Page 73 of Melting for the Firefighter
It no longer lives with me.
Mom calls every few months. Sometimes she asks how I am before she asks for something. Sometimes she does not.
I have learned that loving her does not require handing her every part of me she reaches for.
Lance notices the name on the screen and takes my hand.
No questions.
No orders.
Only warmth.
Only choice.
Our daughter grabs a red rose from the nearest vase. I rescue it before she can eat a petal.
“She takes after you,” Lance says.
“Because she likes flowers?”
“Because she grabs what she wants.”
He shifts her into one arm and settles his free hand at my waist.
Heat enters his eyes.
I know that look.
It has produced several broken buttons, one damaged kitchen chair, and our daughter.
“Jordan and Lana offered to babysit after the festival,” he says.
“Did they offer, or did you ask?”
“Does it matter?”
“You arranged babysitting so you could get me alone.”
Lance leans close enough for his stubble to brush my cheek.
“I have plans for my wife.”
My body warms.
“Possessive plans?”
“Very.”
He kisses me in the middle of Main Street.
Our daughter makes an outraged sound between us and pushes one tiny hand against his chin.
I laugh into his mouth.
Around us, Founder’s Day continues.
Children run past with painted faces. Music pours from the stage. Tessa argues with Zain about whether the booth needs a second fire extinguisher. Jordan tries to trade a toy helmet for his missing radio while Lana laughs at him.
