Up in Smoke, page 16
“Your worst decision, maybe?”
I jerk to attention. “What?”
“That night at the diner you said sharing that pie with me was your second worst decision. You wouldn’t tell me your first.”
Huh, I didn’t expect to be thrown back into that moment when Cherry Pie and I connected for the first time. Or to be seen so clearly it rattles me. “I guess I’m not one for giving up on something, even if it’s not good for me.”
She colors, which cheers me big time. We can both play the perceptive game.
“Lena was talking about her mom’s wedding before you got home. She said you changed your mind.”
“I did. Turns out it’s not all about me.”
“Hmm, funny how that works.”
“You’re an inspiration to us all, Sullivan.”
She chuckles, takes a sip of her wine. “She mentioned that she was worried you were upset because you guys used to fight about her.”
“About Lena? Partly.” Lena is usually quiet about that, so maybe she needs an ear outside the family.
“She implied that you guys parted ways because of your conflict over her. I told her there were probably lots of reasons why you would fight. I’m sure you’ve told her the divorce wasn’t her fault but kids seem to internalize that.”
I nod slowly, thinking it through. I probably haven’t been as open with Lena about the reasons for the divorce. She knows about the affair but we were kaput long before that.
“Yeah, I was looking for something different from my marriage. A partner in all things, not just someone to party with. Tori had different notions about that.” Getting a bit too in the weeds there. “Thanks for talking to her,” I say, my voice so low that it pulls her in closer. Close enough to smell her scent over the hearty tomato fragrance in the kitchen.
After getting over the initial shock of seeing Abby in my home, I took a moment to enjoy the sight of her playing video games with my daughter, eating her baked treats, connecting with her through those tattoos. That’s what Lena needs—people who love and accept her unconditionally. Tori hated that Lena was a gamer, thinking it another sign that we were raising “a lesbian.”
I can surround myself with good people who will be good for my daughter, even someone like Abby. As a friend.
“Chiara and I try to talk to her about these things, but sometimes we can’t help letting our feelings about Tori filter through. She’s smart and sensitive, and picks up on that. Because I find it hard to sound neutral, I sometimes choose to say nothing at all.”
She peers up at me, all blue-eyed loveliness and my instincts to kiss her are so fucking strong I almost buckle. Instead I move the conversation to uber-personal territory because if I can’t lay my lips on her, maybe I can emote some other way.
“Tori’s marrying one of my co-workers back in the firehouse.”
She grasps my arm. “Roman, I’m so sorry. Were they—?”
“They were. Everyone knew but me. He wasn’t a particular friend but my captain at the firehouse was and he covered it up. It was a whole thing.”
“I bet it was. So that’s why you separated from FDNY and came out here.”
“There was a bit more to it. I punched my captain—my friend—and though I could have moved to another ladder, it’s the kind of thing that follows you. To be honest, getting out of New York was good for us both, though it was tough on Lena to start.”
“Of course it would be!” Her hand still lays curled around my arm, like she can’t get enough of my heat. My gaze dips to her forearm, covered in Lena’s tattoos. Lena has been going mad for those lately, which are apparently all the rage with her friends. I want to kiss them, then kiss Abby everywhere else.
“Starting over like that is huge and you’re doing this to make the best life for your kid.”
That she gets it feels like the sun shining light on a dark place. “Chiara was going through some stuff at the time with her wife and needed a shoulder. It seemed like it would be good for all of us.”
“Family is everything to you. I get it. And then you landed right back into the fire when you ran into my dad.”
“That I can handle. What’s trickier is having the hots for a direct report who happens to be that man’s daughter.”
She doesn’t even blink, and neither do I. Look at us, maturely acknowledging the problem.
With a sip of her wine, she eyes me over the lip of the glass. “When you flame out you do it with style, Rossi.”
“That I fucking do.” Back to the meatballs because yet again,
It’s gettin’ hot in here.
“Hey, I have something for you to do.”
So take off all your clothes …
“Oh, yeah?”
“Can you maybe … boil some water?”
She grasps at her throat dramatically, leeching the tension from the moment. “I resent the implication! I haven’t burned a pot of water in months.”
I direct her to a pot and instruct her to fill it three quarters of the way.
She places it under the faucet. “Hmm, I wonder how the clear liquid stuff comes out.”
“Cute.”
She shrugs. “I know. Playing up my inner blonde sure appeals to the boys.”
“Not this boy. I’m all about the competence porn.”
“Well, you’re not my audience.”
Lie of major magnitude. If I had my way, I would be her entire fucking audience. We share a look that basically affirms what would be happening if we were different people in a different universe.
With a heavy sigh, I throw some salt in the water, the meatballs in the sauce, and pick up my wine for a healthy swig. The notion that I need to be always moving takes hold, like it can protect me from the wild, inappropriate thoughts running riot.
In action, the dreams can’t slip through.
“So you’re not a cook?”
“No, though my aunt Kathleen tried her best to teach me. I practically lived with her and my cousin Jackie after my mom died. It was tough for my father to manage me and work the shifts he did.”
“I understand that. One-parent families need a support network, especially when the parent works long hours. That’s one of the reasons I came out here. Lena needs more than I can give her.”
She shuffles closer, touches my arm. “From what I’ve seen, you’re an amazing dad. And you obviously had her welfare in mind when you moved to Chicago.”
“And the free childcare,” I joke.
Her hand is still on my arm, the warmth of her seeping into my bones. Deeper. To the marrow. “She’s doing okay, Roman. She’s got people who love her and that goes a long way.”
My chest warms at her praise. “I’m glad you had that support, too. With your aunt.”
“Yeah, I was lucky. Some people might say I wasn’t because of what happened to my mom, but I landed in a good place. And Dad and I were close in the years after. I didn’t want him out of my sight. I’d wake up terrified he wouldn’t come home.” She punctuates that with a frown.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, I’d forgotten how upset I used to get. I’d be up early, waiting for him to come off shift. Insist on making him coffee even though the poor guy really just wanted to hit the hay. But I thought I was looking after him because he didn’t have my mom anymore.” A softness overcomes her expression along with a crimp between her brows I want to kiss better. “It seems like an age ago.”
“Not that long. Maybe cut him some slack. You’re always gonna be his princess.” Here I am defending that asshole again, but we’re both dads. I can empathize with him there.
“Bet that’s what you thought when you heard Chuck Sullivan’s daughter was posted to Six. Some prima donna who needs constant attention.”
“Yep. Turns out it’s true.”
She pushes at my shoulder. “What? I’m not afraid of hard work or getting my hands dirty.”
The mention of “dirty” and “hands,” even in that innocuous context, charges the conversation—an exchange that does not need any more electricity.
“No, you’re not. In fact, you’re a revelation, Abby.”
She’s surprised me every step of the way. With how hard she works, how great she gets along with anyone, how she’s never once traded on her family name. I’m proud to have her on my crew even if every second I’m with her makes me itchy with need.
My admission makes her blush. Does she have any idea how special she is?
“Can I be honest with you?” she asks before I have a chance to say something stupid.
“Always,” I reply, hoping she’ll nail down the stupid for both of us.
“I know we’ve said we can’t and I understand all the reasons—truly I do—but I still think you’re the hottest guy I’ve ever met. Inside and out. Neither of us wants what’s happening between us to affect our careers but I’d like to think we could be mature enough to handle it. I mean, it’s just …” She lowers her voice. “S-e-x. It’s no one’s business but ours.”
My cock stirs. Or at least it stirs more than usual because it’s been in a constant state of awareness for the last half hour.
Right on cue, my perfect little cock-blocker of a kid skips in. “Is dinner ready?”
“Here she is, the Queen of Perfect Timing.”
Lena gives me an oh-dad look. “I had homework to do.”
“I’ve never seen you so enthusiastic to hit the books. Set the table, please, and show our guest that we’re not heathens.”
“She knows.”
Does she? I eye Abby, feeling quite the heathen as a result of her last statement. Is she suggesting we do this and screw the complications?
It’s just s-e-x.
It’s never just sex, but maybe I’m too old to accept a statement like that at face value. Maybe I need to take a page from the book of my juniors, the advice of my sister, and the encouragement of everyone telling me to bang someone already.
Only this is not the woman I should be breaking my sex drought with. She’s a direct report, the daughter of my boss, and a whole lot of fucking trouble.
And hell if I don’t want a little trouble right now, especially when Trouble gives me that come-and-get-it scorcher of a look that tells me all I have to do is say yes.
We’re tearing into the garlic bread when my sister shows her sorry matchmaking face.
“Hey, gorgeous people!” She beams at me and I want to murder her. “What’d I miss?”
“All the work,” I say. “But you’re in time to see the fruits of your meddling.”
She’s washing her hands at the sink, fake bafflement on her face. “Med-del-ling?” Like it’s a foreign language.
Annoyed, I grab a bowl for her and ladle up a serving with an extra meatball I hope lodges in her throat.
Chiara squeezes our guest’s shoulder. “Thanks so much for helping out, Abs!”
Abs? I exchange a glance with Abby, who gives me a quick grin that melts the frost compacting my heart.
“Happy to. And I got the better end of the deal.” She licks her lips. “This is amazing. How come you don’t cook like this at the firehouse?”
“And steal Gage’s thunder? I’m not getting into that kind of piss—” Quick glance at my daughter. “Kind of contest. Besides it’s nice to have someone cook for me seeing as I do all the cooking here.” Pointed look at my sister. Tonight, I am the master of nonverbal communication.
“I refuse to allow the patriarchy to determine who should be in the kitchen,” Chiara says as she digs into the spaghetti and shovels it in her mouth. Smashing the patriarchy has clearly never tasted so good. Barely two chews and a swallow later, she’s back. “Mom did all the cooking when we were kids and I vowed I would not be that chick. But now my wife is eating another woman’s croissants so maybe I don’t know what I’m talking about.”
Abby looks concerned, which is pretty damn empathetic of her and just affirms what a good person she is.
“But Aunt Devi will be coming home soon, right?” Lena shoots a worried glance my way.
Chiara raises both hands. “Of course she will! I just miss her, that’s all.”
Lena doesn’t like to hear about people going through relationship problems. It’s a little too close to the bone.
Deflecting, Chiara smiles at Abby. “So Abby, tell us all about how you became a firefighter. I heard you used to be a paramedic?”
“Yeah, I was. Still am. That’s a pretty traditional path. Once you’re in that lane, Fire Academy seems like the most logical step.”
“And your mom was a big shot, huh?”
“Yep, one of the original cohort of women firefighters in Chicago twenty-seven years ago. The first group were twenty women, assigned in pairs to ten stations, so they could look out for each other. Some of the stories I’ve heard about the resistance to their presence would make your hair stand on end.”
Chiara swallows another mouthful of pasta. “Like what?”
“Red pepper on their sheets, dirty underwear in lockers, risqué reading material to try and create an atmosphere of harassment. Some of the women quit but my mom didn’t.”
I love hearing the pride in her voice. It’s a hard act to follow but so far she’s kicking ass.
“And for a hetero lady, it can’t have been all bad,” Chiara says, because everything is about relationships with her. “Those are pretty good odds!”
“Oh, yeah. Of course they were all catches, every one.” She flicks a shy glance toward me, then away again.
“She met your dad there,” I say, then immediately regret it.
Abby meets my gaze directly now. “She did. When I was born, he wanted her to quit. Only one superhero per family allowed.”
“Did she?” Lena is listening intently. “Because she should be able to do whatever she wants.”
That’s my girl.
“She stayed home with me for a couple of years,” Abby goes on, “but then she came back to the fire department. It must have been hard for her, but she and my dad figured it out.”
Her brow rumples as she thinks on that. I suspect she wants to say more, talk about how a firefighter marriage strained at the seams, but that would only make the conversation too serious.
“She must have been really brave,” Lena says. “Like you.”
“Oh, I’m not brave. But she was. She was a total badass.”
I think her daughter is just like her.
Twenty-five
Abby
Roman won’t let us help with the dishes—I offered, his sister scoffed—so we sit at the table, enjoying the sight of a man taking care of business. Lena is playing video games, having claimed she’s finished her homework.
“I could get used to this,” I say, as I drain my glass. When Chiara goes to top me up, I call it. “Can’t. I’m supposed to be meeting someone.”
“Who?” Chiara’s mouth turns down. “A date?”
“Sort of. Roman doesn’t approve.”
His shoulder muscles stiffen at the mention of my plans. It takes all my willpower not to reach out and run my hands over them. It’s not even sexual—or not a hundred percent so.
He turns, drying his hands on a dishtowel, an eyebrow scooted in disapproval. “He’s into Kurosawa.”
“What’s that? Some weird BDSM thing?”
I laugh, seeking to ease the tension that bunches up my internal organs whenever I talk about other men around Roman.
“He’s a celebrated Japanese filmmaker,” I say to Chiara. “Connor’s a fan.”
“Connor? Have you gone on a date with him yet?”
“No. We’ve been missing each other. Our stars haven’t aligned.” I’ve actually ignored his texts for the last few weeks.
Roman bends over to pull a dishwasher packet out of the cupboard under the sink. His jeans tighten perfectly across his ass and I have to blink to come back from the heaven that image sent me to.
Chiara smirks at me. Damn.
“So, it sounds like stars are not aligning for a reason,” she adds with a devious twinkle. “Maybe it’s not meant to be.”
“I won’t know for sure until I meet him.” I avoid Roman’s heated gaze. “I really should get going.”
Before dinner, I made it very clear to Roman that he just needed to say the word and I was his. In bed, that is. I truly believe we can handle this in a mature and adult manner.
I’m especially interested in all things mature and adult with this man.
“Thanks so much for dinner. This was really nice.”
“I’ll walk you out,” Roman says, and when his sister grins, he scowls at her. Which is about as sexy as the man can get.
Hard-earned smiles, stormy scowls … I love it all.
But it doesn’t matter. He’s walking me out and that’s all there is to it.
“Thanks again,” I say over my shoulder as we get to the front door.
He doesn’t say a word, just opens the door, follows me out, and closes it behind him.
“You going somewhere?”
“Walking you home. Unless you’re going out on your date immediately.”
“No, I’m going home first. To, uh, take a shower.” A cold one from the way my body is reacting under Roman’s hot and heavy gaze.
“Then I’ll make sure you get there safely.”
Safely? Impossible under the circumstances as every cell of my being is under sensual threat. We walk, neither of us speaking until the silence threatens to bury me.
Finally, I say, “It’s strange that we’re such close neighbors but never met before a month ago.”
“Kind of nice, though,” he murmurs. “I get to run into you at the diner and walk you home.”
There’s a sweetness to those words, like he genuinely believes those are perks instead of straight-up temptations. But perks of what? Friendship?
We exchange a few words about nothing I can remember and then we’re at the front door to my building. The cicadas are singing, a light breeze ruffles Roman’s midnight-dark hair, and this beautiful spring evening hitches my heart with its perfection.
“What?” he murmurs. “What’s that smile?”
