Melt For Him(61)

She had nothing to hold on to.

Megan closed her eyes, squeezing them shut. Her mind skittered and raced. When had the fire in the warehouse started? How fast had it moved? How dangerous were the flames? She pictured beams falling, and sparks hissing, and men never coming back out. Her shoulders heaved and thick, salty tears fell. She swiped at her face. Stupid tears. Stupid fate.

Stupid her.

Because as much as her heart lurched for the men in the line of duty, her selfish soul ached, too.

This was some kind of reminder, wasn’t it? This was the life of service, and a man in service was on call twenty-four hours a day. She knew that from her dad, and she knew that from Travis, and she might admire their work to the ends of the earth, but dammit. There was a reason she’d erected walls and set up boundaries.

Because she didn’t want to know how it felt when the walls crumbled down.

This wasn’t about a date interrupted. She could deal with that. What she was afraid of dealing with was the next time, and the next time, and then the time after that when he didn’t come back, and might never come back.

She thought she’d made peace with the random zigs and zags of life. She’d even helped Becker realize that he didn’t have to be beholden to the past. Hell, she believed all she’d said to him that night in the bar when her heart had finally cracked open, right along with his. But that was the problem with letting your heart open. It could hurt like hell.

And right now, it ached. So painfully. The prospect of losing him felt like a knife carving through her chest. She didn’t just care for Becker; she’d fallen so far in such a short amount of time that she didn’t know what she’d do without him. He was a part of her life, a part of her soul, a part of her future. She was terrified of never seeing him again because he meant the world to her now.

She returned to his bedroom, found her purse on the floor, and slung it on her shoulder. The covers on his bed were still messed up, and she latched onto a moment from last night, when he’d held her tight, and she’d felt warm and safe and oh so happy.

She clutched that image in her hands, grasping it. But she couldn’t hold on. The memory slipped away.

She wheeled around, returned to the kitchen, dropped her purse on a chair, and tested the brownies. They were cool, so she sliced them and placed them on a plate, then washed the pan and the mixing bowls.

So domestic, the woman waiting for her man. Like her mom for so many years, waiting for a man who would never return.

Megan hated waiting. She needed to move, to swim, to travel.

She found a piece of paper and a pen in her purse. She started to write a note, to let him know she’d see him soon. But she only got as far as his name. She stared up at the ceiling, cycling through what to say next. As the shadows of the past gripped at her heart, she knew what to say. Because she didn’t want to be the person who waited. If she stayed here, then she’d always be waiting with brownies for him.

With a trembling hand, she wrote a note.

Then she left, hopped on her bike, and rode, drowning out the noises in her head and the guilt in her heart as the wind dried her tears.





Chapter Twenty

Eleven hours later, Becker was dirty, wrung-out, and sore. The fire in the old furniture warehouse had been a vicious one, tearing across the building, all the tables and chairs becoming kindling that fed the flames. More than thirty men from stations all around the county had been called in to battle the blaze, and still it had taken more than half a day to put out the molten beast.

As dusk descended on Hidden Oaks, he pulled into his driveway, cut the engine, and rested his head against the back of the seat. He could barely move. The thought of opening the car door and walking up the front steps felt Herculean. But he’d promised himself that he’d call Megan as soon as he was inside, and the prospect of hearing her voice was all he needed to get his tired body out of the truck.

Just to listen to her for a minute, as he collapsed on the couch and drifted off into sleep, was a balm to his soul, so he held on to that thought as he trudged up to his front door, unlocked it wearily, and yawned once he stepped inside. A yawn that seemed to last for years and threatened to slam his eyelids down. But somehow he made it up his steps as he fumbled through his contacts on his phone, looking for her number. He found it as he walked into the kitchen. He hit dial and waited. Then he noticed a plate of brownies as it rang. And rang. And rang.

There was a note folded in two on top of the brownies. A sense of peace rippled through his bones. She’d left him a note that first night, and she’d kept doing it. It was her thing, and he loved that he was part of something deeply meaningful to her. Her art; the way she expressed herself. He opened it, expecting to see a crazy drawing of a llama wearing a suit and a few clever little lines about seeing him again soon. But instead, he found only words. They looked terribly naked against the white paper without her pictures.