Page 81 of Flint’s Strike

With a heavy sigh, I drain the last of the margarita and set the glass on the coffee table.

“His name is Eliot,” I begin.

“Wait. Eliot. Eliot Flint? The arson investigator on the Aldrich fire?” Emi asks.

“You work with him?” Isabel gasps. “Isn’t that against the rules?”

“No! He’s with the State Fire Marshal’s Office, not the Rangers.”

For the next ten minutes, Emi and Isabel pepper me with questions. Who made the first move? Where did we go on our date? Whose place did we end up at?

“So…you had a fun dinner, and some hot sex,” Emi says. “How did that lead to”—she waves her hand—“whatever happened this morning?”

This is the part I don’t know how to say. Eliot’s burns are his story to tell. Not mine. “He has an old injury that flared up this morning. I asked him what I could do. And he… He said I couldn’t fix him. That it was best I understood that now before we caught feelings. And then he locked himself in his bathroom. I…well…I left.”

“Parker!” Of my three closest friends, I didn’t expect Grace to be the one to chastise me. Even if I do deserve it. “You walked out on him? That ain’t like you.”

I reach for my glass again, find it empty, and set it back down. “I know. But I had to get to work, and…I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t tryin’ to fix him. I wanted to know if he was okay.”

“And you haven’t talked to him since?” Emi asks.

“He came to the station to drop off a report. I hid in my office.”

“You…hid. In your office.” Isabel shakes her head. “Parker Marie Elmore. How could you?”

I blink at her. “That’s…not my middle name.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Isabel says. “I still have the same question. How could you?”

“I didn’t know what to say! I still don’t.” Hearing the words aloud confirms just how much of a coward I am.

Grace wraps her arm around me and pulls me close. “You have to tell that man the truth, hon. He doesn’t need to be fixed, and you’re allowed to care about his pain without trying to take it away. But you also need to call him out for hidin’ in the damn bathroom.” She gives my hand a squeeze. “Then you apologize for walkin’ out without sayin’ goodbye.”

I unlock my phone and stare at the messaging app for way too long before I start to type.

I shouldn’t have run this morning. That’s not me, and you deserved better. But storming off and locking yourself in the bathroom? Not the right call. I wasn’t trying to fix you. I was trying to let you know I care. If there’s a next time for us…if there’s a next anything…we both have to stay in the room.

I read the text half a dozen times before Isabel snatches it out of my hand, glances at the screen, and taps Send.

“Isabel!”

She slides the phone back across the coffee table. “You were starin’ so hard at the screen, I was worried about your eyesight.”

Grace nudges my shoulder. “Proud of you.”

“Now I get to be on edge all night until he replies. This ain’t me. Pining over a man? Second guessin’ every text? We’ve been on one date.”

“Connor and I didn’t go on a date for almost two months after we got together,” Isabel offers. “When you know, you know. So…” She grins, a sparkle to her brown eyes. “Do you know?”

The phone vibrates on the table, saving me from one conversation but forcing me to confront another.

Turning tail was a shit move. You deserved better, too, and I’m sorry. I want there to be a next time. Many next times.

I melt back against the cushions, the stress and strain of the day leaving me so quickly, I’m surprised I don’t fizzle out like a deflating balloon.

Dinner tomorrow? My place. I’ll cook. Come over at six.

The dots dance across the bottom of the screen for less than three seconds.