Page 8 of Falling for My Grumpy Fireman

I'm on the last stitch when it happens. He shifts, I steady his wrist, and my bare knuckles above the glove line settle against the inside of his arm where the skin is soft and untouched by any of this. Neither of us moves. One second. Two. His pulse is right there under my fingers, and it is not the pulse of a calm man.

I have taken ten thousand pulses. I have never once taken one personally.

Mine's no better. Traitor.

I tie off, snap the glove for effect, and start wrapping. "Keep it dry twenty-four hours. Sutures out in ten to twelve days. Signs of infection, come back. Signs of stupidity, such as swinging an axe tomorrow, also come back, and I'll charge you double."

"You don't set the prices."

"I'll write a strongly worded note in your chart."

Something happens at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile. A rumor of one. He kills it fast, stands, and looks over at Mr. Kessler one more time, and this look is different. Nothing bossy in it. He watches the old man's monitor like the number matters to him personally.

"He going to be alright?"

"We'll watch him overnight. He's already asking for his dog, which is the best sign there is."

He nods. At the curtain he stops, half-turned, like there's something else. Whatever it is loses the vote.

"Thanks," he says. "For the arm."

"Try not to undo my work before the swelling does."

He frowns, doesn't respond, and pushes through the curtain, and the ER feels bigger and quieter and worse.

Debbie materializes at my elbow before the curtain stops swinging. She has the look of a woman who has been standing at that desk with her ears set to wide-band the entire time.

"So," she says. "That's Owen Peterson."

"That's a walking incident report is what that is."

"Tater's best friend from high school. Chicago fire. Tater's been after him for years to come home." She's watching me watch the doors. She's not even hiding it. "And here's the thing. Tater's talking him into staying. The whole summer."

The whole summer.

My stomach drops. Straight down, no warning, elevator with a cut cable.

And it is not dread.

Which is worse.

Chapter three

Ninety Days

OWEN

Debbie Sue Monroe hugs like a car wreck. No warning, full speed, and you're pinned before you know what hit you.

"Owen Peterson." She says my name into my shoulder like I died and came back. "You got skinny. Chicago starved you."

"Chicago fed me fine."

"Chicago fed you sadness and gas station coffee. Get in here."

The Monroe house smells like brisket and yeast rolls and something with cinnamon in it. Twelve years since I stood in a kitchen that smelled like this. My body doesn't know what to do with it. Something in my chest pulls tight, then loose, then tight again.

Tater's at the stove wearing an apron that says KISS THE LIEUTENANT. He points a wooden spoon at me.