I type back quickly, unsure of what she meant.
Yeah, you know, like a cross between lunch and dinner.
Linner.
Ahh, I see. And how was your linner?
“Dinner in ten, kids,” Ivy calls out. I glance up to see if she needs anything but am happy to find that Carter and Coop are grabbing the plates and silverware, finally acting like civilized men once more. I look back at my phone when it buzzes in my hand.
So good. My mom makes an amazing roasted chicken and George makes these double chocolate brownies that melt in your mouth. I thought my eyes were going to roll right out of my head they were so good.
I’d love to make your eyes roll that hard, I think to myself as I type my reply.
I’m sorry, roasted chicken? You know that turkey is the traditional bird of choice for Thanksgiving.
Of course I do even though I don’t know why. Thanksgiving turkey is gross
Ouch, doc, those are fightin’ words. I don’t know if we can be friends anymore.
I didn’t know we were friends in the first place…
The lingering dots of her text throw me for a second. What are they supposed to mean? Was she being playful or had I crossed a line.
Men are more straightforward in their communication while women want you to read the signs they’re sending you.
I consider the words from earlier in the day and decide to follow that logic, be straightforward, and shoot my shot.
You’re right, we’re not, we simply share a professional relationship even though one of us would like to take the other out on a real date if she’d let him.
Unfortunately that’s not possible seeing as how it would be a deliberate breach of the ethical code she has to abide by.
I’m thinking something close to home. Maybe my home. I’d like to cook for her I think. If only I knew what she liked.
You don’t need to be privy to that information seeing as how it isn’t going to happen.
We’ll see about that, doc
Miles…
I smirk at my phone because I can just picture what she looks like as she texts me—eyebrows pressed together, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth, glasses sliding down her nose. When a soft hand lands on my shoulder, I look up to see Ivy peering up at me.
“Time for dinner.”
Nodding, I type a quick reply.
Time for dinner.
You should really consider my offer, I’m a pretty good cook. You *did* seem to like the soup I made for you, if I recall that correctly. Imagine what I can do with a full dinner.
Go enjoy your Thanksgiving with your family. I’ll see you on Thursday.
Yes you will doc, yes you will.
22
MILES
The alarm sounds throughout the firehouse and interrupts the not-so-clean dream I’m having about a particular blonde with freckles that dance across her cheeks when she smiles. I’m in the final twelve hours of my forty-eight hour stretch at the firehouse before I have a few days off. The last day and a half have been pretty uneventful, mostly lower level calls or fender benders during rush hour. Something about this call feels different though. Maybe it’s because it’s the middle of the night or maybe it is some internal gut feeling I’ve developed over time. But this call feels bigger, more severe, than the ones we’ve been getting over the last few weeks.
