Burning for You (3 page)

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“Look! Mr. Sexy’s back!”

“September,” Joe returned, ignoring the teasing whistles as he strode through the open bay doors into the firehouse, gear in hand. “Get it right.”

“Get what right? That you’re not sexy?” Reid shot back. “We already wondered what they saw in you.”

“Good one,” Chris, another member of Joe’s squad, called out from where he was performing inventory. “You might want to quit while you’re ahead, lieutenant.”

“Ha-ha,” Joe replied. He balanced the gear on one arm, grabbed the clipboard from Reid with the other, looked the contents over, and initialed on the line where required. Reid retrieved the board. “I can see you all at least got some work done while I was gone.”

“What did you think, we’d just sit around playing video games?” Kyle, the third squad member said. “Well, maybe Parker did. Why’d you sub him again?”

Joe countered with the obvious. “Because a truck can’t go out unless it has four guys?”

“What about me? Did I hear someone say my name?” Parker asked, ambling over. A full-time lieutenant from Station 26, Joe’s brother-in-law had covered the portion of Joe’s shift so he could do the shoot. Amazingly, the department had even sprung for the overtime. Somewhere up the chain of command, someone had decided that sexy firefighters made for good PR.

“They were just saying how much they like working with you,” Joe fibbed. “Any calls?”

“A car accident,” Parker said. “Guy hit a light pole. Pretty quiet today.”

“Don’t say that!” Kyle winced and slapped a hand over his temple. “You jinxed us!”

“Yeah, now we’ll get called out nonstop for the rest of our shift,” Chris groaned. “Thanks a lot Parker.”

Parker grinned. “Doing my part to help. Pretty boring over here. I like it when there’s some action.”

“Yeah, well, we don’t mind boring,” Chris said. “Lots to do. In fact, we need to clean—”

The second Chris said the word “clean,” Parker started moving. “Nope, my subbing’s done. Done my good deed for the day.”

Joe rolled his eyes. “Yeah, for the overtime.”

“Well, there is that. I’m supporting your sister and niece, you know. But, you’ve got a good crew or I’d never agree to set foot over here. See you guys later. See you Sunday, Joe.”

“What’s Sunday? Why aren’t we invited?” Reid called.

The gear weighed heavy in Joe’s arms. “What, you all want to come to my nephew Ben’s birthday party? It starts at noon. Picnic area near the Living World. I’m sure he’ll appreciate all the extra presents.”

“Will there be a bounce house?” Chris asked. “I might be there if there’s a bounce house.”

“Although be sure to secure it so it doesn’t fly away,” Kyle warned. “Remember that video? Don’t want to take that call.”

“No bounce house,” Joe said. “We’re in Forest Park so we can barbeque and visit the zoo.”

“Aww, that’s sweet,” Chris teased.

Reid grinned. “I like the zoo. And your mom’s a good cook. Is your sister Elaina going to be there?”

“You stay away from Elaina.” Joe scowled because his sister dating Reid was the last thing he needed. The youngest on Joe’s squad, Reid had gone to high school with Elaina, graduating two years ahead of her and her twin brother Peter. There’d been enough drama when Susie had started dating Parker. Then again, look how well that had turned out. They were perfect together, giving Joe hope that someday he might find that special someone who could see past his own flaws. At least his siblings had provided his parents with the requisite grandchildren, so that pressure was off.

“All I want from Elaina is more brownies,” Reid replied innocently, but Joe didn’t believe him. “Remember the last batch she brought? The iced ones? Those were delicious.”

“Yeah, she makes good desserts,” Chris threw out. “My wife hates baking. When’s your sister dropping by again?”

“Enough!” Joe called a halt. He loved his crew as much as his family, but they had work to do. Stationed in a firehouse built in the 1960s, there was always something needing repair. He’d start whacking down his to-do list after grabbing a sandwich. The shoot had lasted the entire morning, and then two hours into the afternoon. Photographed last, he’d missed lunch. He figured there’d be food—but clearly the organizer had forgotten that. At least the photographer had sent her assistant out for bottled water.

He had to admit, twelve guys and one bossy organizer plus her entourage were overwhelming. But the photographer had handled the shock with aplomb. She’d also had hazel eyes—the kind you could drown in. He was a sucker for eyes—he always noticed those first. Hers had been magnetic, pulling his gaze time and time again to her perky round face, where he’d seen full, kissable lips. She had a body that simply called out to a man …

As part of him stirred to life, he checked those dangerous thoughts, settling for a safe
Well, she’d been quite easy to look at
, which had made the shoot far more bearable than he’d expected. She’d also been good at her job. He’d meant it when he’d said she’d captured him pretty well.

Today was a win-win. He’d found who he’d been looking for, for while he liked to tinker with his SLR camera, he was a never going to be anything but an amateur. He needed her help, for he’d tried to take the portraits himself for the project he’d mentioned to her. However, he’d quickly discovered his eye wasn’t as good as he’d hoped. His technical ability was even worse. He couldn’t capture his subjects correctly, and they deserved the best. He needed professional help.

He’d found her interesting; his body had shot to attention after her long, firm fingers had pushed his coat aside—well that didn’t mean anything. Basic biology. Besides, he didn’t have time for a relationship and he never did casual. Ever. Women couldn’t handle him or his baggage, and baggage was something he had in spades.

While he needed Taylor, it was for her photography skills, nothing more. No matter how much he liked her lips and wondered how they’d taste. No matter how even some light flirtation had brought to the surface that dormant feeling that he was somehow missing out.

He began stowing his gear, pausing when the loud two-tone buzzer created a familiar burst of adrenaline. The speaker voice called out for Squad 3 and Truck 5 for a three-alarm fire. His crew scrambled into motion, tugging on gear over their clothes before climbing into their assigned places. As the senior squad officer, he sat shotgun, securing himself as Reid threw the vehicle into drive. The location came up on the GPS screen.

“So much for boring,” Chris said over the headphones.

“I’m going to kill Parker the next time I see him,” Kyle said. “He jinxed us.”

They fell silent, mentally readying themselves for the firefight. A three-alarm blaze meant multiple engine and ladder companies would be at the scene, and as today was excessively hot, crews would be able to work only so long before the battalion chief ordered them to take a mandatory cooling break.

As they raced through the streets of South St. Louis to the warehouse fire, an image of Taylor flashed through Joe’s mind before he pushed it away. His day had never been boring, not with her in the picture. He’d talk to her soon enough, for once he set his mind on something, he didn’t stop until he got his way. He’d set Taylor in his sights, and getting her to say yes to his proposal shouldn’t be too hard. He’d use the full Marino charm. She wouldn’t be able to resist.

Presley’s on the Landing was the kind of bar that changed personalities depending on the time of day. From the moment the doors opened at eleven a.m., Presley’s served up an assortment of pretty good burgers and wedge-cut fries in an industrial, warehouse décor with dark wood tables and exposed brick walls. With waitresses wearing shorts, respectable T-shirts, and bright, Kelly green aprons, the restaurant was somewhere patrons could bring kids or hold an important business lunch.

Around nine p.m., however, Presley’s performed an about-face. A beefy bouncer sat on a stool at the front door checking IDs. Inside, live music pounded at deafening levels, belted out by local rock bands all trying to get signed. After nine, revelers could still find food, but waitresses in tighter, lower-cut T-shirts and shorter shorts concentrated on delivering copious amounts of alcohol to twenty-somethings desiring to let loose, drink, dance, and hook up.

Taylor had worked three p.m. to three a.m. on Friday, and as she arrived at work at a quarter past three Saturday—late—she forced herself to shake off the cobwebs. Last night had been rough. Even though the bar kicked the last drinkers out at three, she’d cleaned until well past four. Too keyed up to sleep, she’d crawled into bed and read
Burning for the Rogue Pirate
until five, when the first hints of sunrise tested her room-darkening blinds.

She’d planned on catching five hours of solid shut-eye before getting some photo work done, so she’d set her alarm for ten. All week, she’d been processing images in between making cold calls to drum up some business and serving burgers, and she still had a lot of work left to do. But instead of waking, she’d accidently turned off the alarm instead of hitting snooze, allowing her to sleep until almost two-thirty. When she’d woken up and realized the time, she’d taken the world’s fastest shower, got dressed, and left.

Luckily Presley’s was relatively quiet—the weekend lunch crowd having departed and the early dinner crowd not yet arrived—so she hadn’t been missed. She clocked in, greeted one of the other servers with whom she was friendly. “Hey, Beth, how are you?”

“Did you forget?” Beth frowned at Taylor like she had grown horns, and Taylor shivered.

She’d been scatterbrained lately, but aside from her Presley’s shift, today’s calendar had been clear. “Forget what? I know I’m late. Is John mad? We weren’t supposed to wear a specific shirt, were we?”

“No nothing like that, so no worries. He’s not here anyway. He ran out for a minute. I just can’t believe you forgot.”

A little wrinkle formed between Taylor’s eyebrows. “My life’s been a bit crazy trying to get all this work done.”

“No excuses. Today’s the day for the Station 31 charity. You should see these guys!”

The wrinkle deepened. “What are you talking about?”

“The firefighters. They’re working as servers. Donating their tips to charity. The lunch shift left about a half hour ago and ooh la la.”

Taylor groaned, remembered John had said something about the event weeks ago, before she’d promptly forgotten all about it. “That’s tonight?”

Beth nodded. “Yes. The next group will be here at four. It was testosterone overload.” Beth waved her left hand in front of her face. Gold flashed. “I tell you, if I wasn’t happily married …”

“I’m sure Todd’s grateful for that fact,” Taylor teased.

Beth put a hand seductively on her hip. “You bet he is. Every night. But I can still look at some mighty fine men, especially when they are our esteemed firefighters. It’s our duty to ogle, right?”

“Sure.” Taylor laughed. Beth and Todd had been married about three months and Taylor had photographed their wedding. “Let me check what tables I have.”

“And which firefighter. Should be a packed house tonight.”

“Don’t worry, a corporate sponsor is covering our tips. So we don’t lose out. Really, it’s all one big show. Hunky eye candy while we do the real work. Although they can carry a tray, if you’d like.”

“Good to know because I can’t afford missing any tips. I have a school loan payment due.”

She also had rent due and needed a new telephoto lens. While Virginia had paid a small retainer, Taylor had spent that money on supplies. The balance—the part she’d make as profit—would come when Taylor delivered the job. If she had a good shift, like she’d had last night, she could muddle through until then—no way was she taking her mother up on her offer and moving home. Better times had to be ahead, didn’t they?

“Speaking of grad school, how’s your final project going?”

“You mean my nonexistent project? The one I’ve so far failed to find?”

“That bad, huh?” Beth asked.

“I’ve submitted at least thirteen ideas, and my professor keeps turning them down. Who would have thought a master’s in Media Communication would be so difficult? It’s like he hates photography.”

“But that’s what you love.”

“Yeah, but so far I’m batting zero. I have to find something, and fast. I thought I’d be well on my way, yet here I am. I’m too late to even enter the juried show. I could have used that money toward a deposit on a storefront. Now I’m just trying to graduate.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’ll figure something out and finish on time. You’re a great photographer. I have faith in you.”

“You might be the only one. Even my mother’s given up. She keeps asking when I’m moving home. Hey Libby. Where am I at?”

“You’ve got this section,” Libby, the hostess, pointed to the laminated layout of restaurant tables. Taylor nodded, pleased. She liked working the back room, as it was furthest from the band and the dance floor. While she’d still be busy, it meant less elbowing her way through the craziness. The people who sat in the back usually talked more, drank longer, and ordered food, all adding up to a better tip.

“Let’s get ourselves set up,” Beth said.

She and Taylor took seats in an empty booth and began rolling knives and forks inside paper napkins before sealing the lots with adhesive paper strips. Taylor had quite the stack of flatware by the time a prickle of awareness crept up her spine. Then she heard her manager John’s voice … and a bunch of others.

The firemen were here.

“Gather around, everyone,” John’s voice boomed. Standing with him were ten firefighters wearing jeans and neon pink shirts. The union logo was on the left sleeve, and a two-inch outline of a ribbon adorned the space over the heart. The back read “Station 31 Pink Out.” Clearly the chosen charity had something to do with breast cancer, which made sense as St. Louis’s Race for the Cure took place in June.

John began his pep talk. “Tonight we’re going to raise some funds.” Taylor half listened. She stood on the outside of the circle, looking around at everyone’s backside until a familiar head of wavy black hair had caught her attention. Elastic secured his hair at the nape of his neck, creating a one-inch poof. Trepidation stole over her.