How to Tame a Wild Fireman (25 page)

“I really admire you. If you’d gone back to Prince­ton and resumed your previously arranged life, I’d probably detest you, just like I did back then.”

“You
detested
me?”

“Well, in between feeling kind of . . . attracted to you. Not that I’d ever admit it.”

He pointed a finger at her triumphantly. “You just did. I heard you. Hey everybody, guess what Lara just confessed?” He honked the horn, which sounded like a sick goose. A family stared at him from an old yellow car in the next lane.

“Oh, shut up,” she muttered. “The point is, I like you much more now than I would have if things had happened the way they were supposed to. Turn right!” She pointed wildly at the turnoff they’d almost missed. Patrick yanked the wheel and steered them onto the tiny dirt road marked by a sign that read
A LA PLAYA.

“He lives at the beach?”

“Close to the beach, I think.” She checked the text message on her phone that held the directions, which were as precise as everything Liam did. “He said it’s a little bungalow.”

As they hurtled down the narrow, twisting road, between scrubby grass-­covered dunes, they both fell silent. All the teasing from a few moments ago still echoed between them, like some haunting melody. And under that lay the confidences he’d shared. Those they’d
both
shared. But for now, all that was forgotten as they focused on the moment ten years in the making.

As the road neared the ocean it veered southward, so it ran along the beach. Straggling pinyon trees studded the terrain. To the right Lara saw flashes of deep sapphire blue, which must be the ocean flirting through the trees, like a peacock shy about unfurling its feathers. She rolled the window down and took deep breaths of fresh, salt-­spangled air.

“I wish I’d brought my swimming suit.”

Patrick grunted. Glancing at him, she saw deep tension etched across his face. She herself hadn’t seen Liam in about five years. But for Patrick it had been twice as long, and their separation took place under the worst possible circumstances. Impulsively she put a hand on his thigh.

“It’ll be okay.”

He didn’t answer. She bit her lip, wishing she could take back the platitude. Wasn’t that one of those meaningless statements that didn’t help anyway? The kind of thing she never said to her patients?

“Never mind. It’ll be what it’ll be.”

He gave a pained laugh. “I think I like the first one better. But don’t worry. I’m fine. I’m a big boy. Whatever happens, I’m glad I came. Glad
we
came. Is this it?”

They pulled up outside a small, squat, one-­room bungalow made from weathered planks of wood that still contained a few remnants of flamingo pink paint.

“I think so. He said it’s called Casita Rosa.”

“Pink house. That’s creative.”

“You must be nervous if you’re critiquing whoever named the house. I don’t blame you, I’m kind of nervous too. Who names houses anyway? I never bothered to name my condo, although I bet I could come up with something really cute. ‘The Doctor’s Pad,’ maybe. Hey, that’s actually not bad . . .”

“Lara.”

A warm hand was gripping hers tight. “Please stop talking so we can get out and see if Liam’s here.”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

She took a deep breath to calm herself. They shared one last glance, then, as if on cue, both opened their doors and stepped out.

The screen door of the Casita Rosa opened with a screech of rusty hinges. And there, framed in the doorway, as slight as ever, but twice as tanned, stood Liam.

Chapter Twenty-Four

P
atrick froze. His eyes catalogued differences in his brother even while the rest of the world seemed to briefly disappear. Liam looked older, of course. The sun had had a field day with his skin; not only was he tanned, but new lines fanned from the corner of his eyes. His hair, which had always been a few shades lighter than Patrick’s, was bleached nearly white blond now.

Was he taller? Unconsciously, Patrick straightened to his full height. He’d always had a ­couple inches on his brother, but after ten years, who knew? They’d long ago stopped making those pencil marks on the doorjamb.

He raised his hand in a lame hello wave, then signed a greeting instead.

Liam didn’t smile. How could he not smile? Liam used to have such a goofy smile, one that popped out at the oddest moments. But this grown-­up version of Liam looked wary and not particularly happy to see them. His gaze slid from Patrick to Lara.

“What are you doing here?” he signed.

“Don’t be mad,” answered Lara. “Your brother wanted to see you. I thought it was time.”

“Why?” Liam had always known how to cut through the crap.

“Because he misses you and he has things he wants to say to you.”

Watching Lara’s nimble hands form the signs, Patrick felt deeply grateful that she’d come with him. She stood a few steps away, the ocean breeze lifting her hair back from her face. The early morning sun burnished her skin to the color of precious living gold. She glanced at him in a signal to jump in.

“Can we come in?” Patrick signed. “Looks like you have a great place here.”

Liam took a long moment to answer, looking back and forth between the two of them several times. Patrick wondered if he could tell they’d recently been making love in the back of the Hulk. Liam had always had a freakishly acute sense of smell, which apparently went along with his autistic tendencies.

Finally, his brother nodded, then vanished inside the little bungalow. After exchanging a quick glance, he and Lara followed. It was like stepping inside the inside of a seashell that still smelled of the ocean. All the colors were soft, some version of delicate beige or soothing silvery gray. A carefully made bed took up one corner, a tiny kitchenette another. A low daybed, covered with a silky crocheted throw, sat under a picture window with a view of the beach. Everything seemed to have its place, from the frying pans hanging in order of size on hooks above the sink to the books marching in perfect formation on a homemade shelf. The tiny, tidy cottage exuded an atmosphere of peace. For someone like Liam, who craved order, it must be perfect.

It couldn’t be more different from the Callahan Ranch, with its mounted animal horns and rawhide rugs.

But one thing was utterly familiar. Patrick breathed in the scent of chamomile tea and fried bacon, the aroma that meant morning back home, where Liam had eaten the same breakfast every day of his life.

Liam offered water, which they both accepted. He gestured to the daybed while he crossed to the tiny kitchenette. An orange water cooler sat next to the sink. He filled two mason jars from the spigot, then carefully brought them to Patrick and Lara.

“How did you find this place?” Patrick asked.

“My girlfriend found it.”

Patrick nearly choked on a mouthful of water.
“Girlfriend
?”

A concerned smile skimmed across Liam’s face. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Sorry. I just didn’t know. Where is your girlfriend?”

Liam sat down on the edge of the bed. “She’s at work right now. Do you have a girlfriend?”

Patrick shot a quick look at Lara, who shrugged uselessly. “Uh . . . sort of, I suppose.”

“Sort of?” Liam’s frown reminded Patrick of how meticulous he’d always been about defining things. He didn’t like gray areas. He needed everything to be clearly one way or another way. How could Liam understand his confusing relationship with Lara when he didn’t understand it himself?

“I haven’t asked her about it,” he signed, “but I see her as my girlfriend. I hope she sees me that way too.” He was careful not to mention that he was talking about Lara. He wasn’t quite ready to reveal that much.

“When are you going to ask her?”

“Very soon.”

Liam finally looked satisfied. He sat back, rubbing both hands on his knees in another very familiar gesture. Then he spoke out loud. “Give me some news about yourself.” Since he’d gone deaf at the age of eleven, he could still speak, although sometimes his phrasing could be odd, especially as time went on. The specialists had told the Callahans this was normal, since sign language required a different way of communicating concepts. The more he adapted to signing, the less comfortable he felt speaking English.

“Well, I live in a city called San Gabriel, in California. I’m a firefighter.”

Liam looked mildly curious. “You fight fires?”

“Sometimes. I also help ­people at accident scenes. We get a lot of medical calls.”

Lara jumped in. “He came back to Loveless to help fight a huge wildfire. He rappelled out of a helicopter. And he rescued a llama.”

“My shining moment,” signed Patrick.

Liam laughed. The sound sent happy chills all the way to the soles of Patrick’s feet. Even as a little kid, he’d loved making Liam laugh, because it was such a happy, no-­holds-­barred, childlike sound. Before he could fully enjoy the moment, Liam sobered, and signed, “Did you see Big Dog and Mom?”

“Yes. They’re fine, but Big Dog’s meaner than ever.”

A shadow fell over Liam’s face. “Because of me?”

“No. I don’t know. It’s probably because of me. Liam . . . I wanted to—­“

But before he could get any further, Liam rose to his feet. “It’s time for me to go surfing. You can come if you want. It only takes sixteen seconds to walk to the beach from here.”

Patrick looked at Lara, who offered him an encouraging gesture.

“Yes,” he signed to Liam.

“I’m going to take a little nap,” signed Lara. “We didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.”

Patrick tried not to react to that comment, though he couldn’t avoid the sudden mental image of Lara’s half-­nude body writhing beneath his. God, he was a beast. Lara was trying to give him time alone with his brother, and he was thinking about getting her naked. Freaking animal, that’s what he was.

As she stretched out on the couch, the two brothers headed for the front door. Before they stepped outside, Liam put on sports sunglasses with a head strap to keep them in place. Bright light had always been a problem for him.

A tiny path wound its way past scruffy beach grass and over a low sand dune. When they cleared the small rise, Patrick let out a sharp breath at the sight of the pristine, virtually empty white sand beach spread out before them. Sparkles danced on the ocean waves, as if the sun was sprinkling bright confetti for a party.

“Nice place,” signed Patrick. “You got your own private beach?”

“I let other ­people use it sometimes.”

Patrick chuckled. “You did good, brother. Really good.”

The praise sent a rush of red to Liam’s cheeks. “Thanks, brother.”

And all of a sudden, Patrick was sure he was going to cry. Liam had called him “brother.” He wouldn’t do that if he hated him, right? His throat tightened, his eyes prickled. With every fiber of his being he fought against the disaster of tears. Not that men couldn’t cry. He’d seen lots of masculine tears at fire scenes, when someone was still trapped inside or when their dog was rescued. Fear, relief, anguish—­they all brought tears.

He’d even seen tears from firefighters after an especially emotional rescue, or a failed rescue attempt. Captain Brody encouraged the guys to talk about what they’d seen and experienced during tough calls, and often that meant tears.

But not from him. No fucking way. Not in front of the guys at the firehouse and not in front of his little brother.

“The wind really blows the spray around,” he signed, after wiping a drop of moisture from the corner of his eye.

Liam didn’t notice anything odd; he tended to miss emotions unfurling right in front of him. “The surfing’s good too.”

“You surf?”

“Yes. You want to go? See who stays up longest?”

“Surfing?” He’d never surfed in his life, having never lived anywhere near an ocean. But he’d snowboarded and skateboarded, and surely that was close enough so he could fake it. He shoved aside the thought that he was supposed to be hashing things out with Liam, not picking up a new sports obsession. “You’re on.”

Liam gave a little hop of excitement, which reminded Patrick of Goldie. “I bet I’ll beat your ass, big brother.”

“Only one way to find out.”

He followed Liam to a small grass-­thatched hut that sheltered several battered old surfboards in a meticulously ordered pile. Liam sorted through them, finally presenting him with a yellow longboard.

“This one’s for studs,” signed Liam. “I hope you can handle it.”

He looked at it with deep skepticism. It was a helluva lot longer than a snowboard, and it didn’t have any fastenings for your boots.
Of course not, you ass, surfers go barefoot.

He followed Liam’s lead, kicking off his shoes and stripping down to his boxers. “Really, we’re doing this in our underwear?”

“Right here, right now,” declared Liam, whose chest looked a lot more sculpted than it had at seventeen. “Just like old times.” He found a set of ear plugs dangling from a nail and inserted them in his ears. Ever since his disastrous ear infection, Liam had to be careful not to get water in his ears.

Again that treacherous avalanche threatened in Patrick’s chest. In the old days he and Liam had invented a million ways to compete. First to the end of the driveway on their skateboards. First to the garbage can with their bags of garbage. Highest on the trampoline. It was how they connected, and neither cared who won. In fact, Patrick preferred it when Liam won; maybe Liam had felt the same way.

They hadn’t been officially competing the night of the accident. But they were always competing; it was understood. Liam had been first to the RV, first to veer away, first to go flying through the air.

Fuck.

Patrick jammed the surfboard under his arm and followed his brother to the edge of the ocean. Warm water lapped at his toes. Liam settled himself belly first onto his board and began paddling out, dipping under the first wave to get his head wet. Patrick followed, wobbling from side to side as he tried to get the hang of it. Something told him he was about to get his ass handed to him.

He gritted his teeth and flailed at the water. Damn it, he wouldn’t go down without a fight.

When they passed the point where the waves were breaking, Liam stopped paddling and hauled himself into a sitting position, dangling his hands in the water to keep the board pointed the right way. Patrick mimicked him, feeling about as graceful as a whale. For a time they drifted like that, Liam gazing intently at the swells coming in. It was mid-­morning by now, and the sun beat down on their heads and shoulders. A few other surfers were staking out an area farther down the beach, where ominous rocks protruded like shark’s teeth.

At least Liam hadn’t picked that spot; his intention apparently wasn’t to drown his uninvited brother.

A gesture from Liam made him snap to attention. He watched carefully as Liam gauged the wave, paddled furiously, then pulled himself into a standing position. The wave pushed him forward on its creamy, curling edge. Liam balanced with a sort of awkward grace, knees bent, arms stretched to the sides, body loose and easy. He could have ridden all the way to shore, but instead dove into the water just before the wave crashed into sparkling smithereens.

“Whoo-­hoo!” Patrick yelled, making big splashes of celebration as a visual reinforcement. Liam surfaced with a wide grin, then gestured at him to take the next wave. He took a deep breath. His little brother had made it look so easy. He was older, stronger, fitter, and he’d always been able to beat Liam at just about everything. Why should this be any different? Piece of cake.

The wave loomed behind him. He paddled the way Liam had, then grabbed the board in both hands, hauled himself up—­and went tumbling head over heels in a chaotic maelstrom of white foam and swirling saltwater. He surfaced, gasping, to the sight of Liam’s amused face.

When he’d managed to mount the surfboard again, Patrick signed, “It’s harder than it looks.” Good thing the board was tethered to his ankle, or that would have been the last he’d seen of it.

A few attempts later he was wishing he never had to see the damn board again. The thing was slippery as a freaking eel—­a flat, hard eel that kept bonking him on the head, the knees, and the shoulder. The board seemed to have no mercy. Neither did Liam, who clearly found the whole thing hilarious. By the time Patrick gave up and stalked out of the water, a thin line of blood ran from a cut on his knee, his upper back was scorched, and his body felt like one big bruise.

Liam walked, cheerful and completely bruise-­free. “It takes a while to learn,” he signed. “It took me fifty-­two tries before I could stand up. Don’t worry, you did good.”

Patrick smiled through gritted teeth. “I did lousy. You won big, brother. Is there a mountain nearby? Snowboarding’s more my thing.”

“No mountain. But we could do a dune race.”

“You have dune buggies around here?”

“No. A foot race. Running up and down the sand dunes is good exercise.”

Since Liam didn’t even look winded, Patrick supposed it made sense that he wanted more exercise. Then again, he hadn’t been wrestling with a vengeful fiberglass murder weapon.

He started to beg off, but the determined look on Liam’s face stopped him. Liam wanted to race. The hell if he’d deny his brother. “Sure. Foot race. I’m in.”

They ran across sand that was beginning to radiate the sun’s heat directly into the soles of their feet. Liam practically danced over the dunes, zipping right and left to avoid scratchy beach grass, a few sharp pebbles, and even a stray crab claw. Patrick, meanwhile, managed to trip over a beer can, stumble into someone’s abandoned fire ring, and nearly sprain his ankle trying to avoid a dead jellyfish.