The Firefighter's Thanksgiving Wish Page 3

  Frankie waved her hand in a circle.

  “You’re going to need an insulin chaser after this.” Holly shook her head and set the concoction to blend. She did a quick pass through the diner, topping off coffee for the three stragglers from the late lunch crowd. “So.” She retrieved Frankie’s glass, refilled it and joined her. “What’s going on?”

  “I didn’t get the job.” Frankie sucked hard on the straw, welcoming the piercing pain of an ice cream headache.

  “The chief position?” Holly looked as shocked as Frankie had felt upon hearing the news. “No, that’s not possible. At the last town meeting—”

  “We thought it was a done deal? Yep.” Frankie drank more. And then more. Her teeth began to freeze. “Me, too.” She winced, pressed a hand against her belly. “Ugh.” Maybe the third shake had been a mistake.

  “You need something to eat.” Holly ducked into the kitchen for a moment. “Give it a few minutes.” She pulled the milkshake away. “Gil stood up there and said they’d make the official announcement at the tree-lighting ceremony. What happened?”

  “Roman Salazar happened,” Frankie grumbled.

  “What’s a Roman Salazar?”

  A godlike six-foot-plus Spanish-Italian firefighter with biceps large enough to shelter a small family from a storm. With eyes as dark as... Frankie’s cheeks went hot. “My new boss. He arrived today about five minutes after Bud gave me the bad news.”

  “Oh, Frankie.” Holly dropped a comforting hand on Frankie’s arm. “I’m so sorry. You deserve that job. No one is more qualified than you to be chief.”

  “Thanks.” She thought so, of course, but it was nice to hear from someone else.

  “You’re going to fight this, aren’t you?” Holly tossed an irritated look over her shoulder when Ursula, her longtime cook and full-time protector, banged on the bell. “Hey, Ursula. I’m right here.”

  “Just keeping you on your toes. And speak up,” Ursula demanded. “I can’t hear nothing the two of you are saying.”

  “Frankie didn’t get the job.” Holly pulled a plate of steaming, chili-topped French fries loaded with melted cheese off the sill and set it in front of Frankie. Despite Frankie’s milkshake overdose, her stomach growled. She leaned over and inhaled slowly, swooning at the aroma of tomatoes, garlic and spice. Maybe she wasn’t quite full yet.

  “Frankie’s not the new chief? What nonsense is this?” Ursula, all five-foot nothing of her, shot out of the kitchen to join them, metal spatula wielded as if she was about to go into battle. “The board voted, didn’t they? You were the only name in contention, weren’t you?”

  “Seems the mayor had other ideas. He wanted someone with a...” She glanced over and noticed Holly’s son Simon trying to listen in, eyes wide behind his thick bottle glasses. “Pedigree.” She couldn’t believe she was using Bud’s word.

  “Gil does it again.” Holly clamped her arms across her chest, anger sparking in her brown eyes. “Why is it for every good thing he does, he screws three other people over? Something should be done about him.” The second the words were out of her mouth, she cast a quick glance at her son. “Simon, are you done with your homework?”

  Simon blinked overly innocent eyes from behind his glasses as he pried a worn notebook free from the stack of books beside him. “Uh-huh.”

  “Then how about you read to your brother and sister?” She reached under the counter and handed him several children’s books.

  Simon rolled his eyes but stacked them on top of his notebook and settled in the corner booth with the infants in their carriers.

  “Nice save,” Frankie muttered under her breath and earned a flash of a tired grin from Holly. Simon was well-known for his super-sneaky tactics around town, especially when it came to ferreting out supposed nefarious behavior. The last thing anyone in town needed was for Simon Saxon to set his sights on the mayor. He’d get them all banished.

  “For once I might not mind the fallout if he did something about the mayor,” Holly told her and Ursula.

  “Something will be done, don’t worry.” Ursula’s throwaway comment had Frankie sitting up straight and Holly standing at attention.

  “What are you talking about?” Frankie perked up.

  Ursula blanched. After spending most of her life hanging out in this diner, Frankie knew when the old cook had a secret she couldn’t keep.

  “Ursula, spill,” Holly ordered.

  “Don’t know that I should yet.” Ursula’s beady eyes glimmered. “But let’s just say there’s a faction in town looking at the option of a recall election. This new development with Frankie might give them additional ammunition.”

  “A recall election?” Frankie’s heart sank. Oh, man, she didn’t want a political solution to her situation. What was done was done, and while she wasn’t going to be named chief, that wasn’t going to stop her from doing the job she loved. Still... “Who’s spearheading?”

  “Can’t say.” Ursula pinched her lips closed.

  “No. You won’t say.” Holly narrowed her eyes.

  “Can’t,” Ursula repeated. “At least for now.” She disappeared back into the kitchen.

  “So, how’d it go the other night?” Holly’s voice lowered.

  “With what?”

  “That accountant guy. What was his name? Richard?”

  Frankie had a hard time even remembering what the guy had looked like. “David.”

  “Joel!” Ursula yelled. “His name was Joel.”

  “Right, Joel.” Nope, Frankie thought. Her mind was blank. Not true. Her mind seemed to have been overtaken with images of Roman Salazar and his bulging biceps. She wasn’t sure Joel had even had arms. “Dinner was good,” she told Holly, who looked disappointed but hardly surprised. “The dating pool is a bit shallow these days.”

  “Maybe you need to try another pool.” Holly ate one of the fries. “I never figured you for the beta type.”

  “Betas have their good points.”

  “Yeah, I know, but you’re just so...you.” Holly waved her hand up and down. “I mean, you could probably bench-press most of those guys you go out with. Don’t they find you intimidating?”

  “If they do, they’ve never said.” Of course, that was probably second-date talk, and she hadn’t had one of those in... She let out a sharp breath. Well, it had been a while. In the past few years, she’d dated three accountants, a mail carrier, a high school drama teacher and a pharmacist. Who knew one could have a two-hour conversation about over-the-counter antihistamines? They’d all been...nice. Polite. And safe. Very, very safe. No chance of her getting burned—in any way—with men like that.

  “You should let us fix you up with someone,” Holly offered.

  “Us who?” Frankie narrowed her eyes.

  “Me, Abby, Lori, Paige... Calliope.” Holly added the last name with a wide grin. Everyone knew when Calliope got involved in someone’s personal life, things got very complicated very quickly. “We could probably come up with a great selection of guys if we put our heads together.”

  “Nope. Not interested, thanks.” Frankie shook her head. “I’m doing just fine on my own.” Single, unattached, focused on work with an occasional lunch or dinner date to break up the monotony.

  “Can’t blame me for wanting to remind you there’s a part of life you seem to be ignoring.”

  “I’m not ignoring it. I’m keeping my options open. For example.” She ate another fry. “I could have a serious long-term relationship with these chili fries.”

  “Couldn’t we all.” Holly popped one in her mouth before heading over to refill coffee cups. “If you need any help with those options, say the word.”

  “Noted.” Frankie nearly choked on her food. Having Holly Saxon as lead matchmaker wasn’t anywhere on Frankie’s wishlist. Speaking of her to-do list, Frankie polished off another mouthful of fries, d
rank some more shake, then left money on the counter. As she turned to leave, she cast a quick look over at the corner table, where Simon was busy reading to his baby brother and sister...and scribbling some serious notes in that journal of his, the set and determined look in his eyes all too familiar. “You’re going to keep an eye on him, right?” she asked Holly on her way out.

  “Simon? Always.” Holly nodded.

  “If you need help keeping him busy, let me know. I can always find something for him to do at the station.”

  “Appreciate that. If I get too worried, I just sic Luke on him. Hubby is better at distracting him than I am. Oh, hey. Are you coming to Calliope’s for Thanksgiving next week?”

  “I’ll be on duty,” Frankie said, ignoring the testosterone-laden image of Roman—make that Chief Salazar—that shot through her brain. “But I’d love one of your pumpkin pies.”

  Holly laughed. “You got it.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  IT WOULD TAKE TIME, Roman realized the next morning, to get used to the silence. Silence that only gave way to the ocean at the bottom of the hill. He finally gave up any hope of sleep just after 4:00 a.m. and, after flipping on the anemic coffeemaker on the side table in his room, changed into his workout clothes and checked, as he always did first thing in the morning, his email and voice mail.

  One thing he’d noticed—and appreciated—when he’d taken a leisurely self-guided tour of the firehouse yesterday after Chief Granger left, was that meticulous care and attention had been paid to the makeshift workout room just off the kitchen. The space included a weight bench with a good selection of free weights, an elliptical, bike, various toning machines and two treadmills that may have been enhanced by NASA, given their video challenges and advanced settings.

  He poured the dark roast into a chipped mug that had been hanging beneath one of two cabinets and drank half of it before his foot hit the bottom stair. Ten minutes later, he had settled into an easy pace on the treadmill, the news on the small flat screen nearby. When his blood began pumping and the sweat began beading, as his muscles fell into their welcome daily routine, he actually sighed in relief.

  All the knots inside him from the past few days began to loosen. Driving across country with nothing more than satellite radio for comfort gave a man a lot of time to think. About the future. About the past. And about his impulse to take a job in a town no larger than a pinhole on a map when his dream job had fallen through. He’d always known leapfrogging his way into the federal arson investigator’s office would be a challenge, and the odds of him getting a job after his first interview were slim, but that didn’t lessen the disappointment of not being chosen. Hopefully making a noticeable move and a big change would work to his benefit next time around. If there was a next time.

  There were plenty of qualified people from ATF, the FBI and other law-enforcement organizations to fill the rarely open position, but none of them wanted it as badly as he did. He’d made a promise to do better, to go farther, to reach for the brass ring that had evaded his father’s determined grasp. Don’t fail like I did, son. Don’t surrender. His father’s voice, even after three years, still echoed clearly in Roman’s head. Don’t give up until you get to where you need to go.

  He would not, Roman had vowed the day his father died, leave this world without having accomplished everything he wanted. Every thought he had, every decision he made was to get him closer to that goal of ticking off every box on his to-do list. If that meant spending months or maybe even a few years in Butterfly Harbor to reset his life, so be it.

  His former commanding officer in Boston had been the one to suggest Roman beef up his résumé with something unexpected, something that showed future interviewing committees that he was willing to go wherever the job took him. He had three top-ten city fire companies checked off, complete with high-level recommendations, commendations and awards. The contract he’d signed with Butterfly Harbor was for six months. A short amount of time to Roman’s thinking, and a little odd, but it also came with an option for another six should all parties agree. After that...who knew? Six months, maybe a year in this quaint oceanside town should round out his experience, perhaps with bonus points for thinking outside the box.

  And so, his first full day in Butterfly Harbor began.

  He ticked up the incline on the treadmill, increased the speed and kicked his morning into high gear. Soon, all he heard was the rhythmic pounding of his feet against the mat.

  When a door slammed in the distance, he didn’t miss a step. Roman glanced over his shoulder in time to see a shadow drift close to the open door. A very feminine shadow. His stomach tightened, just enough to remind him that it was important to get his and Frankie Bettencourt’s professional relationship off to a good start. Well, a better start than he’d managed yesterday.

  Tension snapped through the air like a downed electrical wire when she stepped into the room.

  “Good morning.” He flashed a smile, ignoring the irritated glint in her big green eyes. “Great space. You’re an early riser, too, then?”

  “Couldn’t sleep.” Her eyes flashed. “Too much going on in my head.” She set her bag on the floor by the door and unzipped the oversize gray hoodie she wore.

  Roman glanced away, but not before he received confirmation that Frankie Bettencourt was in amazing shape. Her shorts and sports tank reminded him of the sunset, yellows and oranges blending into a rich fire red. The muscles in her arms, her legs and her stomach hadn’t left much room for anything else. She had curves everywhere a man like him preferred. She was oh, so...healthy.

  Roman blew out a breath and focused on the readout on the treadmill. Yeah, healthy. That’s how he needed to think about her. Besides, he had the feeling if he even thought the word knockout she’d return the favor with a right hook. “I’ll be off this in a few minutes.”

  “Take your time. It’s my elliptical day.”

  Given the clock had just hit 6:00 a.m., he chose to attribute her clipped tone to the early hour rather than his usurping her promotion. He kept focused straight ahead, but out of the corner of one eye he could see her stretching and warming up before climbing onto the one machine he preferred to avoid.

  “Great space.” Roman rolled his eyes.

  “So you said.”

  So he did. Normally he could talk to anyone about anything, but for some reason, finding a comfortable topic to break the ice with Frankie eluded him. “Good to know the mayor recognizes the importance of firefighters keeping physically fit. He authorized some great equipment.” He could hear her snort over the whir of her machine and the beeps of programming. “What?”

  “The only thing Gil Hamilton recognizes is the importance of his own existence.”

  “Meaning?” Was this attitude part of the small-town mentality Chief Granger had warned him about?

  “Meaning Gil didn’t authorize funds for any of this. It’s mine.”

  “Yours?” Roman nearly tripped and, deciding to hold onto his dignity, eased up on the speed and incline. “All this is yours?”

  “Some people collect snow globes. I like exercise equipment. Keeping it here instead of my spare bedroom forces me to get up in the morning. No excuses. I’m happy to let any of the volunteers use it. Not a lot do, other than Ozzy Lakeman. He usually comes by in the afternoon after his shift at the sheriff’s station. I hope that’s something you’ll continue to allow.”

  “Yeah, sure. Makes sense.” He slowed the treadmill a bit more and took a deep breath. “It’s a good idea. Is there a gym in town?”

  “No. There was a while back, but it closed. No one’s thought to reopen. There’s another workout room at the Flutterby, and some basic equipment at the youth center, but not many tourists think about exercising during vacation, so.” She shrugged. “This is it.”

  Roman stepped off the treadmill and reached for one of the hand towels he’d brought f
rom his bathroom. He watched her, swinging her way to nowhere on that machine, sweat popping out on her face, her long, wavy ponytail bobbing behind her.

  “Am I right that you all stick to the usual twenty-four hours on, forty-eight hours off schedule?”

  Frankie shrugged. “That’s always been the idea, but it’s difficult with only two full-timers. Bud’s let me do twenty-four on, twenty-four off. But you can always get ahold of me on my hours off.”

  “That’s a tough schedule.”

  She shrugged. “I’m used to it. It’s a necessity, mainly, since we don’t have as full a company as we used to.”

  “More retirements?”

  “Budget cuts,” Frankie corrected.

  “You all being pretty efficient doing your jobs probably made the powers that be assume you could get by with fewer people.”

  “More like the powers that be don’t have any idea what the job actually entails.”

  That made more sense. He’d seen his share of politicians who thought they knew what was best when it came to budgetary needs for infrastructure they had no practical experience with. “I didn’t see Mayor Hamilton’s name listed as a volunteer.”

  “No.” Frankie smirked. “You didn’t.”

  Interesting. “Chief Granger mentioned something about dispatching through our cell phones.”

  “That’s for when we get calls when we’re already out of the station on another run.” She gave a quick nod, her gaze shifting to the phone she’d placed in one of the cup holders. “Otherwise it comes through the old-fashioned way.” She pointed up to the ceiling as if indicating speakers found in other rooms.

  “Why not have an on-site dispatcher as backup?”

  She didn’t break stride, not even when she pinned him with a look that, had she been Medusa, would have turned him to stone.

  “Right. Budget cuts.”

  “We aren’t Chicago. Or Boston. The needs of Butterfly Harbor don’t exactly fit any predictable pattern. In fact, predictability is the one thing in this job you will never have. Each day is an adventure. Would a dispatcher be great? Maybe. But we manage with what we have. The system that’s in place works well.”