keep the attention from being directed at him. But that didn’t work for long.

  “And speaking of dancin’, Isaac,” Freckles’ electric blue eyeliner made it difficult to take her direct stare seriously. “How come you weren’t out there cutting the rug on Saturday night?”

  “I think everyone is well aware that I don’t spend much time on dance floors.” He turned away from her knowing look by reaching across the table to grab a laminated menu. As if he didn’t already know the thing by heart or exactly what he planned to order.

  “Everyone’s well aware of that, huh?” Freckles repeated. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the older woman fold her arms across her chest, as if she wasn’t about to be diverted from her choice of topic. “If I recall, you were looking pretty comfortable out there during that slow song at the VFW dinner a coupla weeks ago.”

  Isaac needed to change the conversation stat. Thrusting out his chin, he asked, “How’s the sausage gravy this morning?”

  “Same as it always is,” Freckles said in a saucy tone, a hitch in her smile. “Hot and plentiful. Just like all of you bachelors at the auction.”

  “You’re making it sound less like a charity event and more like a display of prize stallions.”

  “Pfsht.” The sputtering voice behind him could only belong to one person. He pivoted on the cowhide covered booth and turned to look at the woman who’d left him a little over twenty-four hours ago with no explanation. “Prize stallions? You sure think awfully high of yourself, Isaac Jones.”

  “Maybe I have reason to,” he replied, thinking of the way she’d moaned out his name on Saturday night.

  Hannah had one hand on her waist, making the wool fabric of her coat flare out at her hip. Isaac grinned at the memory of how smooth and warm her skin had felt at that exact spot. He let his gaze lazily travel down her jeans to her knee-high boots and then back up to her pretty face, which now bore the most attractive rosy blush.

  “It runs in the family.” His uncle put a gnarled hand on Isaac’s shoulder and gave him a less-than-reassuring squeeze. “A filly could certainly do worse than my nephew here.”

  Isaac’s stomach clenched at Jonesy’s ill-timed comment. While he normally appreciated the old guy’s vote of confidence, he doubted Hannah would welcome the assessment. Especially after he’d just purposely reminded her of their recent night together.

  “Am I the filly in question?” She lifted both brows and Freckles shifted on the arm of her chair, looking as if she was enjoying the show.

  “I thought we were making horse comparisons,” Jonesy said, shrugging. “Filly was s’posed to be a compliment. They’re very spirited animals, you know.”

  “That’s true,” Scooter added, then put a hand over his mouth and stage-whispered to his friend. “It’s not like you called her a broodmare.”

  Unfortunately, Scooter’s lack of hearing had a direct effect on his lack of ability to whisper, and Hannah’s gasp indicated she’d clearly heard.

  “Where’s Sammy?” Isaac asked, wondering if something had happened to her son and that was why she’d left without an explanation.

  “He’s in the car with Aiden and Caden. As much as I would love listening to you old boys compare me to farm animals, I should probably get back out there before they decide to use my Prius as a go-kart.”

  He let out a breath. Now that he knew that the boy was fine, the next question he wanted to ask was if everything was okay between them. But it wasn’t like he could bring that subject up here.

  “Hey, Hannah,” Monica said somewhat shyly, before handing Isaac his cup of decaf. “Did you want to place your order for the bake sale?”

  “What bake sale?” Jonesy asked.

  “For the library,” Isaac and Hannah answered simultaneously, but it was Hannah who tilted her head at him in surprise as everyone else grew silent. They hadn’t discussed the fund-raiser after that day at the animal shelter, but Isaac had already bought all his ingredients and reserved a booth at the upcoming Ski Potato Festival. So if she was going to be uncomfortable working with him at the event, now was her chance to back out.

  “We’re, uh, raising money for the new teen area.” Monica was the first to speak, her voice quiet, as though she were manning the reference desk instead of trying to defuse the tension in the coffee-scented air.

  “That’s right,” Hannah agreed. “Monica asked me to head it up.”

  She was speaking to the entire table, but Isaac heard the subtle dare in her words. Did she think that he wouldn’t participate if she was going to be there?

  “Funny, because the mayor asked me to schedule the shifts for the volunteers manning the booth.” Isaac’s hairline rose as he offered the challenge. He would force Hannah to talk about their night together, even if he had to do so while he was selling cupcakes on Saturday.

  Several pairs of eyes darted back and forth as the silence stretched between them until finally Freckles threw up her arms. “Oh, you two kids need to just sleep with each other and get it over with.”

  Monica gasped before slowly backing away, the coffeepot clutched in front of her like a shield.

  That was the second time someone had made the tongue-in-cheek suggestion. However, the joke was on Freckles and Kylie and everyone else who thought the only problem between him and Hannah was simply due to repressed sexual tension. The fact of the matter was that they’d already tried sleeping together, and instead of clearing things up between them, it had only muddied the waters.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Ski Potato Festival, consisting of a parade and craft fair, was the first Saturday in December—only one week after she’d slept with Isaac. She’d seen all the questions in his eyes a few days ago at the Cowgirl Up Café, and several times since then, she’d picked up her phone, wanting to send him a text to explain that what had happened in that hotel room should never happen again. But putting it all into words would give the event entirely too much significance. She needed to maintain the pretense that she was over him, and the only way to do that was to prove it by working alongside him at the bake sale.

  Walking into the enormous white tent temporarily erected in the middle of Town Square Park, Hannah balanced the bakery boxes loaded with four dozen apple-spice muffins, her steps getting faster as she saw the odd placement of the folding tables at their assigned booth.

  “You brought store-bought items?” Isaac appeared from behind one of the partitions, a ladder under his arm and a gray woolen beanie pulled low over his forehead. The knitted wool framed his hazel eyes, making them more intense, more compelling. Could he be any better looking?

  Or any earlier?

  How had he gotten here before her? Before anyone, really, because Hannah had purposely tried to be the first to arrive this morning to ensure that their prime selling location inside the heated tent didn’t get commandeered by the local quilting club, whose reputation for craft fair booth encroachment was legendary.


  “They’re not from the store.” She felt her defenses rising and wished she’d just swallowed her pride earlier this week and backed out of working at this stupid bake sale.

  Okay, the bake sale wasn’t stupid. Her heart was. Not that she’d given it a fair opportunity, but Isaac had also had plenty of chances to call or text Hannah after their night together and he hadn’t. Not that she wasn’t already convinced that sleeping with the man hadn’t been a mistake.

  Still.

  It would’ve been nice to think that he didn’t have the same regrets.

  “You’re saying that you just so happen to keep pink boxes at your house?” One side of his sexy lips curved up in a teasing smirk.

  “My muffins are from a bakery, not a store.” They’d also set her back fifty bucks—sixty if she counted the Betty Crocker mixes she’d ruined before buying these. Lifting her nose in the air, Hannah decided that she didn’t have to explain her lack of culinary skills to him. Instead, she nodded toward the empty tables. “And what, exactly, did you bring?”

  “My Red Hots.”

  “Your what?”

  Isaac’s chin jutted forward and his shoulders went back. “They’re my famous cinnamon cupcakes with little red candies on top. They sold out at the Reclaiming the River 5K run last spring.”

  “Did they already sell out here, too? Because I don’t see them anywhere.”

  She’d meant to match his teasing tone from earlier, but her words came out snarky and almost defensive. She wondered why things always had to be a battle between them. Maybe because if they were arguing, it kept them from discussing everything that needed to be said.

  “They’re still at the station. As you can see, I came in early to set up the booth. I guess great minds think alike.”

  “Well, the layout is all wrong,” she said, turning to study the tables so she wouldn’t have to admit that they did, indeed, think alike most of the time. And also so that she wouldn’t have to remember what he looked like underneath that hooded sweatshirt with the SFFD logo stamped over his heart, right where she’d kissed his bare chest a week ago before letting her mouth travel down to his—

  He lowered the aluminum ladder with a thunk, thankfully stopping her train of thought. “Please enlighten me with all the ways that I’ve messed up, oh perfect one.”

  The suggestion was loaded and she wasn’t about to fall for it. Especially because that’s what he used to say back in the day when he would tease her about all the projects she was taking on. He’d once admitted that it was the thing he’d loved most about her—her desire to save the world.

  She shook her head to clear the memory. “I only meant that we should have three tables in a U-shape so that we can display the items and the volunteers can stay behind here, with the extra food.”

  “That’s not what I was referring to, and you know it.” He leaned the ladder against one of the metal poles holding up the tent. His feet were planted and his hands went comfortably into the pocket at the waist of his hoodie. He wasn’t about to back down.

  Hannah gulped, scanning the area for someone, anyone, who could overhear them, thereby being a justifiable excuse for keeping this intimate topic from moving forward. Damn him for being such an early riser and go-getter. Damn them both, really. They were all alone. “I have no idea what you mean. I have to go get the rest of the donated items out of my car.”

  But she didn’t make a move to leave.

  “No idea?” Isaac asked, taking a step closer to her.

  Go, she commanded her feet. Turn around and walk away. This was no way to prove her indifference to the man. But she was rooted in place, her heart racing as Isaac closed the distance between them and she held her breath, wondering if he was going to touch her. Did it make her a hypocrite if she wanted him to?

  She felt the instinctive tug of her cheek between her teeth and licked her lips to keep from appearing too nervous. Or too eager. The flick of her tongue was obviously a mistake because Isaac’s eyes dipped to her mouth.

  “I’m waiting,” he said.

  “Waiting for what?” For her?

  “Waiting to hear you tell me what else I did wrong.” He reached out and stroked a finger along her jawline. “Particularly last Saturday.”

  Hannah squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting to envision everything he’d done right that night. Her whisper came out on a soft breath. “Nothing.”

  “What’s that?” he asked, his lips now next to hers.

  “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Then why did you sneak out?”

  Her lids fluttered open. “I didn’t sneak out. Well, at least, not on purpose. My mom texted me that Sammy woke up from a bad dream and needed me.”

  “I would’ve gone with you to get him. Why didn’t you wake me up?”

  Because he’s not your responsibility, she wanted to shout. Instead, she spoke with a frustrated sigh. “Because, Isaac, I don’t want him taking this whole hero worship thing too far.”

  “But I make such a good hero. After all, I rescued you from the reception that night, didn’t I?” One of his fingers traced her lower lip. Uh-oh. It wasn’t just Sammy’s heart she needed to protect from Isaac.

  “I, uhh...” She looked at his soft mouth, thinking about all the sensual ways he’d used it on her last week.

  “I didn’t even get to kiss you goodbye.” His low voice sent shivers down her spine.

  “Did you want to?” she asked.

  “I always want to.”

  She squeaked as his arm snaked out and wrapped around her waist, pulling her close.

  * * *

  Isaac had barely touched his lips to hers when the entrance to the tent flapped open with a gust of blistery wind. They jumped apart as several members of the quilting club marched inside, their arms loaded with stacks of colorful quilts and a banner that read Sugar Stitchers. It was tough to pretend that his blood wasn’t pumping or that he didn’t notice the way Hannah sucked in several quick, deep breaths. He told himself to be patient, that he’d get a chance to be alone with her again soon.

  But soon couldn’t come quickly enough. More people trickled in and the spaces filled up with other vendors displaying their crafts and wares. While they worked together silently, Isaac tried to keep his mind on the task before him instead of thinking about how good Hannah smelled every time she drifted past him as she set out the cookies and brownies and cake pops many of the townspeople had donated.

  “Do you mind if I use your ladder to hang this?” Hannah asked, unrolling a long piece of butcher paper.

  “Here, I can hang it.” Isaac took a corner of the sign, then flinched when he saw the painted words. “Are you sure you want to put this up?”

  “Oh, my gosh,” Hannah clapped a hand to her mouth. “Some of my students volunteered to make the sign. It was supposed to say Bake Sale.”

  They both stared down at the painted words. HOMEMADE LOVE FOR SALE.

  “I’m guessing you didn’t check their work?” he said wryly.

  “No. They made it in art class. It was already rolled up yesterday when the art teacher handed it to me.”

  He knew that her mind had picked up on the same implication by the way her eyes remained fixed on the sign. “But why?”

  She didn’t look at him when she responded, “Because I was busy last night writing the petition to get new funds to repave the outdoor basketball courts over by the Little League field. I didn’t have time to check it.”

  “No, I mean why did they write this instead of Bake Sale? And, by the way, we already have the funds to redo the basketball courts. I did a recycling project in June and the kids’ camp brought in aluminum cans by the bagful. We had to wait for the permits, and then the contractors will start in the spring.”

  “But what about replacing the posts and backstops? They’re covered with rust and—” />
  “Do you want to talk about some rundown basketball courts or about this?” Isaac tugged at a corner of the sign, rustling the paper to get her attention back to the subject at hand.

  Hannah lifted her shoulders and dropped them. “We had this big discussion in class last week about the difference between store-bought pies and homemade pies and Elsa Folsom said that things made from scratch were made with love and worth more. Her mom is Charlotte Folsom Russell, the lady with the famous lifestyle blog who does all those cooking videos. Then Fiona Norte argued that her dad roasts all the chickens on Sundays at Duncan’s Market, and just because people buy them from the store doesn’t mean that Mauricio didn’t cook them with love. Anyway, things got a little heated.”

  “Customers are lining up outside,” Mae Johnston announced with a bullhorn. “We’re opening up in five minutes.”

  Isaac felt a sense of urgency buzz through him. “Okay, I’ll hang this up while you unload the rest of your muffins.”

  “I’m not going to stand under that sign with you,” Hannah said, casting her eyes toward a woman arranging an unsteady tower of huckleberry scented candles in glass jars on the table across from them. “What will everyone think?”

  Isaac rolled his eyes. “I’ll be right back.”

  He grabbed a cinnamon roll wrapped in cellophane and jogged over to another booth. Isaac handed the local artist the treat and promised to buy one of his impressionistic paintings at the end of the day in exchange for some acrylic paint and a brush.

  The main doors had been pulled back and the tourists were filtering into the tent just as Isaac stepped down from his ladder a few minutes later. Hannah bit her lip while she looked up at the changes to the banner. “I guess it’ll have to do.”

  Isaac had squeezed in some words on top in small, purple letters. Underneath, he’d added a line, then used a blob of paint to cover up some other letters along with a few images of cookies and cakes. When he finished, the sign read, BAKE SALE, Buy a Slice of HOMEMADE LOVE.