Kitty Valentine Dates a Fireman Read online

  “I’m so happy you’re here with her,” I whisper with a smile. “What happened?”

  He runs a hand over his thin gray hair before shrugging. “She was her normal self this evening. A few of her friends came by for their pinochle game. She enjoyed herself and seemed to be in fine spirits when she retired. I’d only settled in to sleep when I heard her fall upstairs.”

  “Oh no.” To think, if he had been sleeping, he might’ve missed it. And she might’ve stayed that way. “Was she conscious?”

  “Yes, at first, she was. I called for an ambulance, and she fell unconscious before the paramedics arrived.” There’s a tightness in his voice and a tremor. He’s upset. Deeply.

  “I’m so glad she had you there to look after her. She’s so lucky to have you. Has she ever told you so? How lucky she is, I mean.”

  He favors me with a genuine smile. “Does that sound like something she would say?”

  “Good point.”

  We share a soft laugh.

  “No, she hasn’t. She isn’t the sort of person to express such sentiments. That has never been the way of our relationship.”

  “I understand.” But do I? There’s something in the way he’s looking at her, the way he tucks the blanket a little tighter around her sleeping form. “How long have you been working for her? I can’t even remember. Since before I was born, right?”

  “Thirty-four years.” There’s a note of pride in his voice.

  I can imagine he’d be proud. She can’t be an easy person to work for.

  “That’s a long time.” Again, I notice the way he smooths out her blanket, the way he plumps the pillow under her head. Even though she doesn’t know he’s doing it, he’s making sure she’s comfortable.

  Dear Lord, how did I not see it before now? No way he’s been with her for more than three decades without developing an attachment. You don’t live under the same roof with a person, serving their meals and taking care of them, without becoming attached.

  Without maybe loving them.

  No wonder he still works for her at his age. He’s roughly her age. This is the age when people retire. Not when they continue overseeing cooking and serving and turning down the bedding and making sure their boss has everything she’s become accustomed to after living a life of having things her way.

  “You really care about her, don’t you? Don’t worry,” I whisper when he looks surprised. “I won’t tell.”

  His face works like he’s trying to figure out what to say. How much he should say. Heck, maybe he’s never considered it before now. Is that possible? Can a person go through their day-to-day life, one task after another, without looking at the bigger picture and seeing what’s been happening in their heart all along?

  When Peter speaks, it’s slowly and with great care, “I don’t think a man can look after a woman like your grandmother as long as I have without developing … a fondness.”

  “Of course not. You’re only human.”

  “She wouldn’t like hearing us talk about this.” He looks bashful, turning his gaze away from me.

  “It’s a good thing she can’t hear us then.” I reach over to pat his hand, where it’s resting on the other side of Grandmother’s legs. “Besides, if there’s one thing I’ve learned as a writer, it’s feelings. Emotions. You can’t walk around with this inside you and never talk about it.”

  I can’t imagine he has a lot of people in his life to share this with. One of the things that’s always made him an excellent butler is how completely available he is to Grandmother at any time of the day or night. He even drives her around when she needs him to.

  We sit in silence for a while, both of us lost in thought. Is it possible he hasn’t considered in all this time how he feels about her? Maybe. Or maybe he’s wondering if he’s ever made it obvious. Whether she knows.

  I could tell him with a pretty high degree of certainty that Grandmother has no idea he has feelings for her. I love her, but she’s not the woman who pays attention to that sort of thing. Not from her loyal butler—aka somebody not in her social circle.

  Knowing her, if she were awake right now, she’d make a case in favor of turning a construction worker into her boy toy. That would be just fine.

  But an emotional relationship with a servant? Gasp. The horror.

  “How are you holding up?” I finally think to ask after sitting in silence for a long, long time. I don’t even know how long I’ve been here anymore. There’s a clock on one of the many monitors over Grandmother’s head, telling me it’s been over an hour with no developments.

  At least she doesn’t look to be in destress. I’m happy to see her resting quietly.

  Peter lifts a shoulder, but he can’t fool me. He looks plain worn out. There’s a gray tinge to his face and a droop to his eyes. “I’m holding up,” is all he tells me.

  “You should go home and get some sleep.”

  Another shoulder lift. At least he looks at me this time when he replies, “There’s a pull-out sofa under the window.” He points to it. “I’ll be fine here, I assure you.”

  “I’m sure she wouldn’t want to see you getting sick because of this.” When that doesn’t get a reaction, I try a different tactic. “Somebody’s going to have to take care of her when she wakes up and gets better and goes home. She’ll still be weak and in need of rest. If you aren’t up to the task …”

  “I’ll be up to the task. I’ve looked after your grandmother for many years. I know what it takes. If this means a little extra effort, a little extra attention, so be it. Whatever she needs.”

  He then closes one hand over hers, and something about that simple gesture brings tears to my eyes.

  This is love. This is devotion. I’ve never seen anything like it—at least, not since I’ve grown up. I’m sure my parents were loving and tender toward each other, but I was too young to notice or care. Kids generally feel icky about watching their parents be tender with each other, don’t they?

  The thing here is, there’s nothing in it for him. She doesn’t love him back. He takes care of her, and she simply provides compensation for that care. That’s enough to keep him by her side, treating her with tenderness, even when she is unconscious and has no idea.

  Or maybe it’s because she has no idea since, now, she can’t tell him to stop fussing over her. Which she definitely would if she were conscious.

  “Kathryn?” There’s excitement in Peter’s voice. “She moved her hand.”

  I sit up, watching, waiting. Am I breathing? I don’t know. All I know is, her eyelids are fluttering and her hands are moving and she’s mumbling something incoherent.

  “Grandmother? Can you hear me? Say something if you can, please.” I look from her to Peter, where he’s hovering over her, and it just about breaks my heart to see how eager he is.

  There’s an entire lifetime of love in his eyes. Gosh, how did I never see it until now?

  How has she never?

  Her eyes open slowly. “I hear you,” she whispers. “I don’t see why you have to holler at me that way, but I hear you.”

  And the fact that she sounds exactly like she always has is what breaks the dam and starts me crying all over again.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “That won’t happen anymore.” She threw a look over her shoulder while pulling on her cardigan. “Don’t even bother thinking it will.”

  “You’ve said that before. Twice, I think.” He pulled on his jeans, watching her. The way she moved, the way she threw her hair over one shoulder before looking down to button her sweater. Hair he’d just had his hands in, pulling and twisting it around his fingers while her head moved up and down …

  If he wasn’t careful, he’d end up with a hell of a hard-on and no one to take care of it.

  While he had no doubt they’d be doing this over and over again, he doubted he’d get lucky so soon. They would go through their usual dance. She would ignore him for a couple days. He’d reach out and get a quick one-worded answer. H
e’d reach out repeatedly, coaxing her out of her shell until they were back at his place again.

  Or her place. Or his truck. Wherever.

  So long as he was with her, deep inside her, with only her scent and her taste and her touch all over him. There was no comparison to that thrill, that charge. Guys in his line of work liked to pretend they didn’t get a charge from running into a fire while everybody else ran out.

  They were full of shit.

  “Fine. But this time, I mean it. We can’t keep doing this.” She pulled on her boots and stood, straightening out her clothes, combing her hair with her fingers.

  It didn’t matter how she tried to make it look like she hadn’t gotten fucked—and hard. She could put herself back together and swipe on a fresh coat of lip gloss, and the rest of the world might think she was the cute, cheerful teacher who never so much as uttered an angry word.

  He knew better.

  Ugh. This isn’t very good. At least, it’s not flowing smoothly.

  I can’t even remember when I first sat down in front of the laptop today. The light has changed since then, though it wasn’t exactly sunny in the first place. One of those days when it keeps threatening to snow, but nothing ever quite starts up.

  My neck is stiff. My jaw hurts from grinding my teeth—wow, sometimes I’m super literal. Grinding out my work while grinding my teeth.

  Silly me, thinking that throwing myself into work would help me get over worrying about Grandmother. Sure, it’s awesome that she woke up and sounded just like her old self. She was salty with the doctors and nurses, even with me and Peter.

  Only when a very stern, very assertive doctor put it to her straight did she change her tune. “You had a heart attack. You were unconscious for hours and are barely strong enough to lift your head from your pillow. We don’t keep patients in the ICU when they aren’t sick.”

  I almost asked for his phone number. Not because I wanted to check in with him on my grandmother’s condition. But because that was the only time I’d ever seen her shut up so fast, with such little effort. That’s the sort of power I want to have at my fingertips.

  Still, even though she seemed to be doing well by the time I left the hospital, that doesn’t mean I can stop wondering what I’d be doing right now if things had gone differently. If Peter hadn’t heard her fall. If the heart attack had been more severe.

  She thinks me inheriting her wealth once she’s gone will make up for her absence in my life. We’ve already had that discussion in the not-too-distant past, and it makes my nose wrinkle in disgust just as much as it did back then. Like any dollar amount would replace her.

  Facts are still facts. She’s okay—or she will be. And I’m okay too.

  Which means I absolutely have to get back to work. Time is ticking by, and I have to submit my final edits by the holidays, so my first draft has to be in Maggie’s hands well before that.

  My characters are doing well. At least, once my heroine loosens up a little, they’ll be doing well. She’s still guarding herself against the feelings her firefighter hero stirs in her heart … and her loins.

  My hero? He knows she’ll be his in the end. What he doesn’t know is how close he’ll come to death and how he never realized until meeting her as an adult and becoming intimate with her that it hadn’t mattered before whether he lived or died.

  It matters very much now. She’ll be the last thing he thinks about before a roof collapses on him and his fellow firefighters. That’s when he’ll know for sure this isn’t just a case of lust. That’s when he’ll know he loves her, that nobody else will ever take her place.

  It just so happens that’s when she’ll figure she loves him too.

  How neat things are in my books—in romance books on the whole. We guarantee a happy ending. That’s one of the tenets of romance. There has to be a happy ending.

  Real life? That’s a whole other beast.

  The knock at my front door comes as a surprise, especially when I know Matt’s out of town, visiting family. He took Phoebe with him, so I don’t even have her to keep me company. Or to complain to, which I tend to do when she and I are alone.

  What can I say? She’s an excellent listener.

  I tiptoe to the door just in case it’s a sicko or a weirdo. You never know when they’ll show up, even in a nicer part of town like this one.

  It’s not a sicko or a weirdo. At least, I hope Bryce isn’t either of those things.

  I swing the door open with a smile and am deeply glad I took the time to give myself a blowout this morning after my post-workout shower. “Hey you.”

  Holy cow. Now, with the door open, I have a full view of him.

  The man looks good enough to eat, even in his work clothes. The long-sleeved shirt looks like it was painted over his bulging shoulders and biceps. It doesn’t help that I can’t stop thinking about him in his gear after watching him get ready to go out on a call.

  My hormones are on overdrive, in other words, and the man is going to slip in a puddle of my drool if I don’t get myself under control.

  His hands are behind his back, and there’s a playful grin he’s trying hard to hide. “Hi, beautiful. I know you said things turned out okay last night, but I wanted to drop by and see how you were holding up before I went in today.”

  “You’re too much. You’re also hiding something. What is it?”

  Amazing how my spirits have lifted and all because he’s standing in front of me. There’s nothing like that early-in-a-relationship feeling. The rush of endorphins when the person you like appears in front of you. How everything they do seems so stinking cute.

  “Oh, you mean, you think I’m hiding something behind my back? Is that what you think?” He sidesteps me when I try to take a peek and then feints in the other direction to tease me. “You wanna see what I’m hiding?”

  “I will attack you if you don’t let me see!” Again, I try to jump behind him, but he’s too fast.

  “Is that supposed to be a threat? Am I supposed to want to avoid you attacking me?”

  He’s like a brick wall, his feet planted, totally immovable. I grab onto his shoulders and try reaching behind him, but that’s a waste of time. He’s too tall, and my arms aren’t long enough.

  “You might be surprised how strong I am,” I growl.

  “I wasn’t talking about strength.” He’s wearing a sexy grin as he finally gives in and reveals what he’s been hiding—a gift bag holding two bouquets and a teddy bear. “One of them is for you. The other bouquet and the bear are for your grandmother. I know she’s too old for teddy bears, but—”

  Anything else he’s about to say dies when I throw my arms around his neck and plant a big, wet kiss on his full mouth. He lets out a little grunt of surprise but recovers quickly, wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me closer.

  By the time we come up for air, I seriously wish he didn’t have to go to work. And judging by the soft groan in my ear when he nuzzles my neck, I’m thinking he feels the same way.

  “We’ll have to pick up where we left off yesterday,” he whispers before nipping at my earlobe.

  I can’t help but shiver a little. “Agreed. What are you thinking?”

  “Hmm.” He pulls back, looking down at me with a thoughtful expression. “I’m working a full twenty-four-hour shift starting today, and I’ll probably be useless tomorrow night. What about Tuesday?”

  I want to say yes, but the laptop behind me has other ideas. “You know what? I should really focus on work this week. I have to get this first draft to my editor and give her at least a workweek to get through it before revising. What about Friday? How does that look for you?”

  His disappointment is obvious, but he shrugs anyway. “Friday night would be great. I’m off Saturday, so I’ll be able to stay up late. If, you know, you’re into the idea.”

  Am I into the idea?

  Right now, with his hands on my hips and our bodies pressed together, with my lips still tingling a little, I can on
ly nod enthusiastically. “I’m into the idea.”

  His smile is absolutely wicked. “Good.”

  “And by the way”—I know he’s probably running late by now, but there’s something I have to get off my chest—“my schedule’s not always like this. But with the holidays coming up and people taking off—”

  “I get it. I swear.” He kisses the tip of my nose before freeing himself from my arms. “And in a way, my schedule’s just as crazy.”

  “How so?” I ask as we walk to the door.

  “It’s a shame, but this is the time of year when fires are most common. Holiday lights, dry trees …”

  “Right, of course. That’s awful.”

  “Not trying to freak you out or anything.” He kisses me once more before heading for the stairs at the end of the hall. “But it’s worth warning you. I might not be able to hang out if I get called in unexpectedly.”

  I wave good-bye, hoping nothing comes up at the last minute. And not only because it would be a terrible tragedy, but also because I’m already looking forward to Friday night and would hate to miss the opportunity to be with him.

  Should I ask if he can wear any of his equipment to my place, or would that be too much?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “I don’t see why everyone is making such a fuss.” Her sigh fills the otherwise quiet, private room.

  Now that she’s no longer in extreme danger, my grandmother has been moved out of the ICU and into a room of her own for observation.

  And I’m sure nobody has ever received better care. She even has a mini refrigerator to keep her drinks cold and an electric teakettle for when she’s in need of a little chamomile.

  I can’t help but roll my eyes and sigh a little. “Grandmother, you’re in a hospital. In a bed. Because you had a heart attack.”

  “A mild heart attack, dear. Don’t exaggerate.”

  “I’m not exaggerating.” I take a seat in the chair next to her bed. “I was here not long after they brought you in. When you were unconscious. Because you had had a heart attack and were sick.”