Page 30 of Faking the Heat

“Derek. I'm pretty sure our last discussion happened via my lawyer's email after you tried to claim my favorite Wacom tablet as community property. What are you doing here? This isn't exactly your scene. Too much character, not enough glass and chrome. “

He leans back, adjusting the cuff of his shirt with a practiced flick of the wrist. His green eyes are bright, focused, and entirely devoid of actual warmth. They're the eyes of a man who calculates the ROI of every conversation before he starts it. “I heard about the gas leak. The fire. I've been worried, Mandy. Truly. You've always been a bit... prone to chaos when left to your own devices. I felt responsible for making sure you hadn't been reduced to living in a Red Cross shelter. I checked the insurance filings, of course. It's a mess. “

He checked the insurance filings. I refresh that portal something like six times a day, which is my own business and nobody else's, and hearing it come out of his mouth makes me want to change every password I have ever owned. “I'm fine. Better than fine,” I say, the lie tasting like the cold brew sitting untouched on the table. The condensation on the plastic cup is making a puddle on the wood, a little ring of disorder that I know is driving him crazy. “And I wasn't 'left to my own devices.' I have a life. A successful career. A place to stay. I'm not some stray cat you need to bring to a shelter, Derek. “

He lets out a small, patronizing chuckle, the kind that usually precedes him telling me why my feelings are logically unsound. It's the sound of a man who believes he's the only adult in the room. “A career. Right. The freelance graphic design. It's a lovely hobby, Amanda, a fun distraction while you find your feet, but let's be realistic. You're staying in some warehouse in the West Loop with a firefighter. I’m honestly concerned about the... company you're keeping. He has a bit of a reputation and frankly It looks a bit desperate, don't you think? Rebounding with a first responder?”

I grip the edge of the table, my knuckles turning the color of bone. The anger is a sudden, sharp spike in my chest, more potent than the caffeine in my drink. “Sterling is not 'company.' He's my boyfriend. And he's worth ten of you on your best day. He doesn't look at me or my life as a project to be managed.”

“Amanda, please.” Derek leans forward, his expression shifting into that practiced look of concern he used to use when he was convincing me to cancel dinner with Kayla because it didn't align with his 'networking goals.' “We both know that's a performance. You've always been prone to romanticizing the wrong things. He's a fantasy. A blue-collar distraction while you're reeling from the trauma of losing your apartment. It's classic displacement. Men like him are for the weekends, for the thrills, for the stories you tell when you're bored. Men like me are the ones who you build real lives with. Who provide stability. Who understands the spacing on a legal brief and the necessity of a five-year plan.”

The arrogance of it is a physical weight in the room, thick and suffocating. He's using the old script, the one where I'm the fragile, flighty artist and he's the lighthouse guiding me away from the rocks. For a split second, the old pull of his certainty tugs at me. It would be so easy to slide back into that world of spreadsheets and predictable outcomes. But then I think of Sterling. Sterling doesn't try to solve me or curate me; he just stands next to me in the dark.

“You don't see me at all,” I whisper, and the realization is a cold, clear bell ringing in my head. “You see a trophy you dropped and want to polish back up. You see a project that went off-script and you want to edit it. You don't know the first thing about what I need, or what I've built since I left you.”

Derek's jaw tightens, a hairline fracture appearing in his polished facade. He doesn't like it when the 'client' talks back. “I know you're living a lie to appease your parents, Amanda. I know Robert and Carol. They want you settled. They want you safe. They don't want you playing house with a man who could be a headline in the morning paper every time a bell rings. Don't trade your future for a temporary feeling of being 'rescued.' It's beneath you.”

I stand up, my chair scraping harshly against the wooden floor, drawing a few curious glances from the hipsters at the window bar. I need a shield. I need the one person who makes this man look like a two-dimensional cardboard cutout. I need the reality of Sterling to drown out the logic of Derek. “I need to make a call. Don't go anywhere, Derek. I want you to see exactly how wrong you are. I want you to see what a 'real life' actually looks like.”

I walk toward the back of the cafe, past the jars of loose-leaf tea and the chalkboard menu, my legs feeling like they belong to someone else. My thumb hovers over Sterling's name in my contacts. He’s working. I know he’s working and he probably can’t come, but I know, probably, that just hearing the calmness in his voice might make me feel better.

On the other hand, calling him to bail me out of a conversation with my ex feels like the ultimate violation of our original 'Roommate Rules,' specifically the one about not being weird. But I'm drowning in Derek's condescension, and I need an anchor.

The phone is ringing and I don’t even remember pressing call.

He picks up on the second ring. “Miss me already.” He laughs

“Sterling,” I say, my voice cracking in a way that makes me want to scream. I lean against the cool brick wall of the hallway. “Derek is here. At the Teacup. He's... he's being Derek. He's talking about my parents and my career and I just... I need you. Please.”

There's a beat of absolute silence on the other end, the kind of silence that creates a panic inside me. Then I hear the sound of a door slamming and the heavy, familiar rumble of his truck engine turning over. “Seven minutes,” Sterling says. No jokes. No teasing about my 'ex-troubles.' Just the absolute promise of a man who has made a career out of showing up when things are burning. “I’ll be there in seven minutes. “

I hang up and walk back to the table, forcing my shoulders back. I sit down and stare at Derek. He looks smug, tapping his fingers against his thigh in a rhythmic, impatient cadence, probably checking his Rolex every thirty seconds. He thinks I'm crumbling in the hallway. He thinks the call was a sign of weakness, a desperate reach for a friend. And maybe on some deeper level it is but he doesn't understand that for some of us, asking for help is the hardest thing in the world, which makes it the ultimate act of defiance.

We sit in a silence that tastes like defeat. Derek tries to fill it with talk of a merger his firm is handling, some high-stakes play for a tech giant in Silicon Valley, but the words just slide off me like rain on a windshield. I'm counting the seconds. I'm watching the door. I'm waiting for the cavalry that wears a navy uniform and smells like home.

At exactly seven minutes, the bell above the door doesn't just jingle; it practically screams against the glass. Sterling Hayes doesn't walk into a room; he occupies it, shifting the entire center of gravity toward the entrance. He's still in his station uniform, navy t-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, heavy work boots striking the floor with a purpose that makes three different people look up from their laptops. He looks rugged, exhausted, and absolutely lethal in his focus.

Sterling doesn't look at Derek. He doesn't even acknowledge that there's another human being sitting three feet away, draped in Italian wool. He walks straight to me, and for a second, I forget how to breathe. He looks different today. There's a hardness in his jaw, a protective heat in his eyes that I've never seen before and it make my body react in ways that it hasn’t in a long time.

He reaches out, pulling me gently from my chair, his hand finding the side of my face with a certainty that silences the entire cafe. His palm is warm, slightly rough from work, and it feels like the only real thing in the universe. He tilts my head back, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw with a slow, deliberate pressure. It's an intimate, possessive gesture that claims every inch of me.

“Hi,” he murmurs, his voice low and gravelly, a secret meant only for me.

Then he kisses me. This isn't a performance for my parents. This isn't a quick, polite peck for show. This is a reclamation. His mouth is demanding, certain, and heavy with a desire that sets my very bones on fire. He lingers, his fingers fisting in the hair at the nape of my neck, his other arm wrapping around my waist pulling me closer until I'm pressed against the solid, unyielding heat of his chest. My hands find his shirt, bunching the fabric, anchoring myself to him as the world around us blurs into a smudge of colors.

When he finally pulls back, my knees are actually shaking. I have to grip the edge of the table just to stay upright. Sterling finally turns his head, his gaze landing on Derek with the detached curiosity of a man looking at a bug he's about to step on. He doesn't look angry; he looks bored, which I know is infinitely more insulting to a man like Derek.

“I'm sorry,” Sterling says, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register that makes the hair on my arms stand up. “I don't think we've met. I'm Sterling. Mandy's boyfriend. The one who actually knows her middle name, her favorite obscure pantone color, and how she likes her tea when she's had a rough day.”

Derek's composed facade doesn't just crack; it shatters into a thousand jagged pieces. They have in fact met before and not being memorable is an insult in itself. His mouth opens, closes, and for the first time in the three years I’ve known him, he looks completely, utterly speechless. He looks at me, looking for the crack in the armor, then at Sterling's massive frame, then back at me, searching for the lie he's so sure is there. But there's no lie in the way I'm leaning into Sterling's side, seeking the warmth of him. There's no lie in the way my pulse is still thrumming from the contact of his lips.

“I see,” Derek says, his voice tight and high-pitched with a sudden, jagged anger. He stands up, buttoning his suit jacket with hands that are visibly shaking. He tries to regain his dignity, but it's hard to do when you're being towered over by a man who looks like he could lift a car. “Well. It's a very convincing show, Amanda. Truly. You've always had a flair for the dramatic, and it seems you've found a lead actor who enjoys the spotlight.”

He looks at Sterling, his lip curling in a sneer that doesn't quite hide the fear in his eyes. “Enjoy the fantasy while it lasts, Fireman. When the smoke clears and she realizes you can't pay a mortgage with heroism or live in constant anxiety forever, she knows where to find me. You’re just a phase, a story to tell at brunch. I’m the one who can provide the life she was raised for.”

Sterling doesn't flinch. He doesn't move a muscle, his arm remains draped around my shoulders like a living shield. He just watches Derek with that calm, terrifying focus. Then the corner of his mouth pulls up, just barely, the way it does when something is so far beneath him it's almost funny. “You know, in my line of work, we have a saying. The most dangerous fires are the ones that look like they're already out.” He glances down at me, something warm and unhurried in his eyes, before looking back at Derek like he's already forgotten him. “I think you were just leaving.”

Derek doesn't offer a rebuttal. He knows when he's been outmatched, both physically and verbally. He grabs his leather briefcase, his movements jerky and uncoordinated, and walks out. The bell jingling one final, pathetic time behind him feels like the closing of a door I should have locked years ago.