Too far?
“Oh, hey,” I respond, not sure what I should say after confessing my love for him in the grocery store parking lot and then knocking him out in my apartment. I’ve never been in this situation before.
“Interesting.” Caleb grins and his eyes dance between the two of us. “You’re the hot—”
He’s stopped by a punch to the stomach.
“I’m pretty sure he’s got a concussion,” the female EMT says, giving me a very pointed look.
“What?” Is my voice always that high-pitched?
“It’s not your fault,” Caleb says, to me as well as to the evil-eyed EMT. “He hit his head pretty good at the station.”
And I hit him in the same exact spot.
“I don’t have a concussion,” Ward says, slurring the last word.
“Yeah, okay. Whatever you say, buddy.” Caleb pats Ward’s chest and then motions for the EMTs to continue.
“Wait,” I say, but they don’t stop. “I’m sorry.”
Caleb turns around and shoots me a smile. “Station 22. He’d love to see you again.”
“Now you’re setting me up too?” Ward mutters from the gurney. “I thought we were better friends than that.”
Pfft.Not like I want to date him either. I only just decided Imightbe interested in a relationship. Obviously, I wasn’t going to jump on the first guy I run into.
Caleb winks at me, then looks back at his friend. “I think I know what you need more than you do right now.”
“But I wanted a churro,” Ward whines adorably.
And then they’re gone.
For a moment, I allow myself to pretend that the last ten minutes were nothing but a figment of my imagination. But I’ve never been that creative. Ask my high school English teacher.
“That was fun! Can I call the firemen again?” Crew asks, bringing me back to reality.
“No!” I turn, scanning my now-empty apartment for my lost phone. “Only if there is a real fire.”
He jumps up and down on the couch. “Can we start one?”
“To your room, little man.” Heaven help me with this child.
Six
Lyndi
Myhandsshakearoundthe flimsy cardboard box filled with enough pastries to feed a whole fire station—if said fire station only has ten people. There is a limit to my monetary funds.
Firefighters probably don’t even eat carbs. They have to stay fit to pose for all those calendars. And, like, save people.
I should have just gotten a card. But, surprisingly, there weren’t any “I’m sorry I gave you a concussion” cards in the grocery store. Surely they’d get used more than the “happy pickle day” one I considered getting.
The greeting card industry needs to get their priorities in order.
“It’s my lucky day!” Crew cheers when we step onto the station driveway. “A puddle!” He runs headlong for it, jumping into the small puddle of water with more energy than I possess in a week.
I don’t bother stopping him. Kids and puddles are as inevitable as sunshine in Arizona. Plus, I need more time to gather my apology.
