He studies me for a moment, the way he does when he's deciding whether to push. "Emma okay at her sleepover?"
"She's good. Called earlier."
Paul nods, collecting his papers. "Night's quiet. Catch some sleep if you can."
It's not advice, it's an order wrapped in concern. Paul knows what it's like to carry responsibility, he understands the weight.
"Will do," I promise, though sleep seems unlikely.
When he's gone, I finish the report in quick, efficient sentences, facts without elaboration. Professional. Detached. Everything I'm not feeling.
The station feels suddenly confining, the walls too close. I need air.
Outside, the night wraps around me like a cold, clean blanket. The snow has stopped, leaving Whitetail Falls transformed beneath a clear, star-filled sky. My breath forms clouds in the frigid air as I walk to the edge of the apparatus bay, hands in my pockets.
Across town, lights still glow in scattered windows, the Enchanted Bean closing up, the Copper Kettle Tavern doing last call, and a few homes where people like me find sleep elusive.
Is Gloria awake? Is her wrist bothering her?
I shake my head, frustrated with myself. I've known this woman for one day. Less. And here I am, standing in below-freezing temperature, thinking about her like some lovesick teenager.
Forty years old. Combat veteran. Widower. Father. And completely undone by a bookseller with golden curls and a stubborn streak.
The problem is, it's been so long since I felt this, this awareness, this pull toward another person. Andrea’s been gone ten years, and while I've dated occasionally, it's always been careful. Contained. Practical attempts at companionship that inevitably fizzled when my responsibilities as a father and first responder took precedence.
But with Gloria, there was nothing careful about the way my pulse jumped when she smiled, nothing contained about the thoughts that crossed my mind when she said "Yes, sir" in that gently mocking tone.
She's too young for me. A whole lifetime of difference. She should be with someone her age, someone without the baggage of a military past and widowhood, someone who doesn't have an eleven-year-old daughter to consider.
The radio at my hip crackles to life, pulling me from my thoughts.
"Station 61, respond to medical, possible fainting episode at Moonlight & Manuscripts Bookstore, 304 Foxglove Lane. Female, mid-twenties, conscious, reporting dizziness."
My heart slams against my ribs as I turn back toward the station, already moving. "Dispatch, Medic 61 responding. ETA three minutes."
Bradley appears in the doorway, concern etched on his face. "Gloria?"
"Don't know," I say, grabbing my jacket and medical bag. "I'll take the SUV."
He nods, no teasing now. "Call if you need backup."
Three minutes later, I pull up in front of the darkened bookstore, emergency lights casting red-blue patterns across the snowy street. The store itself is closed, but a light glows from the side entrance—the stairs to Gloria's apartment.
I grab my bag and approach quickly, professional instincts overriding personal feelings. The door at the bottom of the stairs stands open.
"Paramedics," I call, though it feels absurdly formal given our dinner just hours ago.
"Up here," comes Gloria's voice, sounding embarrassed rather than distressed.
I take the stairs two at a time, pulse steadying somewhat at the strength in her voice. At the top, I find her sitting on the floor near her kitchen, back against the wall, looking pale but alert. Her hair falls in wild disarray around her face, and she's wearingplaid pajama pants and an oversized t-shirt with "Reading is Sexy" printed across the chest.
"This is humiliating," she says by way of greeting.
Relief courses through me, followed immediately by concern as I kneel beside her, setting down my bag. "What happened?"
"Nothing dramatic," she sighs, pushing hair from her face. "I got up to clean the kitchen and got dizzy. My neighbor heard me knock something over and insisted on calling 911."
I reach for her wrist, automatically checking her pulse. Strong but rapid. Her skin is cool to the touch.
