Kitabı oku: «Charming the Firefighter»

For Hannah Grace.

Welcome to the family!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

EXTRACT

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

PENELOPE DENNING GLANCED behind her, left, then right, then left again. Still alone. She was safe.

Shaking her hips to the Fray’s latest song, which streamed from her laptop, she danced from the pantry to the center island and set down the bottle of olive oil. She wiggled her shoulders and moved side to side to the beat, the tile floor cool under her bare feet. At the catchy chorus, she sang along under her breath.

And Andrew said she couldn’t sing. She may not be in Beyoncé’s league, but Penelope could hold her own against the likes of a few of those American Idol finalists. She was definitely good enough for the church choir, no matter what her son said. It wasn’t as if she’d have to stand in front of the entire congregation under a spotlight, performing solo and, no doubt, sweating and nauseous. She’d be a part of the group.

She sang louder. She’d finally be a part of something. Would have a place where she belonged. Maybe she should audition for the choir.

Unless Andrew was right. In which case she’d simply make a fool of her—

Something creaked. Penelope froze, the tiny hairs on the back of her neck standing on end, the tune dying in her throat.

She turned, her chest tight with trepidation. Only to exhale heavily to find the room still empty.

Oh, thank goodness.

She was being paranoid, that was all. But she stopped shimmying and two-stepping. Sang silently with only her foot tapping.

No sense tempting fate. If Andrew caught her dancing around the kitchen, he’d undoubtedly give her one of the smirks he’d perfected over the past two years. Then flay her with some sarcastic comment, one meant to hurt her. To anger her.

She hated to admit how often he was successful.

But not today, she assured herself, layering circles of fresh mozzarella and thick slices of tomato on a rectangular white plate. Today there would be no drama. No arguing. None of the angst, heartache or soul-crushing doubts that came with raising a teenager.

All she wanted was one day where she and her son weren’t at each other’s throats. Where they spent time together—in the same room—conversing and, perhaps, even laughing a few times. One measly day where she wasn’t the bad guy who’d ruined his life.

And he wasn’t an ungrateful, mouthy brat.

Surely that wasn’t too much to ask for.

She checked the caprese salad with a critical eye. Gently patted the tomato and cheese slices together so they lined up perfectly—two neat rows alternating white and red, each layer set exactly halfway on top of the one before it. Exactly. She wiped her hands on a clean towel, then drizzled a thin stream of olive oil over the dish.

The midday sun shone brightly through the dining room’s huge windows, illuminating the dust mites dancing in the air. One reason she’d bought the house, a midsize Victorian that had been remodeled, was the open floor plan. The entire first floor flowed, from one room to the other—foyer to living room, living room to dining room, and dining room to kitchen. She liked the sense of roominess. Of freedom.

After spending too much of her life cooped up in hospital rooms, waiting rooms and doctors’ offices, all she wanted was space. Space to stretch out. To move around.

Space to breathe.

A warm end-of-summer breeze ruffled the lacy curtain adorning the window above the sink and brushed against the back of her neck. Shutting her eyes, she inhaled deeply. Held it, just...held it in her lungs, the clean scent of the fresh air, the pungent aroma of olives and basil. Feeling this satisfied, this content, was all too rare. At least, it had been rare for her.

Might as well soak it in while it lasted.

She exhaled—mainly because she had no other choice, not if she wanted to keep living. She tore the top off the small bunch of basil on the cutting board, rolled the leaves up and began slicing. That sense of peace and contentment was fleeting. Life was too fluid. Always changing, always shifting, moment to moment, milestone to milestone.

She couldn’t do anything about those shifts taking her in new directions, those moments fading into the past, the milestones passing.

It was so annoying.

But what she could do was control how she responded to being set off course. She’d moved to Shady Grove to give her and Andrew a fresh start. It’d taken a while—going on eight months—but they’d finally settled in this small town so far away from everything they’d known. Everyone they’d known.

A fact Andrew never let her forget.

It hadn’t been an easy transition. There had even been times when she’d considered giving up and moving back to California.

If only to stop her son’s complaining.

In the end, she’d held firm and, more important, had stood by her decisions. Hooray for her. Hand over that shiny gold star, because she’d persevered against Andrew’s miserable attitude and constant griping.

This parenthood thing wasn’t for sissies, that was for sure.

She did her best to keep her son safe and healthy. Made sure they commemorated his milestones, no matter how small or insignificant, from getting his braces off to his voice cracking before it deepened to passing his driver’s test. Every stage of childhood, every rite of passage of adolescence, was cause for celebration.

For too long she’d worried he’d never get—

Clang! Clang!

She glanced up, just to make sure the weights Andrew was lifting—and dropping with such careless abandon—didn’t crash through the ceiling onto her head.

There was more clanging followed by a loud thump, which had her praying he hadn’t dinged the hardwood flooring.

Again.

Pressing her lips together, she carried the salad to the fridge and tucked it alongside the heaping bowl of fresh-cut fruit. She wouldn’t worry about the floor. She’d ignore the fact that she’d told him, at least one hundred times, not to drop his weights.

How hard could it be to set the dumb things down gently?

That was what her life had come to. Ignoring the parts she couldn’t control, couldn’t fix. Andrew constantly texting, even during dinner. His spending most of his time in his bedroom. How he took three showers a day—and there was no way she was even going to think about why, or what he was doing in there for so long. His new fixation with lifting weights and getting—as she’d overheard him tell one of his friends—cut, when he should be focusing on his schoolwork.

And, of course, his surliness, rudeness and out-and-out bad attitude.

The joys of motherhood. Someone should have warned her about this.

Not that she’d change anything, she assured herself quickly, kneeling to retrieve her favorite serving platter from a lower cupboard. Her son was going through a stage. A two-year-long stage that seemed to have no end in sight.

But that was all right. She could handle it. Andrew was fine. Not quite happy, but that would come in time. There were more important things than happiness. Security. Safety.

He was healthy and that was most import—

Clang!

She reared up, whapping the top of her head against the counter. Her vision blurred and tears filled her eyes. She fell onto her butt with a thud. Rubbed the spot and prayed like mad those tiny stars circling her head weren’t real.

When the dizziness passed, she gingerly climbed to her feet. She wouldn’t yell, she thought, as she carefully climbed the narrow staircase leading from the kitchen to the second floor. She’d approach him calmly. Rationally. Explain why he needed to be more careful.

She knocked on his door. Behind it metal clanged. He grunted in exertion.

It sounded like torture.

“Andrew?” she called, knocking again, making sure to keep her tone friendly and pleasant, as if she wasn’t sporting a possible concussion due to his negligence. “Honey, could you open the door?”

Nothing. Her eyes narrowed. She widened them, blinked a few times. No. She wasn’t going to get upset. Wasn’t going to jump to conclusions. For all she knew, he hadn’t heard her.

His next doctor’s appointment, though, she would make sure his hearing was checked.

Using the side of her fist, she pounded on the wood. “Andrew!”

No matter how hard she glared at the door, it remained shut.

She tried the handle. Locked. She jiggled it, frustration building. Still locked.

There was only one thing to do, one surefire way to get his attention. She pulled her cell phone from her shorts pocket and sent him a text.

Open the door. Now.

Andrew could, and often did, ignore her. Her insights and opinions, her attempts at civil conversation and questions about his thoughts, his feelings.

But he never ignored his phone.

A moment later, the door opened and her son—her sweaty, disheveled son, the child who used to look up to her with such adoration in his eyes—scowled down at her. Yes, down at her because, thanks to a growth spurt last year, he now towered over her by a good six inches.

He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. “What?”

Her mouth tightened. Her head pounded. Then again, dealing with her son usually left her with a headache, pondering where she’d gone wrong.

“Take out your earbuds,” she said slowly, over-enunciating each word in case he’d suddenly learned how to read lips.

His frown deepened. “What?” he shouted.

She jabbed her fingers at her own ears, mimed pulling something out.

With an eye roll, he pulled the earbud from his left ear. Half his attention was better than nothing at this point. “What do you want?”

Her entire body stiffened. She wouldn’t lose her cool. She would not lose her—

Oh, who was she kidding?

“The first thing I want,” she said in a mom voice guaranteed to let him know he was messing with no ordinary mortal, “is for you to speak to me civilly and politely.”

Another eye roll.

How on earth had her well-behaved, sweet boy turned into this...this...closing-in-on-six-foot, shaggy-haired, sarcastic, ill-mannered man-child?

And what did she have to do to get the old kid back?

“Really?” she asked, crossing her arms. “No apology?”

He turned, walked to the weight bench in the corner, laid back, and started pumping a barbell up and down. Up and down.

Stubbornness was just one of the new, and many, unattractive traits he’d acquired and perfected since puberty hit him full force.

She stepped into his room and wrinkled her nose at the scents of stale sweat, dirty socks and only God knew what else. Maybe it was a good thing he kept the door shut all the time.

Holding her breath, she crossed to the window, stepping over a pile of clothes she knew darn well had been clean and neatly folded two hours ago. Mainly because she was the one who’d washed, dried and folded them.

She opened the window. “I guess you’ve had enough of your phone privileges then.”

Privileges he’d just gotten back after she’d shut off his account for the past two weeks thanks to his smart mouth.

Some days she felt more like a parole officer than a mother.

He set the weights on the support bar with a clang, his face flushed, either from exertion or irritation. Heaven forbid he actually be embarrassed or ashamed of his behavior.

“Sorry,” he muttered, already moving on to bicep curls, his elbow resting on his knee as he pumped the weight with slow, deliberate movements.

She smiled. A small, forgiving smile, though his apology was halfhearted at best. Forgive and forget—her life motto.

“It’s okay,” she said, but he kept his head lowered, eyebrows drawn together in concentration, lips moving as he counted his repetitions.

He’d changed, and more than his personality. The raging hormones she blamed for his bad attitude had also broadened his shoulders, deepened his voice. His face, a blending of her features and those of his father’s, had lost its roundness. His hair was darker—nearer in shade to her own than the sandy-blond he’d had as a grade-schooler—and badly in need of a trim. He was a tall, darkly handsome, soon-to-be-cut young man.

God save her when the teenage girls started coming around in earnest.

She picked up three clean shirts and carried them to his closet. “Why don’t you jump in the shower?” she asked, shaking the wrinkles out of the first shirt before placing it on a hanger. “I’m about to put the burgers on the grill so we can eat in half an hour.”

“I’m not hungry,” Andrew said, sweat sliding from his hairline down the side of his forehead.

Yuck.

She hung the shirt, then slid a hanger into the next one. “You’re always hungry.”

It was the main reason her grocery bill surpassed the gas, electric and cable bills combined.

With a shrug she had no idea how to take, he switched hands and started doing reps on that side. “I’m eating at Luke’s.”

She blinked. Blinked again. Kept the smile on her face. “Why would you eat at Luke’s?”

“He invited me over. His family’s having a picnic.”

“So are we. I made all your favorites. Taco dip and potato salad.” Both with light versions of sour cream and mayonnaise instead of nonfat. For him. Because he claimed the nonfat tasted like crap, which wasn’t even true. “And brownie sundaes for dessert. With whipped cream. I even got bacon for the burgers.”

He snorted. “Turkey bacon. Tastes like shit,” he said under his breath.

But loud enough that she could hear.

She pretended otherwise. “Real bacon.” She’d read it was better to use that instead of turkey bacon, which often had more additives.

He eyed her suspiciously, his blue eyes—his father’s eyes—narrowed. “Real burgers? From a cow?”

Full-fat beef burgers? Did he have any idea how bad all that grease was for him? “Turkey burgers. They taste just as good.”

“No. They don’t.” He switched sides again, didn’t bother looking at her. “Like I said, I’ll eat at Luke’s.”

“But I want you to eat here. With me.”

“No, thanks.”

She squeezed the shirt in her hand. She’d made a trip into Pittsburgh yesterday to get all the ingredients she needed to have a special picnic for the two of them. A trip that had taken all afternoon, which meant she’d had to stay up late to finish the laundry and housework, not to mention that profit-and-loss statement for work. She’d spent the morning cooking and baking, wanting nothing more than to enjoy a leisurely, pleasant Labor Day. With her son.

And all he had to say to her was no, thanks?

She didn’t think so.

“You’re eating here,” she told him, her tone brooking no argument—though that never stopped him before. “With me. We’ll eat, play some board games or maybe watch a movie. It’ll be fun.”

It would be like it used to between them. Before he started hating her.

His expression darkening, he stood. Let the weight drop to the floor. “I want to go to Luke’s.”

“I understand that,” she said, letting him know she heard him. That she was taking his wants and needs into account. Just as the therapist she and her ex-husband, Todd, had seen for marriage counseling had taught her. Not that it had worked out so well—they’d separated a month after their last session—but at least she’d learned a few valuable tools for dealing with conflict.

“After we eat,” she told Andrew, “you can go over there for an hour or so.”

See? That was completely reasonable. Completely rational and, if she did say so herself, a very nice compromise.

“Everyone will be gone by then!”

So much for trying to meet him halfway. No good deed and all that.

“I want to spend the day with you,” she said. “We hardly ever see each other.”

“That’s not my fault. You’re the one always working.”

“That’s a bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think? It’s not as if I spend every waking moment at the office. I’d say the bigger issue is that we’re on opposite schedules.” When he wasn’t bussing tables at Wix’s Diner in the evenings, he was hanging out with his new friends.

Andrew tossed up his hands. “But I already told Luke I’d come over.”

“I guess the next time you’ll wait until you have permission before you make plans. Especially on a holiday.”

“It’s not Christmas,” he grumbled.

He stared at her, all resentment and anger. The dark stubble covering his sharp jaw and chin mocked her, sparse though it was. A visible reminder that he wasn’t a little boy anymore.

That he no longer needed her or, it seemed, wanted her around. Ever.

When she looked at him, love swamped her. Threatened to drown her.

And he looked right through her as if he wished she were already gone.

His phone buzzed. He grabbed it from the bed and checked the screen. “It’s Luke. He says I can come over whenever I want.”

Luke Sapko was a good kid. A nice kid.

Actually, he was nicer—and certainly more polite—to her than her own son was. The thought left her feeling guilty and inadequate.

Maybe she was too hard on Andrew. Maybe she wasn’t hard enough. She had no idea. All she knew was it shouldn’t be this difficult. It wasn’t rocket science, for goodness’ sake. By all accounts, humans had been raising children for two hundred thousand years. Surely she could guide her own son into adulthood. She had only two more years to go.

“Come on, Mom,” Andrew whined. Funny how he could look like a grown man—or pretty darn close to it—and still act like a five-year-old. “A bunch of the guys are going. I don’t want to be the only one stuck at home.”

She winced. Stuck at home. Guess that summed up how he felt about spending a few hours in her company.

She tried not to take it personally. “Andrew, I—”

“Please?”

The rest of what she intended to say dried in her throat. Please. There was a word she didn’t hear from him often.

He was working her. Or trying to. She knew it. He probably even knew she knew it. But he didn’t care as long as he got his way.

She found herself softening. Luke was the first friend Andrew had made since moving here, and she didn’t want her son to miss out on a chance to interact with his peers. Not when he actually seemed excited to be doing something in Shady Grove instead of complaining about how the kids were all small-town hicks, the weather was too cold and the beach too far away.

Maybe this was a step in the right direction. A sign that Andrew was finally settling into his new life.

And maybe she was just sick and tired of arguing with the boy.

“Fine,” she said, though she sounded as if it was anything but. Since she’d wrinkled his clean shirt, she tossed it over her shoulder to iron later. “You can go. But I want you home by nine.”

His triumphant grin collapsed. “Nine? I’m sixteen.”

“I’m well aware of how old you are, Andrew. I did give birth to you. And yes, nine. Tonight’s a school night.” He’d started his junior year at Shady Grove High last week. “I don’t want a repeat of what happened last year with your grades.”

“Whatever,” he mumbled, as if she hadn’t given in to him. As if he couldn’t care less that his grades last semester showed a marked lack of effort.

He sent a text, his fingers flying over the buttons.

Used to be a time when she could brush his hair back, make him smile and laugh. Those days were deader than her marriage vows.

“I’m gonna shower,” he said, tugging off his sweaty shirt. He dropped it on the floor—two feet from his clothes hamper.

With a grimace, Penelope picked it up by the hem, the fabric pinched between her thumb and forefinger. “Do you have some sort of genetic defect that stops you from putting your clothes where they belong?” she asked, tossing the shirt into the wicker basket. “Or do you leave them scattered all over simply because you know it bothers me?”

“That’s just a side benefit.” And he rapped out a da dum dum on his dresser.

A joke? Wow. Give the kid his way and suddenly he was a comedian. She turned. Her smile froze, her breath locked in her lungs. The safe, secure world she’d worked so hard to build for them shifted, leaving her thoughts tumbling.

No. Please, God, not again.

“Andrew,” she wheezed on an exhale, and worked to keep her voice calm as she closed the distance between them. Focused on clearing her expression. No sense worrying him. Not when she wasn’t sure what was going on. “What happened to your back?”

He glanced over his shoulder. “What do you mean?”

“You...you have a bruise.” Clearing her throat, she lightly touched his lower back, to the right of his spine. “Here.”

Turning to the mirror, he twisted so he could see what she was talking about. He shrugged. “I must’ve bumped into something.”

“I think you’d remember bumping into something hard enough to leave that big of a mark.” It was at least the size of her fist, the center a dark purple, the outer edges bleeding into yellow. “Do you...do you have any other bruises?”

Another shrug. “Not that I know of.”

But he had this one. One he’d seemingly been unaware of. Fear rose in her throat, threatening to choke her. “Do your joints hurt? Have you noticed being more tired lately? Have you been getting headaches?”

He rolled his eyes. “No, no and yes. Right now. A big one.”

“Not funny,” she murmured. This was serious. Couldn’t he see that? Spinning him around, she searched his body for more bruises. His appetite was still strong and he’d put on weight, not lost it. She reached up to check the lymph nodes in his neck.

He jerked away. “Jesus! Knock it off. I’m not sick again.”

“I know you’re not,” she said quickly, as if her words alone could make the statement fact. But she’d already learned the hard way that all the wishing, hoping and praying in the world couldn’t change what was. She tried to smile. “But I’ll make an appointment with Dr. Franklin tomorrow to—”

“I’m not going to the doctor.” He stabbed his fingers through his hair, making the strands stand on end. “Look, the truth is, I didn’t bump into something. I got it playing dodgeball in gym the other day.”

Relief made her knees weak. Her head light. He wasn’t sick. The leukemia hadn’t come back.

Thank God.

But he had been hurt. Could have been injured even worse. What if he’d been hit in the head and gotten a concussion?

“No school district should be allowing a game like that to be played in gym class,” she said, her fury and indignation growing. “First thing in the morning I’m going to call the school—”

“That’s why I didn’t want to tell you! I knew you’d freak out about it and it’s nothing. It doesn’t even hurt. And the last thing I need is you making it into some big deal.” He yanked open a drawer, grabbed a pair of socks and underwear, then shoved it closed hard enough to shake the dresser. “It’s a bruise. Not the end of the world. Not cancer. So don’t even think about calling and bitching out the gym teacher, because I’m the one who’ll have to take a bunch of shit if you do!”

He stormed out of the room, across the hall and into the bathroom. Slammed the door shut as if to punctuate his little tantrum.

She hunched her shoulders. Bit her lower lip. A moment later, the shower started.

He didn’t understand that she was simply doing her job as his mother. He resented everything she did for him. The healthy food she prepared, the doctor appointments she dragged him to, the tests and blood work. Even a simple question about how he was feeling set him off.

She worked so hard to keep him safe. Healthy.

And all it did was make him mad. But she was the one who suffered. She had to live with him, had to deal with him, day in and day out. His choices, actions and rotten, disrespectful, ungrateful attitude were her problems.

She just prayed they weren’t her fault.