He nods quickly. “Yeah. Says her name is Harry. She brought cookies. Between you and me”—he drops to a whisper—“they taste like charcoalandlook raw.”
I’m out of the office without another glance at Marcus, knowing he’ll be sitting there smugly at how quickly I move to find Harriet.
Standing in the middle of the engine bay, glowing and smiling, she chats to my crew mates while handing out cookies. My blood boils at the sight. I’ve been collecting her smiles for weeks and these chumps don’t deserve them.
She spies me lurking by an engine, andthen, it happens.
My smile,as I’ve come to call it, paints her pretty face.
All is good in the world if she continues looking at me like this.
Excusing herself, she saunters over, clutching a tin.
I lean against the shiny red rig. “What brings you down here?”
Grinning, she rattles the metal tin between us. “Trying out a new recipe and thought you might all deserve a sweet treat. I think baking is my calling, not cooking.”
I risk a glance at my colleagues. Two of them stare at the cookies in their hands offensively while another subtly drops hers in the trash.
“You might be right.” If a little white lie keeps her happy, then so be it. “Are there any left for me?”
She whips off the lid.
I choose one on the smaller side and take a bite. The probie was right; they taste burned and undercooked at the same time. Lord knows how she does it. She’s got it in her head that being a good mother requires culinary skills. That isn’t true, and as I struggle to swallow the clump of overly sweet dough, I make it my mission to find her another hobby.
For her sake and my digestive system.
“Well…” She rocks on the balls of her feet. “How’d they taste?”
I give her a thumbs up, still struggling to get the last bite down without water. Or an antacid.
A gust of wind blows through the open doors, sending her golden strands in all directions, some getting caught in her glossy lips. I close the gap between us, brushing them out of her face and taking a hit of her perfume.
“I also wanted to give you this.” She searches in her bag before revealing a small, heart-shaped picture frame. In the middle sits the blurry, black-and-white image of our baby,pouty lips, tiny hands waving above their head. “Consider it a belated Christmas present. Oh god, or birthday. When is your birthday?”
I huff a laugh. “It’s August. You’re good.”
“Phew.” She swipes a hand over her forehead. “If you don’t like the frame, we can switch it out.”
I felt like a monumental piece of shit for not accepting the sonogram picture all those months ago at the diner. I wasn’t thinking straight after two little words had turned my world upside down just hours earlier. This is happening, there’s no denying it, and since the scan and hearing Button’s strong, steady heartbeat, it doesn’t just feel real, it is real.
Fear and chaos still swarm me, but behind my ribcage, my heart swells in size.
“Nah.” I trace their button nose. “This is perfect.”
THIRTY
WARREN
“Your records showyou moved stations four years ago. Are you happy with that decision?”
Indignation has my teeth grinding. “Happy isn’t the word I would use. It was necessary.”
Kevin tilts his head, waiting for me to proceed.
This is our sixth session. Two more to go before my fate is revealed. I’m itching to return to full duties, to get off my ass and do something productive. Pushing pens, signing off risk assessments, and answering calls from the public is slowly—no, quickly—taking its toll.
“There was…too much history at my old firehouse. People viewed me differently, and my superiors began treating me as if I were made of glass. Things would never be the same, and the longer I stayed there…” The quicker I deteriorated.
