Heaving a sigh, Remi says, “I’m assumin’, based on you being relatively calm, the fire isn’t huge?”
I shake my head, as if he could see me. “Not yet, but it’s growin’.”
“Okay, good. Grease fires have to be handled a bit differently than a regular fire, but I’ll tell ya what to do.”
Remi keeps talking, but as I watch the flames grow taller, his voice fades away, and my stomach twists in knots. Then it hits me what I need to do—what the firefighters taught us in elementary school…Water!Honestly, that should’ve been my first thought, but clearly, I’m not cut out for pressure in the face of fire. Guess it’s a good thing I stuck with the family ranch instead of following my best buddy to the fire academy after we graduated high school. Swiping the potholder off the counter again, I use it to pick up the skillet by the handle and bring it to the sink. Once I have it under the faucet, I flip on the water just as my ears tune in to the tail end of what Remi’s saying.
“…but whatever you do, donotuse water.”
“Oh, shit!” I sputter, jumping back from the sink as the flames double before I even realize what’s happening.
“Oh shit, what?” Remi bites out.
“Uh,so… may have used a little water.”
“Christ,” he hisses before I hear him call out to somebody in the background.
“It’s spreading,” I state, my pulse racing and mouth dry while I watch in horror as the flames take hold of the curtains above the sink.I fucking knew those goddamn curtains were a bad idea.“Wait— I have a fire extinguisher!”
“Do not!” Remi barks through the line. “Don’t use the fire extinguisher. That’ll be just as bad as the water. We’re on our way, but it’ll take us around five minutes to get there.”
“Okay, what am I supposed to do in the meantime?” I ask, the roughness in my tone giving way to the panic steadily rising in my chest. “Sit here and watch it burn?”
“Do you have any bakin’ soda?”
Thinking for a moment, I say, “Yeah.”
“Good, grab that,” he orders me.
With a shaky hand, I open the cabinet to the left of the stove, finding the little orange box easily. “Got it,” I confirm as I take my place in front of the sink again, waiting for his next instruction.
“Pour a good amount of the baking soda onto the fire, butcarefully.”
“How much of it do I use?” I ask as I do what he said while also trying not to get burned in the process.
“The whole box, probably,” he replies. “I don’t know how much you have, but it takes a lot. If you have a metal lid, you can cover the pan with that when you’re done. The fire should consume all the oxygen and put itself out.”
Emptying the rest of the baking soda from the container, I set it on the counter before searching for a lid. “Metal?” I ask. “It can’t be glass?”
“Glass will shatter,” Remi mutters. “We’re pullin’ into theranch now. Should be at your place in a minute. If you have a metal one, use that. If not, just wait.”
After I grab what I need out of the cabinet, I drop the lid not-so-graciously on top of the skillet in the sink. “Okay, got it,” I confirm, my shoulders relaxing a little as it appears to be working.
The call disconnects, and a moment later, I hear the front door that’s almost never locked—perks of living in the middle of a several-hundred-acre ranch—open, then the sound of heavy footsteps on the hardwood floor. Remi’s the first face I see, followed by Chandler and Sam, two of his co-workers, and Ford, his hot-as-sin captain. They’re done up in full gear, and even though I know there’s bigger fish to fry, I can’t help but drag my gaze as inconspicuously as possible down the length of the sexy, older, and—sadly—very married man standing at the entrance of my kitchen.
Fuck, why must the good ones always be married?
Clearing his throat, my gaze slides forward to Remi, who clearly caught me checking out his boss. A smirk tugs on my lips as I breathe out a chuckle. “Fire’s out,” I offer enthusiastically, gesturing toward the sink. “Curtains ain’t salvageable, though.”
“We’ll take a look at everything in here,” Captain drawls, pulling my attention back to him. A zip of excitement shoots down my spine as I watch his gaze lower before coming back up to my face just as quickly. His thick brows are furrowed, lips pressed into a thin, tight line before he adds, “While you put some clothes on.”
It’s not until the words leave his mouth that it dawns on me that I’m still only wearing a pair of briefs. “Oh, yeah.” I snort. “No problem.”
By the time I get dressed and go back to the kitchen, they’refinished with whatever looking aroundthey needed to do. Ford lectures me on the importance of safety in the kitchen before I walk them out, watching all but Remi file inside the truck—sorry, the “engine,” as Remi never fails to correct me, as if he expects me to remember every last bit of fireman lingo he teaches me.
Patting a hand to my best friend’s shoulder, I say, “Thanks for comin’ out.”
“No problem, man,” he drawls. Arching a brow, Remi adds, “But next time, call 9-1-1 first. If I wouldn’t have been able to answer your call and tell ya what to do, that could’ve ended a hell of a lot worse than it did.”
