Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 73794 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73794 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
“Fine.” He grabbed a rag but hung back to watch me start working.
“Problem?” I asked crisply.
“No.” He rolled his shoulders, but his body remained tense. “Sorry. It’s a stupid thing, but I hate sticky stuff on my hands. Reminds me of…unpleasant memories. Mud. Blood. Worse.”
“Oh.” Now that I understood, I felt like a jerk for getting stern. My jaw loosened, sympathy stealing the last of my sternness. Of course the dude had seen some shit. I went to the supply shelves and came back with a pair of disposable gloves. “Gloves?”
“Thank you.” He offered a crooked grin as he pulled the gloves on. “Sorry to be such a wimp.”
“You’re not.” I smiled back encouragingly. The little chink in his big, tough armor made him that much more appealing. “And better speaking up than hating a major part of your job.”
“True that.” Gloves on, he got busy following my lead on polishing the engine.
Rather than get transfixed by his long fingers rubbing circles, I forced myself back to leader mode. “Good work.”
“I’ve got a good teacher.” Tony met my gaze, holding it far longer than the average straight guy. The air in the engine bay shifted, a cool current brushing my face and arms and making me shiver. Or maybe it was simply Tony and those soulful brown eyes and strong jaw working their magic over me.
I couldn’t afford another crush, but my body had no interest in logic. Averting my gaze, I put all my energy into polishing the engine. I needed to survive the shift, no accidental eye-fucking or meaningful glances allowed.
Chapter Three
Tony
“Rowan got a guitar.” Wren, Eric’s youngest teen, greeted me at the kitchen door as I let myself into the house after my shift at the fire station.
“Uh, hello to you too.” I was still figuring out how to deal with Wren’s hyper-literal speech that left little room for small talk or social niceties. They had wild, frizzy hair and perpetually askew clothing at odds with their serious tone and academic nature.
“He sounds like angry seagulls.” Wren waved their hands toward the back stairs. Indeed, squawky metallic sounds filtered down from the second floor. “Beware.”
“Wren’s a little dramatic, but Rowan using his summer job money for an electric guitar was…unexpected.” Jonas, another old friend from when I’d lived with Eric during my brief stint in community college, wandered into the kitchen, drying off his hands on a cotton dishtowel. His dog Oz followed close behind before flopping onto a rug near the cookbook shelf. “How was the first day on the job?”
“It was okay.” I wasn’t sure how to explain how I’d felt both welcomed and out of place. I felt old, especially next to Caleb. While I was no stranger to younger commanding officers, his bright, sunshiny nature made me feel particularly ancient. And I could also do without the thrum of awareness that raced through me every time I noticed his infectious grin or those damn hypnotic eyes of his. Coworkers. We were coworkers, and I needed to pack away that awareness in the same vault I’d used for years. “Nice group of people.”
“They are,” Jonas agreed with an easy smile, thankfully not calling me on my bland description. “The whole first-responder community here is pretty awesome. It’s a huge part of why I’ve stayed in the ER even after getting my nurse practitioner and other degrees.”
“I’ve got a bachelor’s thanks to the army, but you put the rest of us to shame.” I smiled back. Jonas was a big bear of a guy, tall and broad with a neatly trimmed beard. Back in community college, he’d been the one with straight As, so it was no surprise he’d racked up multiple nursing degrees over the years, working up to being a nursing supervisor in the ER now.
“I’m never getting any degrees if this house doesn’t quiet down.” Wren gave a loud sniff, using a scolding tone. They had moved to a stool at the kitchen island and held up a thick textbook. “Some of us are trying to read.”
“You’re reading a medical textbook?” I tilted my head, but sure enough, the library book looked like something you’d see at a medical school, complete with a dry title: Textbook of Endocrinology.
“I had a question about metabolic rate that the nutrition textbook I found first couldn’t answer adequately.” Wren sounded far more ready to teach a college course than attend middle school. I pitied the eighth-grade staff at Mount Hope Middle School. Wren was going to be a handful.
“I see.” I nodded like I might have a hope of understanding their scientific mind.
“John is all about protein and macros this summer.” Wren referenced their football-loving older brother. I’d reconnected with him a few days earlier when moving in, and his sporty nature felt familiar to me, a blast from my high school football days. And I could well remember the battle to add muscle to a growing frame. Wren, though, was more skeptical. “I’m trying to prove a point that macros aren’t supported by science.”