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“I’m looking for David,” she says meekly. “I . . . um . . . we met the other night,” she stammers. Shaking her head wildly, she tries to correct herself. “No wait . . . not like that . . . we met at Smoke.” As she turns her head to the side, burying her face in her hands, I catch sight of her reddened cheeks.

“What are you trying to say?” My question is met with a blank stare. In my own nervousness, I run my hand through my hair. When my fingertips meet the fabric of my hood, I realize why she hasn’t recognized me yet.

“Nothing, forget it. Sorry for bothering you.” Her words are rushed as she turns to walk away from me.

“Gracie,” I call to her when she’s no more than two steps away from me. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let her get away that easily. Pulling the hood from my head, I watch as realization draws her face into a shocked expression.

“David?” she asks, covering her mouth with her hand.

My lips curl into a smile as I nod at her. Before I can say yes, she covers her face again, pulling away from me. “You must think I’m some kind of blubbering idiot.”

Chuckling lightly, I shake my head. “Not really. I mean you sounded a little more like a groupie looking for a firefighter you met the other night, but I’ll let that slide.”

Smacking me playfully on the arm, we both freeze at the contact. Even through the layers of my gear, I can feel her touch. Odd how all that material protects me from the hottest fires, but the heat of her small hand penetrates it like nothing else.

With a quickness that stings more than a little, she pulls her hand away. “Wait a second.” My brows pull together into a playful gaze. “How did you know I worked here?” Amusement colors my words as her cheeks stain in pink.

“Your station number.” She tips her head to the side of the building that boasts our house information. “It was on your shirt,” she admits shyly, her eyes roaming over my chest.

Swiping a hand across my soot covered face, I’m momentarily concerned with what I must look like. But then Ian’s voice breaks me out of my worries.

“Get a move on, Andrews.” He pokes his head out from the garage doors. “This meal sure as hell isn’t going to cook itself.”

“Andrews?” Her voice is laced with disbelief.

I nod, swallowing back the slew of questions I want to ask her.

“No . . . I mean . . . you can’t. . . . That’s crazy.” Her cheeks turn pink again at her random stammering of disbelief. “When I saw you the other night . . . I mean I thought it was you. But even now . . . I still can’t believe it.” She steadies herself, smiling up at me, seemingly ecstatic with the highly unlikely, but extremely welcomed, chance reunion.

“Let’s go!” Ian yells out again. “Cap ain’t gonna be happy about this.”

Torn between where I want to be and where I have to go, I literally feel like I’m being pulled in both directions. “Yes, definitely crazy,” I agree as a mixture of happiness and relief bloom in my chest. “Gracie, I have to go. Please tell me I can call you later. Maybe even see you? I’m on for the next two days, but I would love to catch up.”

Stunned, she doesn’t respond right away. Like a fish gasping for air, she opens and closes her mouth a few times, searching for the right words to say.

“Andrews!” Gallagher yells out, impatience and annoyance equally layering his tone. “Get your ass in here, now!”

“You got a pen in there?” I ask hopefully, tipping my head to the bag slung over her shoulder while my captain’s curses grow louder from behind.

Gracie fumbles through her bag and pulls out a pen and a scrap of paper. “Perfect. Now, I’d give you my number here, but I wouldn’t want to put you through the torture of one of the other guys picking up,” I explain. Her hands are shaking and she still hasn’t said anything. Though her cheeks have been shaded in pink pretty much the entire time she’s been standing in front of me, now she looks almost as if she’s seen a ghost.

Hearing Gallagher’s footsteps pounding on the pavement behind me, I hurry up and get to the point. “Can I have your number, please?” Before I can add my promise to call her, words that
I
know don’t need to be said, she’s quickly scribbling on the paper.

Gracie shoves the slip of paper to me just as Gallagher’s hand clamps down on my shoulder. “Let’s go, Andrews. Playtime is over,” he snaps and I know I’ll take a good ribbing for this one.

Walking backward, I watch Gracie wave goodbye. Gripping her number tightly in my hand, I can’t wait for the opportunity to talk to her again.

“He’s not going to call,” I admit with a touch of defeat. “Let’s face it, he asked for my number out of pity.”

Jade stares at me from across the small table at Pierre’s, a French bistro. They have an inexpensive wine and cheese lunch, which is perfect for us—it also explains why we meet here, a lot. “Will you calm down?” She swats the air in front of her as if it will brush away my concerns. Popping a grape in her mouth, she rolls her eyes at my less-than-appreciative stare.

“First of all, he must think I’m some kind of stalker. I mean how desperate was I to just show up at his station?” Impatience brews in my head as Jade just sits there, a smug look playing on her face. She takes a sip from her wine and tears off a chunk of bread, letting my words of self-doubt tumble from my mouth. “I mean, I saw him once. And I get this crazy idea that he’s the David I used to know. So I hunt him down? That’s all sorts of crazy.”

Carefully lacing her hands together, she rests her arms on the table, eyeing me cautiously. “What?” I snap at her rather cold glare.

“Nothing.” Her casual dismissal pisses me off. Huffing my annoyance at her garners nothing but a laugh. Finally, she cuts the crap and starts talking. “Are you done going on and on about how he’s not going to call? Because I don’t want to waste my breath calming you down if you’re just going to get all huffy and puffy again.” She scrunches up her face at me as she points a finger playfully in my face.

“I was not huffy and puffy,” I defend, but as soon as the words are out of my mouth, even I can hear the rather teenage-like quality with which they were said. When she shoots me an ‘I caught you red-handed’ look, I flop back in my seat, exhausted with this line of conversation. Though, honestly, I’m just plain exhausted with the whole situation. I’ve never felt this wrung out over a guy.

“Am I free to talk now, Miss Huffy Pants?” We share a giggle and I calm myself down with a sip of wine.

Extending my hand across the table, I give her the floor. She’ll need it if the impending speech is anything like I deserve.

“First of all.” Jade holds a finger up at me, counting off her reasons just as I would. But knowing that my sarcasm won’t be appreciated, I keep my comment about her making a list to myself. “He said he was working for two days. Give the man some time to recover and figure out what he wants to say.”

Chewing on my lip helps me keep my mouth shut long enough for her to throw two fingers at me, calling off her second reason. “And secondly, what about Blake?”

“What does he matter?” Just the mere mention of his name ruffles my feathers. “We broke up. As far as I’m concerned, I don’t owe him anything. Besides, it’s not like you to be worried about him.”

“Oh, honey.” Her hand covers mine, squeezing it in understanding. “I couldn’t care less about that jerk. It’s you I care about. He’s just never struck me as someone who’s all that stable and I thought if he saw you with David, or knew you were even talking to him, he’d blow a gasket. That’s all.” Her deep brown eyes shimmer with honest concern. Though I know she’s right—at least about Blake lacking sensibility and rationality—I don’t want him to be any part of what I choose to do with my life.

“Thank you for that,” I say gently, patting our piled up hands with my other one. “If I have to, I’ll deal with him. But I doubt he’ll even bother with me. He was angry as hell when I broke things off with him, but I haven’t heard from him since. And it’s been two weeks, so I doubt he’ll be coming around my way again.”

“I know, but I still worry about you.”

The stilted silence is broken by the waiter coming to refill our glasses. When our wine is renewed, so is my need to know why David hasn’t called.

“Seriously, why hasn’t he called?” I whine, before taking a large sip of my drink.

“Do you really think he’s the same guy from when you were a kid?” she asks skeptically, but not with any derision. “I mean what are the chances?”

Shrugging, I choose to take a bite of food rather than admit the possible foolishness of
this
David being the same David I used to know. Even though I say, “I don’t know, maybe. Anything is possible, right.” I know in my gut that it was most definitely him. Holding back the information he’d called me “Gracie” when I hadn’t even introduced myself, I feel giddy at the possibility that he recognized me as more than just the girl from the bar. The logical part of my brain says it can’t be true; he must have simply remembered my name from when he stepped in between me and Blake.

But my heart can’t let go of the possibility that it just might be him. In the two and half days since I saw him last, I’ve convinced myself that my ears played a trick on me. There was no way on earth his captain said his last name was Andrews. We didn’t actually have the conversation that he was, in fact, David Andrews—the boy who saved my life all those years ago. So there’s a chance that by the time I told Jade about meeting David at his station, I may have been a little vague on the details.

The rest of our meal passes quickly and we lose ourselves in other conversation. When the waiter drops the check, Jade refuses to let me pay. “I got this,” she demands as she swiftly pulls the piece of paper from the table.

Her intent is not to make me feel guilty, but it does just that. She was lucky enough to land a position at a financial firm right out of grad school. It didn’t hurt that her father and her boss were in the same fraternity. And there are about a million and a half financial jobs here. Money and lower Manhattan go together like peas and carrots.

On the other hand, teaching jobs are few and far between. Unless you know someone or have some crazy connections, you have better luck winning the lottery than you do landing a decent job in education.

After she drops the money on the table, we both stand and walk down the street. “I need to be back in five minutes. I’ll see you later, okay?” With a tight grip, she shakes my shoulders gently and shoots me a firm look. “Stop obsessing over him. He’ll either call or not. And if he doesn’t, then it’s his loss.” Her words help bolster my wavering confidence slightly.

On my way back to the apartment, I stop at a secondhand book store. Inhaling the scent of old books and perusing the shelves helps calm my nerves. I might not have much money to spare, but I can always find a few dollars to drop on books. Having always been my guilty pleasure, I browse through the romance section, instantly finding something that catches my attention.

A hot fireman. Don’t mind if I do.
Sometimes I really do amuse myself. At least this will keep me busy through the afternoon. Mrs. Harrison, the owner, has recently started stocking more firefighter romances after I told her they were my newest favorite. I have a feeling she doesn’t mind the new genre much at all.

After paying Mrs. Harrison, who smiles and winks at me as she hands me my change, I step back out onto the busy sidewalk and make my way back to my building—where an entirely different hot fireman is waiting for me. And this one isn’t of the fictional variety.

Clutching my book to my chest, I nearly lose all ability to speak as David approaches me. Wearing sneakers, a pair of khaki cargo shorts and a navy blue fire department t-shirt, he looks young and carefree—and freaking hot. His dark brown hair flops across his forehead so that he has to swipe it out of the way as he steps in front of me.

“Hi,” I croak, but it comes out more like a question.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he rocks on his heels. Nervousness pulsates in the small space between us, and crazily, I bask in the knowledge that it’s not just me who’s nervous. “Hey,” he mumbles the single word, somehow magically easing my nerves.

“I thought I gave you my phone number? Not my address.” Arching an eyebrow at him, I seem to get a grasp on my ability to speak.

Shyness washes over his face for a second and I catch a glimpse of the young boy I used to know. He’s there in the sparkling eyes and lopsided smile, but in so many ways, he’s not. This is clearly the older, more masculine, and self-assured version of the kid I once knew.

After pulling the piece of paper on which I wrote my number out of his pocket, he unfolds it and hands it to me. “You did, but”—he wraps his hand around mine, turning the paper over so I can see the backside—“you wrote it on the back of a library return receipt. They had your address printed on it, so I figured I’d take a chance and stop by.”

As my eyes scan over the receipt, my neck and cheeks heat, a furious river of red shading my skin. With as much quickness as I can muster without looking overly suspicious, I crumple the paper and shove it into my pocket.