That’s why he hadn’t wanted to be toasted for doing his job here in Hidden Oaks, when he’d rescued two kids a few weeks ago from a fast-moving fire that tore through the second story of an old house down at the end of a quiet lane. His name and Travis’s had been plastered all over the local news and radio, declaring them heroes. But that wasn’t what the job was about. It wasn’t about the attention, or the congrats, or any of that. He’d do what he did if no one noticed, if no one came by, if no one thanked him. Because it could go either way. Sometimes you saved the people you needed to save; sometimes you lost them.
He folded the paper, slapping it down on the stack, recalling his conversation with Travis about the way the job could dig into you, how losses could stick with you. That was what they signed up for. They knew the costs. But those nights, those calls—no matter the outcome—had a way of latching onto you, of claiming some ownership to your brain or your heart. Given how things had gone in the last year, there was a lot of real estate in him that was already staked. He honestly wasn’t sure how much was left for the taking.
He glanced over at his phone on the table, as if it were a reminder of the good things in life. The moments that didn’t hurt. Like last night with Megan. He could recall perfectly the taste of her, the smell of her, but more than that—all of her. She’d been a fiery lover, daring and direct. She’d told him what she wanted, she’d challenged him, and he had risen to the task and then some. She’d shown a vulnerable side, too, that drew him in, like the way she let go and shared parts of herself. Add in that quirky sense of humor, and she was exactly what he’d needed. He picked up his phone and texted her. He could write something dirty, something romantic, or something direct about seeing her tonight. But she’d left him a drawing of a raccoon wearing a bra, so he went in a different direction.
I see our mascot is a bit of a nudist.
A few minutes later, she replied. It’s fun being naked.
Then a second text arrived. With you.
And just like that, he was hard again. You should get na**d with me again tonight.
Another answer. I will. :)
Ah, now some things were just nice and easy. Like connecting with her. She eased his mind.
With a grin on his face, he grabbed his keys and wallet from the counter, then headed to the local coffee shop a few blocks away.
He rounded the block and saw that the line at McDoodle’s was long. He took his post and started running through his plans for the next few days. Tomorrow, he was meeting the photographer at the firehouse, so before then he’d go for a long morning run. Running was his therapy. It let him clear his head as best he could so the pain didn’t clutch him like a vise. Running could do wonders to numb a brain. So he’d run some more tomorrow, then the next day, then the next…
“Let me guess. You’re going to take a coffee. Black. No sugar.”
It was Smith Grayson. Becker turned around, grateful for the distraction. Smith, also a volunteer fireman, was always in a good mood. Becker often wished he could siphon a little bit of that off, use it for himself.
“Let me guess. You’re going all frothy and getting something with caramel and sugar in it,” Becker said.
Smith smiled broadly. “We can’t all be stoic and go for the no-frills drinks.” Then he added, “But I’m here to get a latte for the lady.”
“Right. You just pretend the caramel mocha frappa treat-o you order is for Jamie.”
Smith and Jamie had hooked up at the Spring Festival last month, and it had been about time. It had been obvious to him and anyone else with a pulse that they were hot for each other. Now they were nearly inseparable, and deeply in love.
“As a matter of fact, I’m not pretending. She’s out walking the dog, and is going to join me here soon. And she was saying an old friend of hers she was supposed to see last night is meeting us here any minute now, too.”
Becker’s ears pricked at the last few words: supposed to see last night.
What were the chances?
“Yeah? Where’s this friend from?” He reached the counter and was greeted by one of his favorite ladies in Hidden Oaks, Mrs. McDoodle, a longtime Hidden Oaks resident who’d taken a shine to Becker after he arrived in town last year. There was something very no-nonsense about the sturdy, gray-haired woman. She worked hard, ran a solid business, and took care of her customers. Becker could appreciate that kind of workmanlike approach to life.
“Hi, handsome, what’ll it be for you? The usual?” She smoothed her hands over the once-white, now coffee-stained apron.
“Cup of joe. Straight up. And whatever my friend here wants,” Becker said as he pointed to his buddy.
Smith placed a hand on his heart, as if he were overcome with emotion at the gesture. “Oh my, Becker. Aren’t you the nicest fella in the world to pay for my drinks.”
“Watch it. Or I’ll rescind the offer.”
“One latte. Two-percent milk. With room for cream,” he said. Smith leaned closer to Mrs. McDoodle and whispered in a low voice, but one Becker could still hear. “And a hot chocolate for me, okay? Whipped cream and all the works. Even those little chocolate shavings.”
Mrs. McDoodle winked and went to work. A minute later, she served the drinks, pushing them across the counter to Becker.
“How’s that old Ford running?” Becker asked, since he helped her with her car from time to time. He might not have family here in Hidden Oaks, but he’d become a part of the community through the bar, through his work, and by helping out when he could. That had all gone a long way to making Hidden Oaks a true home.