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Amid the roar of the growing flames, Brass recalled what he’d first found at the base of the fire. Copper wires. Metal machinery. It would take heat far hotter than a simple carelessly tossed match to ignite and smelt copper into its liquid state.
Only angel fire could do such a thing so quickly—specifically his fire, as his alloy commanded the copper element, among others.
Before Molly could come back through the door, Brass released a pulse of his celestial power into the flames, matching that of the fire. The electric blue infernos clashed with a resounding roar, then melded together under Brass’s sole command. Once controlled, the flames extinguished with a deafening hiss, leaving behind a thick plume of black smoke.
Just as the last of his flames extinguished, Molly burst through the alley door, holding a red fire extinguisher in the air like it was a forty-pound sandbag and she’d just crossed the finish line at a Spartan Race. Her eyes widened as they took in the smoke. “Here!”
She tossed the thing at him, and he made a show of dousing everything in the dumpster. His power had taken care of the flames, but the smoke still lingered. The extinguisher was the wet chemical kind, primarily used to fight cooking oil fires and not so much live electrical equipment, but its cloud of chemicals concealed exactly what he needed them to.
At the base of the alley, where the pavement spilled out onto the main drag, a few holiday shoppers had stopped to gawk at the commotion. Phones were held to ears, and worried parents pressed insistent hands on the backs of their children, urging them not to dawdle.
Of all the times to have a damn audience.
“It’s done,” he said loudly. “Fire’s out.”
Brass climbed down off the dumpster and wiped his sooty palms on his apron. When he glanced up, he noticed that, for the first time since the outbreak, the dog had grown quiet. Molly had run over to a group of worried diners to hastily reassure them that all was well after they’d probably smelled the smoke. The dog, however, sat patiently next to the back door, its brown eyes fixed on Molly as she used her hands to recount the details of what had happened.
Details he’d like to know as well. One thing was for damn sure: there had been nothing electrical in nature about that fire.
He stared at Molly more intently, and the pleasant smile she tossed out for her customers’ benefit reminded him of the words she’d spoken earlier.
At least your smiles are genuine.
A tremulous awareness vibrated through him at the conclusion his mind was drawing, one that began to unravel all he thought he knew of the alluring Molly Resnick.
Those flames had been his all right, but they had been ignited by magic most definitely not his own.
Chapter 9
Though the fire had started in the middle of the breakfast service, the shitstorm that followed lasted well into the evening. It was almost five thirty before Molly was finally able to collapse into her office chair, deeply lamenting that it wasn’t a proper fainting couch like the situation called for.
Because when one’s nerves got you up at three a.m. to prepare for a new employee who was heavy on the breathtaking and light on the actual legal requirements of employment, it made for a very long day.
Molly’s head sank back, and for a brief moment, she let the brushed blue velvet hairs of the chair soothe away the knot of tension forming at the base of her neck.
After word got around about the fire in her restaurant’s dumpster, tables cleared out mass-exodus style just in time to effectively deter any future diners that may have come her way for the lunchtime meal service. Several elderly patrons, who never did anything quickly, had somehow managed to toss their cash onto the table with such brisk efficiency it made Molly wonder whether the slower-with-age concept was all an act just so the blue-hairs could still do whatever the hell they wanted without having to answer for it. Likewise, the preschool moms, who always breakfasted there every Tuesday morning for the entire two and a half hours their kids were in the half-day program, cut their girl time short as soon as the fire trucks rolled up. Well, maybe not super short, as there had definitely been some lingering when the firefighters jumped on scene.
None of that held a candle to the complaints, however. Those stuck around for-freaking-ever. One particularly memorable objection had been made over the phone by a regular retired customer who had thrown just as much heat into his ire as the extra hot sauce he always asked for on his morning soft veggie scramble.
That conversation, strangely enough, occurred while the man stood across the street—a safe distance away, according to him—but maintained his eye leer at Molly through the restaurant’s window regardless.
“Mr. Campbell, everything’s fine. The fire department’s here. They reported no damage to the building and said we were safe to resume normal business operations. You’re welcome to come back and finish your breakfast. You won’t be charged for today’s meal,” Molly assured him, already hating the placating tone she’d adopted while delivering her fifth variation of this exact conversation in the same hour.
“Like hell I’ll come back there! Look, I don’t know what kind of establishment you’re running, my dear, but I heard that one of the other guests saw your employee rummaging around in the dumpster before the blaze ignited. The fool probably tossed his cigarette in there and put us all at risk. Smoking is a deplorable practice and has no place in food service.” The jowly response was heaped high with indignation and just the right amount of judgment coming from a generation that was raised without seatbelts, screens, or sympathy. Plenty of nicotine, though, but even Molly knew better than to aim that particular irony missile back at the man.
There were only so many times she could offer up a “Sir, let me explain” or “That’s not what happened, and I can assure you . . .” before the words all strung together into one long sigh of exasperation.
Eventually, concern about the cause of the fire gave way to questions about her business’s integrity, her hiring process, and—most infuriating of all—whether her building’s safety certificates had been fabricated.
Had I a penis, these would be far different conversations.
It hadn’t escaped her notice that all the accusations being flung at her and calling her business prowess onto the carpet to stand trial had been made by men.
Story of her fucking life.
If she had to hear the phrase my dear one more time, she was liable to take her favorite Japanese cleaver and start hacking off things those men found very dear, indeed.
“Knock knock, Molly girl.” Benny’s sad smile poked around the lip of her office doorway. “Why the hell are you still here?”
