“No. Two very experienced pilots were, actually. Everyone walked away, thanks to them.” I take another sip of coffee. “Did you always know you wanted to be a firefighter?”
He folds his napkin and sets it next to his plate. “No, but it’s a good fit.”
There’s a finality to his tone that pricks my curiosity, but I’m still guarded after his question, so I leave it. “I’m supposed to go to a party tomorrow. Annaleise and her housemates host one every summer and I rarely miss it.” I brought Russel once but after an hour, he disappeared. He said he’d been outside helping get the bonfire started, but I’d looked for him there. At the time, I was annoyed. But after San Diego, I realized it was part of a pattern.
Linden frowns. “I think I got invited to the same party. Guys at the station have been talking it up for weeks.”
One of Annaleise’s housemates is close friends with a firefighter, if I remember right. Small towns. “We could go together.” I realize too late what that sounds like. “Nottogethertogether,” I correct while reaching for my water glass. “but like, together.”
“Right.” His eyes tense and the silence turns awkward.
My pulse taps harder into my throat. Did I overstep?
“I’ll take you, if you want,” Linden says before standing to collect plates and empty mugs.
Crutching around with my throbbing leg might not be my best idea. Annaleise will understand if I bail, though she’s been so busy these past few months, I’ve barely seen her.
“I’ll see how I feel,” I say.
When Linden returns, he sets a scrap of paper and a pen in front of me. “Make me a list of what you need from your place, and I’ll grab it.”
Twenty minutes later, the table cleared and the dishes done, Linden goes to retrieve my things, leaving me alone in his house. There’s a stillness and warmth that I don’t feel in mine. Is it theretro accents in his kitchen or the wood beams that seem to glow? Or the homemade quilt I’ve been curling up with on the couch? And yet, there’s a lack of femininity in the space. Did Linden change things after his divorce? Or did he move here after?
Though I’ve barely been upright today, the tight throbbing in my leg and hip is ratcheting up. I could take a quick shower and lie down, but a long, soothing soak in a bath—beneath a skylight no less—would feel pretty amazing.
I swing over to the stairs.
Chapter Twelve
When I letmyself into Meg’s place, Kody eyes me from the couch. I give him a wary glance as I pass, half expecting him to attack my ankles. But I make it to the stairs without incident.
Meg’s list isn’t long, but when I enter her bedroom, a cold flush washes over my skin.
I should have waited for Greta to help me, because how am I supposed to go through Meg’s things?
Against the right wall, her queen-sized bed is made up with a fluffy lime-green comforter and matching pillows that look professionally plumped up. A plain white cotton quilt is folded lengthwise along the foot of the bed, which faces a white dresser. In the middle of the room, lit by the sun streaming in through the big triangular window, is an off-white sheepskin rug.
I glance at Meg’s hand-scrawled list. She wants shorts, pjs, a fresh t-shirt, and some socks. Underwear isn’t on her list, then I feel like a creep for noticing.
Maybe she doesn’t wear underwear?
Shit.Stop.
I decide to start in the bathroom instead, and retreat to thesmall space that looks like mine when I bought it—built-in shower with a glass enclosure and a slanted tiled wall behind it, toilet straight ahead and sink to the right—except that she’s added some nice touches. There’s a handsome linen shelf topped with a healthy-looking fern and a big candle and fluffy white towels rolled neatly below. She also has an orchid in a shiny ceramic pot on the small sink basin. And an artsy print of what looks like a foreign street market above the toilet. Her hallway displayed similar types of art, maybe from her travels. The way her eyes light up when she talked pops in my mind like a flash bulb. I can’t exactly relate, but I admire her passion.
I load up her shampoo and conditioner, her razor and the bottle of lime-scented shaving cream.
Do not sniff her shaving cream.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, but it just makes the scents from inside her bathroom more memorable. It’s like fresh-squeezed citrus and cherry blossoms all rolled into one. I scan her countertop but don’t see perfume. Could she just smell incredibly good naturally?
I force myself back to the bedroom. She needs the charging cord for her Kindle, but I don’t see it on the nightstand. Squatting down, I spot the outlet behind her bed, but the cord isn’t plugged in. Is it in the bedside table drawer? I slide the top one open an inch and peer in, hoping to snag the cord without having to expose the rest of the drawer’s contents. Still don’t see it.
I’ve officially lost my fucking mind. Who cares if I see her vibrator? It’s not like I’ve never seen one before.
I get up and go to her dresser. Several picture frames decorate the top. One shows Meg and a woman who must be her mom at the ice rink. Meg stands in front, her mom’s hands resting on her narrow shoulders. They’re both tanned from the summer sun and smiling—Meg’s missing both of her front teeth. It’s a casual shot but the love in the simple moment shines through. How did Meg’smom pass away? Was it an illness, like cancer? Or something unexpected, like an accident? Not that it matters—losing a parent is tough.
In another picture, Meg and Quinn are dressed in matching navy blue airline uniform skirts, white dress shirts, and matching pumps, both of them mugging kissy lips at the camera. Another shot is of Meg’s dad on the football field near the end zone, his face lit with joy—a total winning touchdown moment. The final shot is of the Bitterroot Mountains, taken from somewhere up in the high country, maybe on one of her hikes. No pictures of Russet or their wedding day, thank fuck.
