Page 44 of Honeyfires

Jackson pointed at her. "I like you." He looked at me. "She's great. Ten out of ten." He paused, the expression of a man about to deploy information he'd been holding. "You know she talks about you too, right? She said—"

"Tower duty," I said. "Thirty feet. Go."

"I haven't even said it yet—"

"I know what you're going to say. Go."

He retreated, grinning, which told me whatever he'd been about to say was something I was going to hear about later, in detail, at a time of his choosing. Vera watched him go and turned to me with the expression of someone who intended to ask Jackson everything at the earliest available opportunity.

"Don't," I said.

"I didn't say anything."

"You were planning something."

"I'm always planning something." She patted my arm. "I'll be very discreet."

Miller was at the far end of the table, coffee mug in hand, wearing the expression of a man who'd been watching people for thirty years and had stopped pretending to find it entertaining. He watched Vera with something that wasn't quite suspicion but was adjacent to it.

"Miller," I said. "Play nice."

"I'm always nice," he said. No one confirmed nor denied this.

Vera walked over and set the deli bag on the table in front of him. "I brought turkey clubs and Italian subs because I didn't know preferences. Also cookies—chocolate chip and snickerdoodle, both with brown butter, because I believe in giving people options." She paused. "I also Googled wildland fire nutrition requirements for high-exertion work, and apparently you burn through carbohydrates at a significant rate, so there are sourdough rolls as well. I may have slightly over-catered."

Miller stared at the bag.

"The cookies are homemade," she added. "The snickerdoodles are exceptional, if I do say so myself."

A long beat passed. Miller reached out and took the bag. Looked inside. Looked at Vera. Looked back inside.

"Looks good," he said.

From Miller, this was a standing ovation.

Captain Rodriguez emerged from his office with the restrained pace of a man who had been running fire operations for twenty years and had never once been hurried by anything short of an actual fire. He looked at Vera. Vera looked at him.

"Captain Rodriguez," I said.

He put out his hand. She shook it. He had the grip of someone who could snap a hose coupling by hand. She didn't flinch. I noted this with private, disproportionate pride.

"You're the librarian," he said.

"I am."

"Alves talks about you."

"I do not—" I started.

"She does," Stevens confirmed from across the bay. "Constantly."

"Every shift," Jackson added, from what I had believed was a safe distance.

"Every single shift," Miller said, holding a cookie up to the light.

I looked at the ceiling and attempted to count to ten.

"Good things, I hope," Vera said to Rodriguez, composedly.