Page 5 of Christmas with Three Firemen

Thus, irrelevant.

His smile comes warm and easy, entirely too charming for the dour afternoon.

“You must be the investigator,” he greets me.

His tone is weighted with the unmistakable confidence of someone who has never once worried about making friends or being liked.

I adjust the strap of my overnight bag on my shoulder.

“And you must be the firefighter,” I reply, less warmly.

His grin widens. Apparently, sarcasm doesn’t deter him. If anything, it seems to encourage him.

He holds out a hand. “Mateo Ruiz.”

I look down at it, then look back up at him. For some reason, I decide to play my favorite game. The one where I hesitate for long enough just to see if they’ll drop their hand. It’s a good litmus test for who can handle a little bit of adversity.

He doesn’t lower his hand, though. So, with a tight-lipped smile, I reach out and give it a terse shake.

“Coffee?” he asks.

“No, thanks.”

“Fair enough. You’re better off avoiding that sludge Kowalski brews.”

“Hey!” shouts one of the men at the table, an older guy with a thick mustache.

Mateo ignores him, winking at me. “Don’t worry. I’ve got your back.”

I open my mouth to inform him that there’s no need for him to have any part of my body whatsoever, but then the station door I just came in through opens again behind me.

Cold air rushes inside, and several of the firefighters glance past me toward the entrance.

The shift in the room is immediate, but subtle. Conversation quiets, postures adjust, and attention shifts. The collective reaction tells me everything I need to know before I even turn around.

Their captain just walked in.

I pivot toward the entrance.

The man entering the station is taller than the one attempting to charm me, but slightly narrower in frame. His dark hair is thick, but touched with the slightest flecks of silver at the temples.

His gaze sweeps around him, assessing and cataloging in the automatic sort of way that I can begrudgingly relate to.

When that gaze lands on me, so deep brown in color that it’s almost black, the station suddenly feels very quiet.

His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes hardens.

Morrison was right, then. This captain really is thrilled about the arrangement that was coordinated over our heads.

Captain Hale closes the door behind him and steps farther into the station.

“Investigator Meadows,” he says. It’s not a question. It’s not even really a greeting, either.

His voice is calm and professional, but not entirely welcoming. At the very least, he’s not being outright hostile.

“Captain Hale,” I reply.

“You’re early,” he states.