Page 4 of Melting for the Firefighter
“Could be the motor. Could be the wiring.”
His thumb moves once across my knuckles.
The touch is small.
It still sends heat racing up my arm.
“Shut it down tonight,” he says.
“I’ll lose half my stock.”
“Move the delicate flowers into water. Put whatever you can in your bathtub.”
“My hydrangeas have always wanted a spa day.”
His mouth twitches again, but his attention stays on the cooler.
“I’ll bring ice from the station.”
I tilt my head back to look at him. “You do not have to do that.”
“Didn’t say I had to.”
The answer is gruff, almost impatient, as though helping me has already been decided and my opinion is an unnecessary delay.
My phone buzzes on the counter.
I pull my hand away before I do something foolish, like turn it over and lace our fingers together.
I reach for the phone and flip it faceup. Mom’s message lights the screen.
You saved me again. Knew I could count on my sweet girl.
Lance’s attention shifts to my phone. “Everything okay?”
“Just fine.”
The lie comes too quickly.
He folds his arms. The movement pulls his shirt tighter across his chest.
My brain, which has already proven unreliable around him, stops working completely.
“Cora,” he says, his voice roughening.
“It is only family stuff.” I tie a cream ribbon around the vase. “My mother needed some help.”
Something hard enters his expression.
He knows enough about my mother to understand. Whispering Pines is small, and Grandma never learned how to soften the story of the woman who left her baby on a porch with a diaper bag and a note, visits once every year or two when guilt or boredom brings her through town, and calls whenever she needs money, rescuing, or someone to clean up the latest disaster.
“You keep giving her pieces of yourself,” he says. “One day she’s going to take too much.”
The words land beneath my ribs.
I have thought them before.
Late at night. Alone in bed. Watching the balance in my savings account shrink while I wonder whether this will be the favor that finally makes Mom stay.
