I followed them deeper into the bay area, my architect's eye automatically assessing the space. The building was older than it appeared from the outside, probably from the early 1950s, based on the exposed beam work and the style of brickwork. Someone did a decent renovation, maybe fifteen years ago. The place had solid bones.
"The original station was built in 1952, then expanded in the late 80s and again in 2008," Dane explained.
"You can tell by the flooring transitions. They did a good job maintaining the architectural integrity," I noted.
"You really are an architect," Jaxon commented.
"Did you think I was lying?" I laughed.
"Nah, it's just most people don't notice that kind of stuff," Jaxon replied.
"I can't enter a building without mentally renovating it," I admitted.
They led me through a door into a large room with a long dinner table, comfortable couches, and a kitchen area. The TV on the wall played a muted sports channel.
"This is our common area where the magic happens," Connor stated.
"By magic, he means where Dane attempts to cook and nearly burns the place down on the regular." Evan laughed.
"Nah, what happened was—" Dane started but was interrupted.
"He got a booty call text," Jaxon blurted out.
I bit back a smile and covered my mouth. "Do you guys live here during your shifts?"
"Twenty-four on, Forty-eight off. It's our second home," Connor answered.
Before I could probe further, the bay door opened. "Connor, Chief needs those inventory reports from the last shift!" a female voice yelled out.
"Be right there! Duty calls. Let me walk you back to the front. Blaze should be out soon," Connor said.
I glanced at my watch as we walked. "Actually, I should probably head out. Thanks for the tour and the coffee."
"Yeah, come back anytime. We'll put you to work." Dane winked.
I dropped my paper cup into a trash bin. "I might take you up on that." I laughed. "Tell Lieutenant Crawford I stopped by. I'll come by another time."
"He'll be sorry he missed you," Connor replied.
Almost to the door, I reached for the handle when a deep voice behind me froze me in place.
"Ms. Daniels."
I turned around, and my heart did a ridiculous little jump in my chest. Lieutenant Crawford stood in the doorway to the hall, his broad frame nearly filling the space. I remembered the fire, and for a moment, I couldn't find my voice.
So much for a smooth exit.
Budget meetings werethe type of hell reserved for lieutenants who'd pissed off somebody important in a past life. I'd exited the chief's office with a tension headache building at the base of my skull and a stack of reports in my hand. No, we couldn't replace our old ass equipment this quarter. No, overtime hours couldn't be expanded despite being short-staffed, and no, station renovations would not be completed until the next fiscal year. I pinched the bridge of my nose to ward off the building pressure. At least I'd secured the approval for new turnout gear, which was a small victory.
My crew's voices were unusually loud, as the men weren't usually this animated during mid-morning equipment checks. Then a female laughed, which stopped me dead in my tracks. Itwas a laugh I recognized, though I'd only heard it briefly during a life-or-death situation three days ago. I approached the doorway to the main bay and rounded the corner. My crew was near Engine 791, the equipment checks forgotten. And there, by the door, was the woman I'd carried from the fire, the woman who'd slipped into my dreams the past four nights.
She wore faded jeans that hugged curves my brain had no business noticing, and a simple blouse with the sleeves rolled up. Her natural curls were pulled back into a puff.
"Ms. Daniels."
She turned around, and our eyes locked, and for a second, I was in that burning room, seeing her for the first time.
Today, a pencil was tucked behind her ear, the yellow contrasting with the deep brown of her skin.
