Chapter Four: Fire, Flour, and Flirtation
Dex.
“She didn’t implicitly say no to the job." I leaned back against the wobbly dresser and glowered at the ceiling. The radiator in the corner thumped like an old man constantly clearing his throat. My fresh shirt sleeves were rolled to my forearms because the room had the climate control philosophy of a greenhouse despite repeated attempts to lower the thermostat.
Braxton sprawled in the chair like a cat that had found a patch of sun. He had changed into jeans and a green sweater, his hair still damp from his recent shower.
“She didn’t say yes either,” he replied mildly. “In fact, I think I heard a pretty firm no.”
“I prefer to think of it as a negotiation in progress,” I stubbornly replied.
He watched me for a beat, then smiled. “You prefer negotiations where the building materials are spreadsheets. This one uses feelings and those make you itch.”
“I am not allergic to feelings,” I muttered. I just didn’t tend to always understand them. People were emotional creatures at times and I preferred straightforward logic.
“Mm." His look said he didn't believe me. “May we stay longer than one night? I would like to observe the renovations. For research purposes.”
“Research? To see how quickly it can all go sideways?” I doubtfully questioned.
Color rose in his cheeks. “Maybe it would be nice to get to know Lucy’s family.”
A dry sound escaped me that was almost a laugh. “You really mean get to know her sister Jane.”
Braxton tilted his head, studying me. “For being such a smart fellow, you can also be a complete dimwhit.”
Since this was a normal observation of Braxton’s, I ignored it. “Dinner is soon. We had better go and see what disaster awaits us next.”
A thread of scent reached me, sharp and wrong. Not kitchen smoke. Hot, metallic, and dry.
“Do you smell that?” I asked as I frowned in concentration.
Braxton abruptly sat up. “Something is burning.”
We were in the hallway an instant later. Lucy stepped out of the kitchen with a stack of forks in one hand and annoyance in her eyes. I opened my mouth, but she lifted a palm. “If you are about to make another offer -”
“Fire,” I cut in. “Don’t you smell the smoke?”
She went still, nostrils flaring as the smell reached her. “Oh no!”
Lucy jolted into action and we ran after her. I could see smoke coming out of a door in the hall. Heat bled through the metal knob, searing my hand as I shoved the door open. The room beyond glowed an ugly orange inside a dryer window. A muffled thud, then the high, frantic chirp of a smoke alarm that had been asleep for a decade and had finally remembered its job.
Spotting a fire extinguisher.mounted on the wall, I grabbed it, yanked the pin, and leveled the nozzle.
“Kill the power,” Braxton advised.
Lucy lunged to the breaker on the back wall and slapped the switch down. The drum in the dryer hiccuped, then stuttered to a stop. I squeezed the handle and a dusty storm blastedforward, coating everything in a yellow chalky snow. The room settled, the fire extinguished however the idiot smoke alarm continued bleating triumph.
“What happened?” Helen appeared in the doorway with her apron askew. Her eyes went wide at the scene. “Oh, goodness. The laundry.”
“It appears the laundry caught on fire,” I replied, lowering the extinguisher. My voice sounded too calm, even to me.
“Oh dear, your suits!” Helen clapped a hand to her chest. “I put them in so they would be ready for dinner.”
“Mom." Lucy’s voice cracked with horror. “Please tell me you didn't put their suits in the dryer.”
“I run our dry-clean-only things through the laundry all the time. They always come out fine,” Helen breezed, trying the door and tugging out a charred piece of fabric. Her face fell. “Well. That's unfortunate."
I took stock. The black smudge across the dryer window. The dangling wire behind the washer. The outlet plate that had lost a screw sometime during the Clinton administration.
