Page 27 of Falling for My Grumpy Fireman

"You're still holding my chair."

I let go. "It's called manners."

"That's why I came early." She smiles at me over her water glass. It is not a nice smile. "Take a seat, Peterson. You're blocking Hank's view."

I sit. Somewhere behind me, a newspaper rustles.

June from the bakery is covering tables today, which means the service comes with commentary. She sets down two waters we already have. "Y'all look nice."

"We look like hostages," Nellie says. "Thank you, June."

June beams and does not leave.

"I'll have the chicken-fried steak," I say. "She'll take the—"

"She'll take nothing you order for her." Nellie hands up her menu without looking at me. "Club sandwich, no mayo, iced tea. And June? If he tries to pay for mine, arrest him."

June writes it all down like scripture and floats off to report to the kitchen, the counter, and probably the church phone tree.

Nellie folds her hands. "Four hundred and eighteen dollars."

"And car-wash coupons."

"And car-wash coupons. Debbie's very proud." She tilts her head. "So, this is the famous auction lunch. You gonna tell me about yourself, or do I have to read the bio Tater wrote? Because I have it memorized. 'Gently used. Runs good. Some cosmetic damage.'"

"He's a dead man."

"He's a poet."

Something in my chest unclenches half an inch. That's the problem with her. Right when I've got my guard set, she says a thing like that and my mouth wants to smile without clearing it with me first.

So naturally, I ruin it.

"Thirteen weeks," I say. "That's the contract?"

"That's the contract."

"Then what?"

"Then the next one. Montana, maybe. There's a hospital in Missoula that keeps calling."

"And after Montana?"

"After Montana, wherever's after Montana." She shrugs like it's nothing. Like it's weather. "That's the whole design, Peterson. It's a feature."

"So, you leave people."

Her glass stops halfway to her mouth.

I hear it a second after I say it. The shape of it. The weight. I meant it like a question and it came out like a charge, and the temperature at our table drops ten degrees.

"Excuse me?"

"I mean—" I don't know what I mean. "Patients. Coworkers. That Kessler fella lights up when you walk in. Debbie talks about you like family. And in seven weeks you're a forwarding address."

"Wow." She sets the glass down careful, and careful is worse than loud. "Three weeks of stitches and butterscotch surveillance and you've got me all diagnosed."

"I'm not diagnosing—"