“Probably. And you two get to share one.”
“Will Mr. Mick sleep in yours?”
Rachel brushed a hand through her hair as memories from the day before flooded her thoughts, warm and heart-endangering. How could it have been just yesterday when she’d still been no more than curious about the Bilton Foundation, and Stan hadn’t been a suspected criminal?
“No, he’ll have his own bed.” Maybe his own room, if they could find adjoining ones.
Rachel had never exposed her daughters to strange men at the house, always careful to keep her dating rare and private. And though Mick wasn’t a stranger to them, she had to figure out a way to deal with that rule now, when the stakes were so high.
She had yet to let him know that she’d changed her mind about relocating the girls with him. Later, she would tell him about the incident in the pickup line, but for now, she would just admit that he was right.
As though that huge admission had somehow inspired him to answer her text from earlier, her phone buzzed then in her coat pocket. He had great timing. And so many other qualities and talents she didn’t dare think about if she had to spend a few nights in the same hotel room with him, even if she chose to sleep in the bathtub for her own good.
Coming to a stop at the only remaining traffic light between the school and their house, she unzipped her pocket. She sneaked a peek at the back seat. Good thing the girls were staring out the side windows at the people walking up and down Main Street instead of paying attention to her. She didn’t want to give them any ammunition for when they were sixteen, and she insisted that they should lock their cell phones in the trunk to avoid the temptation to text.
“What took you so long?” she said under her breath as she fumbled beneath the heavy cloth to pull out her phone. With so much to tell him, she would need to pace herself.
She held the phone in her right hand and peeked down at it. The text, though, wasn’t from Mick. An unfamiliar number appeared on the screen, and the words inside the bubble made her breath hitch. Gooseflesh covered her arms. Her whole body shook.
“There is no refuge from confession but suicide; and suicide is confession.”—Daniel Webster (1782-1852)
Mick didn’t bother putting down his coat before rushing into the hall and locking the door of his office. Already, he’d been forced to wait forty-five minutes after receiving Rachel’s series of texts before having the opportunity to go to her. If he had to wait any longer, his tight chest would burst.
Captain Al Park, the oldest among the three captains at fifty-four and the leader on Rotation 2, entered from the apparatus bay before he could make his escape.
“What’s the rush, Chief? Trying to make sure you don’t give more than a minute of overtime on your cushy nine-to-five job?”
“Something like that.” He shifted his feet when the other man seemed to linger for more details. “I’ve got a meeting.”
“Ooh, a meeting.”
He said it as though Mick had just told him he was off to a clandestine hotel date. Which, in a matter of speaking, he was. At least as soon as he could get Rachel and the girls packed up and out of that house. He slid into his coat since he seemed to be stuck there.
“You do fast work, Prentiss, moving in on all those local gals. Maybe you’d even have luck with the new festival director, Delaney Malone. She’s become a celebrity since she seems to turn down every guy who asks her out.”
“Sorry. Haven’t met her,” Mick said in a clipped tone that he hoped would end the conversation.
He only had interest in one woman in Mount Isabel, anyway, the one who’d sent him that undecipherable text earlier.
They know I know. Incident at school. Girls OK, but need to relocate. Tonight.
Another message had given him an address and a time to meet her, but even in it, she couldn’t have been stingier with details.
“Maybe you should stop trying to live vicariously through the rest of the crew’s social lives,” Mick said, likely too late, given the captain’s curious expression.
“Gotta do something to battle the old-divorced-guy boredom,” Al said after a long pause. “Even my pup, Brute, has got a better social life than I do, getting to hang out with his sitter every few days. Want to see a picture?”
“Next time,” Mick said, though he hoped the man would drop his cell into the toilet between now and his next shift when he would show off more photos of the teacup poodle with its hypermasculine name. “I’ve got that appointment. See you, Park.”
“Sure thing, Chief.” He gave an exaggerated wink but let him pass by.
Mick knew he should tell the captain to knock off the personal questions, but even after a week at the station, only a few of the crew were fully relaxed around him. He appreciated them, but Park was almost too nice sometimes.
“Glad to have a slow shift after some of the others lately,” Al said from behind him.
Mick glanced back as he opened the door for the apparatus bay. “It’s been light.”
“Last call was a ‘smells and bells,’” he said, using firefighter slang for a situation involving the possible odor of gas. “Little anxious about tonight. We old-timers just getfeelingsabout these things.”
