“What do you want to know?” Nick asked.
“You work at the fire station with Brian?”
Nick cleared his throat. “I’m the dispatcher.”
“Not a firefighter?”
The dark eyes turned flat, as if Oliver had said the wrong thing. Other people would have been frustrated, but a tiny shiver of excitement slithered down Oliver’s spine. He’d had opposing witnesses who were easier to crack. This might be fun after all.
“No. I was a firefighter, but I hurt my leg, and they put me on dispatch.”
“How did you hurt your leg?”
“I fell three stories when a floor collapsed in a burning building.”
Oliver whistled low. Hollywood-level heroism right there. “How long ago was that?”
“Three years.”
“You must have done a number on your leg, then.”
“You want to see the X-rays? I have them at the house somewhere.”
Oliver grinned as Nick glowered at him. He should trademark that grumpy-but-sexy persona. Undeterred, Oliver continued. “How long have you lived in Seacroft?”
“My whole life.”
“All of it?” He liked this little town, was pleased with his decision to move here. To live here his entire life, though?
Nick unrolled one of his sleeves and rolled it back up again. “You make it sound like forever. I can’t be that much older than you are.”
“I’m thirty-five,” Oliver said.
“I’m thirty-nine.” Nick’s hard stare dared Oliver to make a joke about turning forty.
“And you’ve never wanted to live anywhere else?”
Nick shrugged. “I don’t see what’s so special about anywhere else.”
The server came with their wine. She poured Oliver a small glass, which he tasted before thanking her. She poured the rest of his serving and then Nick’s too.
“Are you ready to order?” she asked. Oliver hadn’t had a chance to go over the menu, but Nick nodded.
“Go ahead,” Oliver said, buying time. Nick ordered the cannelloni and a Caesar salad.
“And for you?” the server asked.
“I’ll have the branzino,” he said. “But it comes with pasta. Do you have potatoes you could serve with it instead?”
She frowned. “We could do mashed potatoes?”
Oliver wrinkled his nose. They’d be swimming in butter for sure, and probably cream too. Or else they’d be out of a box, and those were barely better than pasta.
“On second thought, don’t worry about it. I’ll have the vegetables it comes with, thanks.”
She nodded and left.
“You came to an Italian restaurant, and you don’t eat pasta?” Nick said. The tiny twitch at the side of his mouth was back, and he was doing a poorer job of hiding it.
