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“What’s Mr. Barnett’s record?” I ask.
Tommy waves his hand at Mr. Barnett who shakes his head. “Mark, please, there’s no need for formalities.”
“Of course, Mark,” I say, trying to undo the lessons drilled into me from birth by teachers and even my parents.
“I’ve eaten eleven wings before needing anything to cool the heat down. Tommy made it all the way to six last year before he had tears in his eyes and was practically begging for mercy.”
Hank and Mark laugh and I look at Tommy, loving the shy blush on his cheeks.
“It’s true,” he admits. “The year before I made it to eight before I caved. Last year was pitiful.”
“Who else has been close to the record?” I ask.
“Sharon only competed two years ago and she got to six and Hank—”
“Hank doesn’t even try,” my boss says.
The waiter comes by and Hank places an order for the spiciest wings on the menu with an assortment of other appetizers. He looks around and asks if we’d like anything else.
“An order of plain wings, please,” Tommy says, raising one finger to get his attention. My heart flutters against my will. Just because I’ve always ordered for myself because I can’t handle spicy foods or dairy, doesn’t mean I should suddenly have butterflies over the guy who remembers and feels confident enough to order the right thing.
“And a pitcher of light beer and a pitcher of cola. Anyone need diet?”
We all shake our heads and our waiter takes the menus from everyone.
“Sharon, how are the new recruits working out so far?” Mark asks.
“Really great potential, but we have some big shoes to fill. Figuratively and literally,” she smiles.
“How many positions are open?” I ask.
“Just two for our station, but we cover a broad area, so the Greenstone location houses more than usual. We’re one of the few paid rural stations in the state, but we also train the volunteers.”
“I didn’t know that,” I tell her.
“We’re fortunate to have the resources right now to replace both retirements. One might not be full-time, but we’re trying.”
My mind is already processing this information and I’m already thinking of ways to help make sure the region gets funds to at least keep their previous staffing numbers.
Tommy shifts in his seat, drawing my eye. He pulls out his notebook from his front pocket and one of his pens.
“Write it down,” he says, setting the notebook in front of me and placing the blue pen on top. “Your stuff is in my truck, so get your ideas down. Then you don’t have to worry about forgetting them.”
A smile tugs at my lips. I should be surprised at his thoughtfulness and his attention to detail. But this man seems to know what I need so I don’t fixate.
“Thank you,” I tell him, opening the notebook that’s warm from being against his leg. For some reason, that makes this feel intimate. I don’t usually have a reason to write in someone else’s notebook and I know that this isn’t his diary or anything along those lines, but the warmth makes me think that there might be more than meeting notes in here. I use the ribbon to open to a fresh page and jot down the list that has already formed in my head.
He goes back to talking with everyone as I go into the zone, letting my thoughts come out on the page. I finish when our pitchers are delivered with plenty of glasses. Tommy grabs the beer, pours five glasses, and passes them around.
It’s only now that I realize Tommy and I are the only two people sitting side by side. Our table is a square and it didn’t feel funny to sit here, even before Sharon arrived.
When was the last time I was this comfortable with someone?
Chapter 8: Tommy
God, that smile.
Sam stops writing in the middle of her second list, the second list she has used my notebook for, and she looks up right into my eyes. I hold her gaze and watch the left side of her lips softly rise. I don’t dare ask what brought this on. She opens her mouth, about to speak—
