Jessica

I felt an undeniable attraction to Lieutenant Louie DeLuca. Did he feel it, too? Or did he charm all women the way he’d charmed me? Was I reading too much into things? Was I trying to make something bigger out of what was nothing more than a surge of hormones at the sight of a beefy guy in uniform?

Ugh. I had no idea. The only thing I knew for sure was that I’d love to see him again. I had a feeling he’d be an A+ lover. I wouldn’t mind offering him some extra credit. Too bad I don’t have the authority to order him to detention.

Patricia and Tasha were right. It was time for me to stop being a wallflower and put myself back out there. I only hoped I wouldn’t get burned again.

As the children worked at tracing the number seven on today’s handouts, I mulled things over. How could I finagle another face-to-face moment with the hot Italian firefighter?

I could round up Shirazi and call in a report of a cat stuck in a tree. Of course I’d never actually put my cat in a tree where he might be injured trying to climb down. When the firefighters arrived, I’d tell them the cat had climbed down only seconds before. Of course this plan also posed the risks of false reporting. I also wasn’t sure my story would be convincing. Shirazi weighed a good sixteen pounds and didn’t look capable of getting his big fluffy butt up to even the lowest branch.

What to do. What to do . . .

Aha!

If the children wrote thank-you notes to the firefighters, it would give me the perfect excuse to drop by the station to deliver them. Unfortunately, my students only knew the alphabet through the letter G. The only letter in “thank you” that they’d learned so far was the letter A. That wouldn’t get them far. But, as they say, a picture is worth a thousand words, right? They could make drawings as an expression of their gratitude.

Once they’d all finished with their number tracings, I passed out white drawing paper. “Take out your crayons or colored pencils, everyone. The firefighters and paramedic who came to the school this morning to teach us about fire safety did a very nice thing for us. Let’s show them how thankful we are by drawing pictures for them.”

While having the children spend twenty minutes on a drawing might not seem educational, they were learning a lesson in manners and working on their fine motor skills. My love for art was one of the reasons why I wanted to teach young ones. So much of what they needed to learn at this age—the alphabet, the numbers, motor and social skills—could be accomplished through some type of art.

Marshall, a boy with good control of his hands and fingers but little imagination, looked up at me and blinked his blue eyes. “I don’t know what to draw.”

I knelt down next to him. “Let’s think about the assembly,” I said. “What part did you like best?”

He answered without hesitation. “I liked the dog best.”

“Would you like to draw the dog, then?”

He nodded and reached for a yellow crayon that approximated the color of the dog’s fur.

I meandered around the classroom, offering encouragement, praise, and redirection to those distracted by the cardinal perched on the telephone pole outside or the faint shouts coming from the playground. “Let’s keep our eyes on our work, Nathan. Emily, you won’t finish if you don’t focus, okay?”

Once everyone was on task, I returned to my desk where I used colored pencils to draw a quick cartoon caricature of the three firefighters, the paramedic, and Blast. Across the top I wrote: “Thanks for teaching our students about fire safety.” I signed the work with my usual flourish.

The remainder of the day was uneventful, or as uneventful as a day ever is teaching kindergarten. There were the usual skinned knees on the playground, urgent requests for a potty pass, accusations of felony crayon theft. I eyed the clock repeatedly, willing the hands to move faster. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Finally, the end-of-day bell rang. Unfortunately, I had bus duty so I had to spend another ten minutes making sure all of the children got on their buses as efficiently as possible. Hurry up, kiddos! I’ve got places to be and a sexy fireman to see! While I worked the bus line, I kept a close eye out for the Dalmation pup. It wouldn’t be safe for the little thing out here right now. But the dog remained out of sight.

Once the last bus had pulled away from the curb, belching a small cloud of exhaust, I gathered up the drawings, tucked them in my tote bag, and headed to the fire station.

My heart pounded as I pulled into the lot out front and took a parking spot next to a decades-old blue Chevy Nova with orange flames painted down the side. The license plates read KABOOM. Given the plates, my best guess was that the Nova belonged to Lieutenant Rutledge, the bomb squad officer. I wondered which of the other vehicles might belong to Louie. The silver pickup? The black Dodge Charger? The red Juke? I hadn’t noticed the vehicle he’d left the coffee shop in.

I glanced over at the building. The large bay was open. Two people milled about inside, apparently checking inventory on one of the trucks. Neither was Louie.

I turned off my engine and eyed myself in the rearview mirror. A mustache of nervous sweat had formed on my upper lip. Gee, that’s sexy. I grabbed a tissue from the box on the console and dabbed it away. Of course that’s when I noticed my hands were shaking. Coming here was a mistake. I’m not up to this. While I might be ready for dating—movies and dinners and visits to art museums—I was not ready for the intimacy that inevitably followed if there was a connection. I should leave while I still have the chance.

But it was too late. Firefighter Kerrigan had wandered into the bay, spotted me sitting in my car, and was headed toward me.

I rolled down my window and forced a smile, holding out the manila envelope that contained the children’s art and my doodle. “These are for all of you who came out today. They’re thank-you drawings from the students.”

She took the envelope, opened the metal clasp, and pulled out the stack of papers. On top was Bethany’s drawing. It featured a blue-haired figure at the top of a ladder waving a hand.

“Hey!” Frankie beamed. “That’s me!”

“You made quite an impression. Three of the girls in my class have now abandoned their dreams of becoming princesses and plan to attend the fire academy.”

Frankie pumped a fist. “Yasss!”

We shared a laugh.

Frankie put a hand on my windowsill. “Got a minute to come into the station? You can help me hang these in the kitchen.”

A flock of butterflies fluttered wildly in my belly at the thought of seeing Louie inside. But it would be rude to refuse to help her, wouldn’t it? “I’d be glad to,” I said, relieved that my voice didn’t betray my nervousness. I climbed out of the car and followed her into the station.

As we passed the other members of their crew, Frankie provided quick introductions. I glanced surreptitiously around, but saw no sign of Louie. Was he holed up in an office somewhere filling out a report? Maybe in the shower, washing soot and ash from his hard-muscled body? There’s a pleasant image.

But no. Louie was nowhere to be seen as Frankie led me into the kitchen. Blast lay on a doggie bed in the corner, softly snoring. Rutledge sat at a table, reading an issue of Hot Rod magazine and eating a slab of lasagna that looked and smelled delicious.

As he looked up from the page, Frankie raised the envelope. “We’ve got fan mail.”

Rutledge arched a brow in question and Frankie emptied the envelope onto the table in front of him. I helped her spread the drawings out, selecting one that featured Seth and Blast to hand to him.

He took the picture and chuckled. While the young student deserved an A for effort, the proportions were all wrong, the dog towering over his handler and looking more like a Sasquatch than a Labrador retriever. “Can I keep this?” he asked.

I nodded. “It’s all yours.”

He stood and stepped over to the refrigerator, where he secured the drawing to the front with a trio of magnets. Not to be overshadowed, Frankie walked over and posted the drawing of her next to his.

I picked up a drawing of Harrison holding a stethoscope, as well as one that depicted Louie wielding an axe. Braden had drawn the latter one, and for some reason he’d drawn blood dripping from the blade.

“Here are drawings of the others,” I said, holding them out.

Frankie took them from me, looking down at the pages. “Yikes. Why’s there blood on the axe?”

I shook my head. “Sometimes I worry about that kid.”

“I wouldn’t turn my back on him if I were you.” She hung the two drawings on the fridge next to the others.

I helped Frankie post the remaining drawings on the bulletin board next to a menu for a local pizza delivery place and a flyer for a band that was playing this Saturday at a local pub. They called themselves The Imitations and professed to “shamelessly cover disco, soul, funk, and R&B classics.” All the while I wondered where Louie might be in the building, whether we’d cross paths before I left. If we didn’t, this trip would have been for naught.

When we finished hanging the pictures, Frankie offered to walk me out. As we headed toward the front doors, she said, “I can’t wait for Louie to get back. He’ll get a kick out of that axe-murderer drawing.”

“He’s not here?”

“No,” she said. “After he finished making the lasagna he went out for supplies.”

Darn it! My timing stank.

We parted ways outside the front door.

I climbed into my car, closed the door, and sighed. So much for my plan to see Louie again. Looked like I might have to risk pulling an alarm after all.