“I don’t, actually.”
“Don’t?”
“Bake. I can run a handheld mixer like nobody’s business — if you turn a blind eye to the splatters of chocolate all over the kitchen — but the baking cred goes to my business assistant and friend, Iona. She’s your goddess.”
“You get at least fifty percent credit for mixing — and delivering.” He led her into the kitchen against his better judgment because the two stooges were still hovering, trying to decide what they were more interested in checking out, Sophie or the brownies. “This is Sophie Alexander,” Nate said, setting the plate in the center of the table, which was tradition whenever someone brought in something to share. “Sophie, that’s Dylan Long” — he pointed to the shorter, younger man who’d practically rushed the table — “and this is my dad, Lieutenant Ed Rottinghaus.”
Sophie seemed to freeze when she realized she’d walked into meeting his father, but she covered it almost instantly. “Nice to meet you both. Lieutenant.” He stood, and she shook his hand and looked all business. Then she offered her hand to Dylan, who already held a brownie in his left one. “Dylan.”
After shaking her hand, Dylan took a bite and groaned as if the dessert was as good as sex. “Amazing.”
“I wanted to thank the department for saving my life. These seem a little inadequate…”
“Best thank you for these guys is food,” Nate’s dad said, helping himself to one before settling back down in the captain’s chair at the head of the long table.
Nate looked from his dad to Dylan, who also settled into a chair. Both of them stuffed chocolate into their mouths and stared at the TV screen, which was now tuned to Wheel of Fortune. Neither of them got the idea that maybe they should scram and give him some privacy with Sophie.
“How about a tour? Or a walk?” Or anything to get away from his father and Tweedledee.
“Oh. Sure.”
He reached out his arm toward her and pressed his hand to the small of her back, finally giving in to the urge to touch her.
Maybe Sophie would become a nun or something. That had to be easier than asking a good-looking, funny, dripping-with-muscles firefighter out on a date. How had she let Iona convince her it would work out?
Champagne was from the devil.
She wasn’t sure about pedicures either, although, underneath her boots and a layer of socks, her fire-engine-red toenails did look good.
Nate showed her the common areas of the station and the sleeping quarters and gave her a quick glance at the offices, and then they headed out to the apparatus floor, as he called it. In her mind, it was the garage. They walked across two vast, empty bays to the truck on the far side. She’d tried to pay close attention to everything Nate had said on the tour, but she got sidetracked easily, by things like his hands, the length of his fingers as he pointed to something, the way his navy blue uniform pants that were supposed to be utilitarian and boring hugged his butt just enough to give her thoughts — non-PG thoughts…
“This here is the hose we pull out for car fires,” Nate said at the front of the truck. “It’s hooked up and ready to go. Fast.”
He led her around to the driver’s side, beyond the cab, and opened compartments. Explained what everything was. The smooth timbre of his voice lulled her and made it hard to concentrate on what he was saying. As she stared at him in his white SAIFD T-shirt, uniform pants, and boots, remembering the feel of his short, coarse hair in her fingers when they’d kissed, any confidence she’d built up to ask him out faltered. Maybe she could just make a quick escape and call the brownie delivery good.
“These gauges control all the hoses … the pressure … the… You don’t really care about all this, do you?”
“I…” Sophie jerked her gaze to his. “I do. But I was…” So busted. “Trying to work up the nerve to ask you out.” It came out in a rush, an ungraceful, uncool rush, but it was out there now.
Nate’s look of concern morphed into a half grin, and he stepped closer to her — a lot closer than a tour guide would stand.
“Yeah?” He rested one hand on the side of the truck, his hazel eyes piercing hers, and it seemed like he was interested.
Sophie swallowed. “If I did, what would you say?”
“Well, that depends…”
“On?”
“What’d you have in mind?”
Her plans suddenly seemed lamer than ever. Business, Sophie. Imagine this is for work. “Dinner at Raul’s,” she said, banking on the knowledge that it was one of his favorites, based on their conversation last night.
“Hmm…” He peered down at her, and she fidgeted.
Her pretend-it’s-business scheme was flawed. She rarely asked business associates out in person — it was usually planned via email or a phone call. And she never stood this close — close enough that she could smell his soap and the salty, spicy maleness that was his scent — when talking to a business associate.
Nate laughed quietly. “I’m torn.”
