Page 27 of Melting for the Firefighter

Thereareflowersinmy coffee mug.

Small white ones with yellow centers. Cora tells me what they are over breakfast.

I forget the name before she finishes saying it.

She is wearing a blue dress covered in tiny pink roses, and that takes every useful thought out of my head.

Tessa took her shopping yesterday. Cora came back with two dresses, a pair of shoes, and enough toiletries to take over my bathroom counter.

The place has looked different ever since.

So has she.

The blue fabric draws in at her waist before falling over the full curves of her hips. It should be illegal to wear something that soft before I have finished my coffee.

She catches me staring.

Her fingers move to the skirt, smoothing fabric that does not need smoothing.

I hate whoever taught her to question what I see when I look at her.

“I need to check in at the station,” I say. “Then we’ll pick up ribbon and vases.”

“I can walk to the greenhouse.”

“No.”

Her eyebrows rise.

“The doctor said rest.”

“The doctor said activity as tolerated.”

“I do not tolerate you walking across town in July heat with smoke still in your lungs.”

She studies me over the rim of her glass.

“That almost sounded sweet.”

“Eat your toast.”

Her mouth curves.

“I’ll be back soon,” I add.

Her smile follows me all the way to the truck.

That is becoming a problem.

I like leaving her in my house too much.

Like knowing she will be here when I return even more.

At the firehouse, Jordan is washing the engine. His grin starts before I reach the bay.

“Say it,” I tell him.

“Was going to ask how Cora is.”