I want to see her again. More than anything. But I’m so exhausted, I don’t even know if I trust myself driving home.
You should go to bed, Sparky. It’s late. I’ll call you on your lunch break
I’m glad you’re okay. Good night
Good night
I stare at the screen for a long moment, waiting for more. But nothing comes through. Her last text is short, clipped—like she’s pulling back, protecting herself. Not what I’d hoped for … not after proving myself in the only way I know how.
Chapter
Eleven
CATALINA
I’ve never been so proud—or so terrified—in my life. Ambrose’s face fills the late-night news: blackened with smoke, carrying that trucker to safety and many others, too. The town sees a hero. But I see the man who could so easily be taken from me.
As I enter Gran’s house after work, juggling another bouquet to add to the flower-crowded kitchen counter, it feels more like a funeral parlor. A chill crawls up my spine.
What if every bouquet, every promise, is just a rehearsal for grief? What if one day, all I have left of Ambrose are bouquets—memorials instead of promises?
“Mon dieu! The fireman with the bottomless wallet strikes again,” Gran exclaims, shaking her head. “He’s going to singlehandedly keep the town florist in business.”
I try to roll my eyes like it’s no big deal. But the truth sits heavy in my chest. He isn’t just some cowboy bachelor who made me swoon. He’s a man ready to run into danger every single shift, and if I let myself fall too hard, one alarm bell could take him away forever.
I distract myself by shuffling through a stack of newspapers by the flowers. One headline makes my stomach drop:
“Hollywood Hero or Hometown Heartbreaker?”
Right beneath it, I spy a glossy shot of Ambrose, Stetson tipped low against the cameras. The caption references his surprise move to Hollister, the “mystery woman” on his arm, and, of course, a snide comment dredging up his past Hollywood relationship with Sheila.
The article obsesses over who he might be dating. I only care if he comes home after his next call. They worry about scandal. I worry about survival.
I fold the paper sharply and shove it in the recycling bin, as if crumpling the words will erase the fear gnawing inside.
“This counter is a cluttered mess,” I observe bitterly.
“Don’t focus on the mess, Cat. Look at the flowers. How could you possibly doubt his affection?” Gran questions with a sweeping hand gesture.
“It’s not that,” I whisper, breathless. “It’s that I doubt my ability to survive if I let myself go deeper with him, and then something happens to him.”
“Oh, mon couchon,” Gran says, rising unsteadily from her chair and pausing to gain her balance before walking towards me. She wraps me in her arms, and I inhale sharply, fighting tears.
Looking up at me and wiping my moist cheeks, she croons, “Love is more powerful than fear.”
Love. The word hangs between us … ripe with promise, more terrifying than any blaze Ambrose might charge into.
“Grandpa worked a dangerous job, too.”
I nod. He was a roofer.
“And he had a few close calls over the years that sent shivers down my spine.”
“How did you deal with knowing he might never come home?”
“By loving him all the more fiercely when hedidreturn. And he always did, Cat.”
“You make it sound easy …”
