One Fine Fireman (6 page)

If it worked for Kirk, why not Duncan? Logically it made a certain amount of sense, even though she had a sneaking suspicion it wouldn’t be the same at all.

“Time alone? If I’m coming all the way out there, I want time alone with my babycakes.”

“Well, of course, that too.” That was the main point, wasn’t it? To get Kirk out of her brain and Duncan back into it? “I miss you.”

“I miss you too, Mari. But just think, before long we’ll be together all the time. Can’t wait, baby!”

“Me neither. So you’ll come?”

“Let me check my schedule . . .” He put her on speaker so he could pull up his calendar. “Yes, let’s do it. Maybe I can set up some meetings while I’m out there. You wouldn’t mind a road trip to LA, would you? I could take you to Bar Marmont. Bet Pete would like that. Maybe I can wrangle a run-in with Daniel Radcliffe.”

Now that, Maribel had to admit, would actually impress Pete, though he normally scoffed at all of Duncan’s celebrity references. When she hung up, she felt a little better. Duncan loved her, surely he did. He could have any number of high-profile girlfriends. And he had, before he’d met her. He’d even dated a Victoria’s Secret model and one of Madonna’s dancers. But he claimed Maribel was perfect for him, his haven from the fame-hungry world in which he lived.

Yes, Duncan loved her . . . and respected her, right? Sure, he laughed a little at her reverence for the “art” of photography. Not that she claimed to be an artist, of course, but she had an awestruck admiration for those who were. Duncan found it adorable in the same way he found her photographs adorable. But that was good, right? She didn’t need him to think she was a genius. As long as he respected her, which he did, didn’t he?

Anyway, he’d finally picked a date, they were getting married, and that was that. Pete would grow to appreciate Duncan’s good qualities, as well as the amazing Manhattan lifestyle they were about to adopt—think of the schools, the museums, the culture—and he’d forget all about a goofy dog named Hagrid and the kind, pulse-poundingly handsome fireman he’d befriended.

Uninvited, thoughts of Kirk came flooding back. Not just the kiss, but everything he’d told her in the plug buggy. His bout with cancer. His refusal to be a burden on a girlfriend. Maybe he thought that was heroic, but it made her angry all over again. Damn it, someone like Kirk, someone strong and thoughtful, someone who spent his life watching out for other people, running into fires, helping out little boys, taking care of abandoned dogs . . . someone like Kirk ought to have a woman standing by him. Babying him. Loving him. Making love to him . . .

She groaned and went to take a shower. Duncan better get here soon.

Chapter Five

K
IRK’S ONLY QUESTION
about what had happened at the warehouse was: How badly had he screwed up? Maribel had snagged Pete and run out of there so fast, he’d barely had a chance to scribble his number on a piece of paper and hand it to the kid. But maybe the deal was off now anyway; no phone call so far, and it had been two days.

Worried about Hagrid, he’d gone out to the warehouse alone with a can of Science Diet, tossed a stick for the pup until they both got bored, then scratched his ears and said goodbye.

But not before he’d shared a few secrets with the dog, who made a comfortable, floppy-eared confidant. “She liked that kiss as much as I did, you know. And she kissed me first. Sure, it was a little peck on the jaw, but when she put her lips on me, I couldn’t think straight anymore. Can you blame me? Well,
she
might blame me. Then again, I think she was mad at herself more than me. She’s not the type of woman who would cheat on her fiancé. She’s probably beating herself up. Catastrophizing.” He smiled at Hagrid, who cocked his head, apparently following the one-sided conversation perfectly well. Or else wondering when Kirk would break out the next snack.

“I’m just not sure what to do next. Ryan would probably say, ‘Ask her to dinner.’ But that would make it worse, wouldn’t it? Then she might think that I thought she was the type of woman who would two-time her fiancé. You know what I mean?”

Hagrid laid his head on his paws. Kirk stroked his soft ears until his tail thumped happily.

“It’s tricky. And it makes it worse that it’s her. Because I don’t want to make a wrong move. Freak her out. Even more than she already is, I mean. Damn. Maybe I’ll see what the guys think.”

Even Hagrid seemed to think that was a terrible idea, judging by the snuffling noise he made as Kirk scratched the notch between his shoulder blades.

“I know. Bad idea. Not happening anyway.”

What could he do, besides hope that Pete would give him a call soon? He surged to his feet, so frustrated he tossed the empty tin of dog food in the garbage can with enough force to make it ring like a bell of doom. God, how pathetic could a man get, waiting for a call from a nine-year-old boy? Why had he made that offer anyway? All it guaranteed was time with Pete, not Maribel. He felt like a man wandering the streets, pressing his face against the window of a cozy home for a glimpse of the happiness inside.

Pete was going to be someone else’s stepson. Maribel was going to be someone else’s wife. He was going to move to freaking Alaska. And Hagrid? He’d make a few calls, see what he could drum up.

In the meantime it would probably be best for them all if his number got irretrievably lost in the chaotic jumble that lived inside Pete’s pockets.

B
UT IT DIDN’T.
The next day, Maribel called. Actually, the next evening. Kirk was playing pool when his cell phone rang and ruined his bank shot into the corner pocket.

“Yeah,” he answered abruptly, not bothering to check the number.

“Is this Kirk?” The sound of her soft voice made him straighten up, knocking the chalk off the side of the table.

“Yes. Sorry.” He swung around so the guys couldn’t hear him. “Maribel?”

“Wow! Good guess.”

Right. As if he wouldn’t know her voice anywhere.

“I . . . uh . . . have kind of a strange favor to ask. My babysitter canceled and I’ve been calling around everywhere, but no luck. Pete came up with the idea of hanging out with you tonight. I told him you were probably already busy, or else working, but I promised him I’d check. So this is me, checking. Please don’t be offended that I even asked; it was Pete’s idea and he gave me your number, and . . .”

“Sure.”

“Really?” The delight in her voice sent blood rushing to his head. “You’re free?”

“Well, I’ll be home soon. Say, ten minutes?”

“Oh my God, you’re a lifesaver. I can . . . maybe I can bring you some cookies or something? Fudge brownies?”

“Don’t worry about that. You can set me up with some more ornaments next Christmas, how’s that?” Kirk winced. His family would stage a revolt if any more ornaments came their way. He’d have to find a worthy charity.

“Done! For the next five Christmases, if you like. I always have a lot left over.”

Kirk gave her his address, then handed off his pool cue to Vader. Of course nothing was that easy; as soon as he explained, the teasing followed him right out the door.

“Thor, you wuss. Who are you, Mary Poppins?” Ryan winked. “Bet you’re after that spoonful of sugar.”

“Adventures in babysitting, dude. Adventures in babysitting,” said Vader cryptically.

“My sister watched that movie about a hundred times,” said Fred the Stud with deep nostalgia.

“I saw that one,” said Ryan. “Elizabeth Shue was cute in it. Damn, I just remembered . . . the bratty kid in that movie liked Thor. Wore a helmet and everything.”

“Thor the Babysitter. Never thought I’d see the day.” Vader shook his head.

Kirk managed to escape without bloodying anyone’s nose, which he considered a personal triumph. He cruised home on his bike, barely making it ahead of the battered old Volvo containing Maribel and Pete.

The thrill of Maribel at his front door, of his porch light striking copper starbursts in her glorious hair, of her apple-blossom fragrance drifting inside his living room, gave him a high that ended only when Pete explained, gloomily, that Duncan was in town and Maribel wanted some time alone with him.

At that point, Kirk figured he deserved every scrap of ribbing the guys could dish out—and then some.

M
ARIBEL RUSHED HOME,
where Duncan was still finishing up a phone call. He didn’t even look up when she burst into the house. “Ready!”

“Who’d you find?” Duncan asked vaguely, though Maribel knew he didn’t really care and wouldn’t remember the answer if she told him. Maybe the news that a handsome fireman was looking after Pete would make him sit up and take notice, but probably not. If Duncan was jealous of other men, he’d never shown it during six years of a long-distance relationship.

“Just a friend.” A friend who’d kissed the sense out of her, but no need to go there.

Their dinner date was not what Maribel had hoped for. Duncan’s phone call had put him in a bad mood. Maribel knew the signs. Prolonged silences, preoccupied glances, sudden bursts of animated ranting. Moments of great charm directed at the waitresses alternating with sullen monologues about why the West Coast scene was entirely inferior to New York’s. There was no point in debate; Maribel knew her role. Listen sympathetically, offer unquestioning support, be the haven he saw her as.

The thing was, she didn’t feel like a “haven.” She had things on her mind. Pete, for one. When Duncan’s flow of complaints seemed to be easing, she grabbed the opportunity. “Have you thought about what you want to do with Pete while you’re here?”

“Huh?” He looked at her blankly, almost as if he’d forgotten she knew how to speak.

“You know, some Pete-and-Duncan alone time. To give you two a chance to bond.”

“Oh.” He waved his fork, on which perched a chunk of baked Brie. “I don’t think that’s going to happen this trip, baby. Next time.”

“What? Why not?”

“Haven’t you been listening? The Chicksie Dicks are freaking out. They want a reshoot.”

The Chicksie Dicks? That didn’t sound right. She really had been zoning out while Duncan vented. She wanted to ask if the Chicksie Dicks were a real group or if he was making fun of the Dixie Chicks, but now she didn’t dare. He’d never forgive her if he knew she didn’t hang on his every word.

“But Duncan, you keep talking about being Pete’s stepfather. You want us to be a family.”

“Of course I do.”

“Shouldn’t you get to know him better?”

“What’s to know? He’s a nine-year-old boy. I was nine once. I know what it was like. It sucked. If someone had come along and offered me backstage passes to the Beastie Boys, I’d have been his slave for life.”

“But Pete’s not that into music. He likes to read. He’s got a great imagination. You should hear some of the things he makes up. He’s convinced an owl will show up when he’s eleven with an invitation to Hogwarts. He’s even written his own novel—well, started it. But he’s two chapters in and it’s fantastic . . .”

But Duncan’s phone had buzzed; a text had come in. He immediately began scrolling through the message and cursing. Maribel wanted to scream with frustration. His distraction had never bothered her until now. It hadn’t really mattered because their lives were so separate. But if they really were going to become a family, it did matter. She couldn’t let this slide. She waited until he finished his reply text, watching the top of his sandy brown head as he hunched over his phone. Duncan was good-looking in a bland, prep-school sort of way. He’d grown up in the suburbs of New Jersey with the sole dream of breaking into the Manhattan hip crowd. He’d done it too, and wore the black jeans and horn-rimmed glasses to prove it.

She’d assumed the fact that he’d chosen her, someone with no social connections or any kind of status in his world, meant he wasn’t really the snob he appeared to be. But was that really true? Why did he want her?

“Duncan,” she said, when he’d finished his text. “Why do you think we should get married? I mean, things are good the way they are, right? We do okay, for a long-distance relationship. We’re both busy with our careers. I’ve got Pete, you don’t really want more kids.” This gave her a secret pang. Pete would love a sibling. She forged ahead. “Why mess with a good thing?”

Duncan dragged his gaze from his phone. “What?”

“Did you hear any of that? Do I need to repeat the whole thing?”

“Sorry, baby. You know how it is.” God, his phone seemed to have a gravitational pull stronger than Jupiter’s. It was winning again; she was losing his attention.

She kept it short and sweet this time. “Why do you want to get married?”

“What?” He frowned behind his horn-rims. “I told you. Because you’re my haven.”

“Okay, but . . . do you think you could elaborate just a little? How am I a haven?” And how was that not like being compared to a retirement home?
Ooooh.
She drew in a breath. Was that it? Did Duncan see being with her as the equivalent of an emotional retirement from the Manhattan dating scene?

“It means”—he shot an angry glance at his phone, where apparently things were not going well—“you’re not needy and demanding. You let me do my thing without wanting to take over my life. And usually you don’t irritate me. But right now . . . Jesus, Mari, do you think you could back off?”

She flinched back in her chair in shock. In six years, Duncan had never spoken to her like this. They’d always had a romantic, swoony kind of relationship, full of endearments and sappy little e-mails and kissy-faces over Skype. He’d swept her off her feet with expensive dinners at the Ivy and weekend getaways to Santa Barbara. He found her amusing and adorable, and never got impatient with her occasional dreamy fogginess—her creative mode—which drove most people crazy. But he understood, because he was an artist too, right?

“Duncan, I’m not trying to annoy you. I’m just concerned about my son. I want to make sure we’re on the same page.”

“I highly doubt that,” he said brusquely. “Fortunately for him. But seriously, Mari, your timing sucks. I can’t deal with this crap now. I’ve got a superstar rock group imploding on me, and you’re bugging me about . . . what, again? I don’t even know. Can we just finish dinner so I can get back and take care of this mess?”