Melt For Him(60)

The worry wasn’t going away, though. It was creeping up on her now, a ghost leaving a cold imprint as it passed by.

“I’ll be here, Megan. I’m not going anywhere,” Becker said softly, as if he’d sensed the knot of fear that had set up camp. She tried to shoo it away by reminding herself that they were in limbo. But she still felt that nagging sense of unease. She’d hoped it would be gone by now, banished forever from her trunk of emotions. Yet there it was, taking some kind of hold anew. It didn’t matter if she was leaving town. Didn’t matter if their love affair ended now. She already cared too much. In seven days, in a month, in a year, whether she was in Portland or New York or Austin or someplace entirely new, she’d still care.

Was it easier to be the one with the dangerous job than the one who loved a man who took those risks? She didn’t know, but her mind was racing into all sorts of debates and arguments that made her body feel cold.

“I think I’m going to jump in the shower,” she said, hoping a few minutes alone under the hot stream of water would calm this new fleet of reckless nerves.

“Mind if I join you?”

“The brownies are going to be done in a few minutes. Can you get them out instead when the timer goes off?” she asked, because she needed to be alone.

“I can do that,” he said and they pulled apart. As he turned into the kitchen, he tapped the on switch on a scanner. “Old habits die hard. Sometimes I just like to listen to what’s going on.”

As she stood under the hot water minutes later, she tried to talk herself down. Remind herself of how far she’d come. She scrubbed her skin, and washed her face, and let the stream of water pound onto her closed eyes. Soon, the tightness in her chest and in her heart started to fade.

As she turned off the water, she heard a loud, sharp sound.

Must have been the timer for the brownies, she figured.

She reached for a towel and dried off, but now there was movement. Footsteps. She heard Becker’s voice. She couldn’t make out the words, but he was talking on the phone. Rushed, but businesslike in tone. Her spine straightened.

Seconds later, there was a knock on the bathroom door, then he opened it.

“I have to go. One of the old furniture warehouses down in Sandy Valley is on fire,” he said.

“But Sandy Valley is thirty miles away. It’s not even your—”

He cut her off. “It’s moving fast. So they’re asking for help. I’ll call you later. I promise.” He cupped her cheeks in his strong hands and pressed a gentle kiss against her forehead. “I promise,” he said again.

He turned and left.

She knew how fire stations worked. Even if another station was called in for backup, only the men on duty went. Becker was choosing to go. He wasn’t even on call, and he was making a choice to jump headfirst into danger.

As she heard the sound of the front door closing, she felt thrown back in time. A little girl again. Left. Scared. Alone. She hated that feeling. Hated it with a deep-seated passion that had been a part of her very makeup her entire life. She bit her lip, doing everything to fight the feeling. She towel-dried her hair. She pulled on her jeans. She grabbed her bra and shirt and shoved them on. Then her boots.

She didn’t know when he’d be back, but she wasn’t going to let the fear paralyze her. She’d simply finish the brownies, then head to her mom’s house. Megan was looking forward to seeing her mom again.

There was a loud beeping sound that startled her. The brownies. She hustled into the kitchen, hunted for a potholder, and opened the oven door. She grabbed the baking pan and placed it on the counter, then considered the brownies from every angle.

Perfect. They looked perfect. She’d let them cool, then cut them into squares, then arrange them on a plate, and leave Becker a nice, loving note. Maybe even draw a little raccoon for him, their mascot. He’d find it when he came home, and it would make him happy, knowing she’d done this for him while he was off fighting a blaze. He’d call her, and she’d finish up whatever she was doing, and she’d grab a change of clothes, come join him, and they’d spend the night together.

Everything would be fine.

She put that word on repeat in her head—fine, fine, fine—as she wandered around his house waiting for the brownies to cool. She needed to keep busy. She headed to the living room, surprised to find there were no framed photos on his mantel, not even of his brother. Then to his living room. There weren’t any magazines on his table, or any books left out that he’d been in the middle of reading. Just his laptop and some printed spreadsheets that were probably from the Panting Dog. Her brief trip through his home revealed more proof that he was a loner with few signs of attachment. His love was his work, right? She returned to the kitchen, plopped down at the table, and thumbed aimlessly through the stack of newspapers.