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He finally sat back, rolling the tension out of his shoulders. “I want to see it. I need to know if it’s connected.”
She handed the file over to him. “Take your time with it.”
Brandon didn’t open it, simply placed it to the side with a nod.
Desiree looked at the clock. Six-forty, still dark out. She slid her cup of coffee toward him, letting him finish it.
“We’re going to get this one,” she promised. “For you, for your dad. To keep anyone else from getting hurt.”
He looked up, eyes green and sharp. “Yeah. We will.”
Just after sunset, Desiree was standing in front of her bathroom mirror, making sure she looked like a woman for once, not just an arson investigator. She turned in her new red dress that she had bought that afternoon. She wasn’t even sure why she did it, except that Brandon had invited her to dinner, and she wanted to impress him.
Tonight, there would be no discussion of cases, no scene photos, no notepad, just a relaxing night with a man she was starting to admire in a way that went way beyond professional. It wasn’t something she planned on, and she wasn’t even sure how to handle the new emotions that were rushing through her, but she wanted to lean into them rather than run away like she always did. At least that was the plan. She wasn’t sure how easy it was going to be to put into practice. Navigating relationships never came easy for her.
Her phone buzzed on the counter. She glanced down to see a text from Brandon. “Chili is almost ready. Make sure to bring an appetite—I’ve won cookoffs with this recipe.”
She almost typed “Something came up,” but she stopped herself and texted “On my way” instead.
When she arrived fifteen minutes later, she noticed the house was a modest single-story, blue-gray siding with a small porch. The driveway held his truck and an old Schwinn with a busted back wheel. She stood by the mailbox for a beat longer than she needed, then went up and knocked.
The door opened, and Brandon was in jeans, barefoot, a Sweet Bloom FD T-shirt stretched across his chest. She couldn’t help but notice how good he looked in civilian clothes. Then, remembering what she chose to wear, she glanced down at her dress and felt a blush creep across her face. She was entirely overdressed. Did she get her signals crossed? Was this just two colleagues getting together, nothing more?
He must have noticed her outfit because he looked her up and down. She inhaled deeply, bracing herself for some sort of joke at her expense.
“You look amazing in that dress,” he told her, motioning her inside with a smile. “Red is definitely your color.”
Desiree let out the breath she’d been holding, relieved that he appreciated the effort she had put in.
As she entered the house, she noticed the kitchen first. It was warm, full of smells: cumin, browned onion, and the tang of tomato. A pot of chili bubbled on the stove. There was cornbread on a wire rack, a stick of butter on a plate slowly warming beside it.
He handed her a glass of sweet tea before she set down her bag, didn’t ask if she wanted one.
“Thanks,” she said, awkwardly, as if accepting a peace offering.
He ladled chili into two bowls, added spoons, then set them on the counter. “Please, sit,” he said, gesturing to the barstools.
For a few moments, it was quiet as she settled into her seat and took her first bite. She was surprised by how good the chili was, how the spice cut the fatigue in her head.
“This is some of the best chili I’ve had,” she admitted. “No wonder it won cookoffs.”
He grinned. “To be straight with you—it was just the county fair, which is a low bar. But thanks.”
They ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the chili warming her from the inside out. Desiree found herself relaxing into the barstool, her shoulders dropping an inch she hadn’t realized they’d been holding.
“So,” Brandon said, breaking the quiet, “what do you do when you’re not reading burn patterns and making grown firefighters cry with your evidence protocols?”
She almost snorted sweet tea through her nose. “I don’t make them cry.”
“Kimble still hasn’t recovered from the Sharpie lecture.”
She set her spoon down, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “I read. A lot. Mostly nonfiction—forensic science, fire chemistry, the occasional true crime.”
“Of course you do.” He shook his head, but he was grinning. “Nothing just for fun? No hobbies?”
She considered lying, then decided against it. “I used to paint. Watercolors. Stopped a few years ago.”
“Why?”
