Charming the Firefighter Read online

  “Have coffee with me,” he murmured, his tone husky. “Just as friends.”

  That brought her out of her reverie. “Friends?”

  He straightened, gave her that lethal grin. “You look like you could use a friend.”

  God, was she that pathetic? That easy to read? “I don’t have friends,” she blurted, feeling inept and silly.

  His eyebrows shot up. “Everyone has friends.”

  “I mean...of course I’ve had friends.” The rare, cherished companionship of another woman. Never a man. And she sounded like a complete idiot. “But not since I got married. Not since I had Andrew.”

  Not since he’d become sick. All of her attention and energy went into his well-being, into getting him healthy.

  Leo straightened. “Then I’d say it’s time you changed that. Come to practice Thursday and after, we’ll grab a bite to eat. Drew can join us.”

  She didn’t know what to say. She knew what she should say. She should thank him politely and refuse his offer. But she could use a friend, and she was often on her own. She was lonely. And here a gorgeous, charming man wanted to spend time with her.

  In this, at least, she could say yes to him. She could be his friend. She smiled and realized it felt odd, as if she hadn’t done it in much too long. “Okay. Yes. That sounds fun.”

  He winked and headed down the porch stairs. “See you then.”

  She was already looking forward to it.

  * * *

  ANDREW QUIETLY SHUT the back door. Not that his mom would hear him or care that he was outside. She might wonder what he was doing on the deck when it was this late and so cold out. If she asked, he’d just tell her he’d needed some fresh air. He’d bring up his time in the hospital, remind her of how desperate he used to get to be outside, if even only for a few minutes.

  She’d back off then, stop asking him so many questions.

  He wasn’t mad about it. For once, he didn’t feel pissed. He’d gotten his way, after all, was back on the team and his mom was on board. For now. That could change, he knew, but he’d do everything he could to make sure she let him play football.

  A light went on in the house next door, in one of the upper rooms, and his breath caught in his lungs. A shadow went by. Was it Gracie? Not that he cared, he assured himself. She was too nerdy for him. She wasn’t even close to being as pretty as Kennedy or Estelle.

  The shadow walked by the window again and stopped, and the curtain opened. He quickly grabbed his guitar and bent his head over it like he was concentrating on the chords when, in truth, he knew them all by heart and rarely had to look at his hands. He stopped strumming, his heart racing, then chanced a glance up again.

  Gracie. She waved. He nodded and began to play, messed up a set of chords, and started over.

  When he looked up again, she was gone. His shoulders lowered in disappointment. Not that he wanted to see her or anything. He’d come out here for the air and to play guitar, even though his strumming sounded harsh and discordant.

  He looked at the window again. Dark. His room was on the other side of the house so he couldn’t see her room from it. Not that he wanted to spy on her or anything creepy like that. Though in all the movies and TV shows the neighbors—if they were boy/girl—always had bedrooms facing each other. They would come and go into each other’s houses, usually through their bedroom windows.

  Weird.

  He played, his fingers clumsy and cold. He hadn’t picked up his guitar in months, had stopped when he’d started playing football, started being friends with Luke and Kennedy. Yet for some reason, he felt like playing tonight. He’d missed it.

  His phone buzzed. A message from Kennedy, a friendly, chatty one, nothing flirtatious. Nothing suggesting she wanted to be anything other than friends.

  “I didn’t know you played.”

  He froze and glanced at Gracie. Her hair was pulled back and she wore tight bright blue yoga pants and a huge tie-dye T-shirt that made her chest look even bigger.

  He set the phone aside. Cleared his throat. “A little.”

  “Cool.” She sat on the deck step, tucked her feet under her and smiled at him. “It’s nice. Hearing you play. Much better than my brother banging on his drums. I told Molly it was a mistake to get him a drum set. She should have made him stick with the trumpet. At least it was small enough I could hide it. He’d look for days before he’d find it.”

  “You hid your brother’s trumpet? Did you get in trouble?”

  “Not really. My parents don’t believe in punishing us unless it’s for something major like grand theft auto or murder.”

  He couldn’t imagine not getting into trouble. Yeah, it was a relatively new thing—when he had been a kid, he’d never gotten yelled at or grounded. Probably because he’d been such a kiss-ass, always trying to keep his parents happy, to make up for worrying them by getting sick, taking up so much of their time and attention.

  Though he liked to believe it was his mom’s fault for leaving his dad, Andrew knew he was the real reason they had gotten divorced.

  He strummed a series of chords. “Must be nice,” he said. “Not having to worry about getting into trouble for anything.”

  She laughed, a surprisingly deep, husky sound, so different from the high-pitched giggles of most of the girls their age. “Believe me, there’s plenty about being their daughter that makes up for not getting into trouble.”

  “Yeah? Like what?”

  “Like them popping out a kid—and in the case of the twins, two of them—every two years like clockwork. Or Molly making a scene in the grocery store because they don’t carry organic kale...or making us kale chips and thinking it’s some sort of treat.”

  “Your family is so weird.”

  He hadn’t meant to say that, but she didn’t look offended. “I guess. Though I prefer to think of us as unique. We don’t follow the crowd and I like that. Sometimes being different doesn’t mean you’re weird or a freak. Sometimes it just means you’re different.”

  “I heard your brother practicing his drums,” Andrew said, wanting to change the subject. “You’re right. He sucks.”

  She shivered and hugged her arms around herself. “It doesn’t matter. He’ll eventually get bored and move on to something new. Hopefully something that doesn’t make the dogs freak out so much.”

  “You have more than Sauron?”

  “We have three. Sauron, Mickey and Bear—who’s actually the smallest.”

  “They don’t like music?”

  “They’re scared of loud noises, especially Sauron. The drums, fireworks, things like that.”

  He strummed some more, then set down the pick and began plucking out a song with his fingers. “My mom says dogs are too much work.”

  “She’s right, but they’re, like, part of our family so I can’t imagine not having them. I mean, the kids are a lot of work, too, but that doesn’t stop my parents from having more.”

  Maybe that’s why his parents hadn’t had any more kids. Because he was too much work, especially after he got sick. He played a song, a popular dance tune.

  Gracie grinned. “I like that song better your way. Makes it sound less frantic than the original version.”

  Pleasure suffused him, but he pushed it aside. It didn’t matter to him what she thought or what she liked. Still, he found himself playing another song, enjoying sitting out in the cool night with her. She did look chilled and he should offer her his sweatshirt, but he didn’t want to give her the wrong idea, didn’t want her to think he was into her or anything, though he was pretty sure she had a thing for him.

  It made him feel good, knowing a girl had a crush on him, even if it was dorky Gracie from next door.

  “My mom is letting me stay on the football team,” he told her, wanting to celebrate with someone, telling himself it was because she was available even though he could easily tell Kennedy. But for some reason, he didn’t feel like texting Kennedy tonight. Didn’t want to have some stupid, useless
conversation about nothing. Or, worse, about how Luke had promised once he’d quit the hockey team last year that they’d spend more time together but now he was all into football and back to ignoring her.

  It was so much work, trying to think of things of say, topics to discuss that didn’t make him sound like a loser. He worried about every word, how she would take it, how it made him look.

  He didn’t have those worries with Gracie. Probably because he didn’t want to sleep with her.

  “Yeah?” Gracie asked. “That’s nice.”

  “Nice? I thought you’d be more excited.”

  “I don’t understand your fascination with the sport, to be honest. It seems like a bunch of guys running and bumping into each other, trying to get some ball. And is it even a ball? I mean, it’s not round. Think about it.”

  He did, then realized he actually was thinking about whether a football qualified as a ball and shook his head to clear it. “There’s more to it than just running into the other team. There’s skill in calling and running the plays. There’s athleticism in avoiding a tackle. And there’s being smart about the game. Take Peyton Manning, for instance. He’s always studying the strategy, always learning and improving. It’s as much mental as it is physical.”

  She was staring at him, and his face warmed. He sounded like an idiot. “Wow,” she said. “It’s cool that you’re so into it. I didn’t mean any disrespect or anything. I’m all for everyone having their own thing, marching to the beat of their own drum, you know?”

  He nodded, relieved that she got it. “Anyway, I like playing. It’s fun.”

  “Then that should be a good enough reason to keep doing it, don’t you think? Most people don’t concern themselves with what’s fun or what feels good to them. They’re too worried about how they come across, what other people think of them.”

  “Is that how you feel?” he heard himself ask. “Like others are judging you?”

  She laughed. “I know they are. I get it all the time. People comment on how I dress, how my family lives.”

  “You could always, you know, pick out different clothes.”

  “I could,” she said slowly. “But why should I? I’m not trying to prove anything or be different for the sake of being different. I’m being myself. People are either going to like you or not. You can’t spend too much time worrying about which one it’s going to be. Besides, I know plenty of people who dress the so-called right way, act how they think they should, say and do what others are saying and doing, and they still aren’t accepted, not really.”

  That was his fear. That his friends would see behind his facade and he’d no longer be accepted.

  “I think life’s a little easier when you’re part of the group,” he said. “I’ve been on the outside, been different, and being accepted, normal, is much better.”

  “As long as you’re being true to yourself, it shouldn’t matter what other people think. I do believe, though, there are plenty of people who are part of the group because being normal—to use your term for it—is just who they are. They’re not pretending to be something or someone they’re not.” She stood and stretched, causing her shirt to rise, giving him a glimpse of her stomach. It wasn’t completely flat like Kennedy’s, but his mouth went dry seeing that flash of pale skin, the slight slope of her belly. “I’d better get home. I still have to finish reading for English.”

  He didn’t want her to go, but wasn’t sure how to get her to stay without sounding pathetic. “What are you reading?”

  “To Kill a Mockingbird. Have you read it?”

  He nodded. “Two years ago. It’s pretty good.”

  “Yeah, I’m enjoying it, though Lord of the Flies is still my favorite assigned-for-school book.”

  He didn’t know any girls who liked Lord of the Flies. Then again, when he’d read it in middle school, he’d only been to class half the time and hadn’t had the nerve to talk to a lot of girls. “Have you read Animal Farm?” She shook her head. “It’s pretty good,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant. “It’s about how these animals take over their farm and how the power changes them.”

  “I’ll have to get it,” she said. “By the way, I like your song.”

  He stopped playing. “What do you mean?”

  She nodded toward his guitar. “The song you were just playing. It’s one of yours, isn’t it? I’ve heard you practicing out here before when you first moved in and I recognized it.”

  How had she known it was his? He ducked his head. “It’s just something I’ve been fooling around with.”

  “It’s good. Really good.” She leaned close to him and his heart about stopped. “Don’t worry,” she whispered. “I won’t tell anyone the newest jock is a songwriter.”

  She straightened and gave a little wave, the bright, full moon casting a golden glow over her hair. He watched her walk all the way to her house, told himself it was to make sure she got there safely, but really it was because he liked looking at her. Liked talking to her. Liked listening to her.

  And when he lay in bed that night, he didn’t think of Kennedy and her confusing texts, didn’t remember Estelle and what it had been like to kiss her.

  He thought about Gracie and how her hair looked in the moonlight.

  * * *

  PENELOPE SIMPLY DID not get it.

  At football practice Thursday afternoon, she watched her son and the other members of the team out on the field. She had a hard time following what they were doing, which mostly seemed like running into each other, though at times, a tall boy with the number 12 on his helmet would throw the ball.

  More often than not, the throw would make its way to Andrew. He caught almost every one, diving or sliding on the ground or leaping into the air if need be. He did whatever it took, it seemed, to catch that ball, then he’d run like mad toward the end of the field.

  He was having a good time, and she supposed if catching the ball and running fast meant he was good at the sport, then he must be excellent.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  Shading her eyes, she looked up to see the same elderly gentleman who’d been outside Leo’s office Monday when she’d first discovered Andrew was playing football. “Of course not.”

  She shifted over and he sat on the hard metal bleacher. Held out his hand. “Leo Montesano.”

  She blinked, shook his hand. “There’s another one?”

  Her face warmed. Well, she hadn’t meant to say that. Must be something in the air in Shady Grove that had her blurting out whatever thought came to mind. She didn’t used to be that way. She would say only what she should, what was necessary and polite. After she’d thought it through carefully, of course.

  He grinned and yes, she could definitely see Leo in the sparkle in his dark eyes, the charming smile. “The original one.” He winked and she could easily imagine Leo at this man’s age, except she hoped he trimmed his eyebrows. “The other Leo is my grandson. You can call me Big Leo or Pops.”

  She didn’t point out that Big Leo didn’t really suit him as he was a good six inches shorter than his grandson. But she imagined when his family had named Leo after him, he’d seemed big compared to his grandson. “It’s so nice to meet you, Mr. Montesano.”

  Because there was a certain way of doing things and there was no reason to change that or to be anything less than perfectly polite and respectful.

  And because she could never call him, or anyone, Pops.

  “That’ll do, too,” he said, not offended in the least. He nodded toward the field where the boys were in two separate circles. They clapped once, then lined up against each other. “Your boy’s a natural.”

  “That’s what I’ve been told,” she murmured. “I know nothing about football so I’m afraid I can’t judge his abilities.”

  “It’s a pretty simple game once you get the hang of it. Each team has the ball for a series of downs or tries. That’s when they’re on offense. During those four tries they have to move the ball at least ten yards.
So when the first try starts, it’s first and ten. Each successive down you take away how many yards they gained.” A chubby boy in the center tossed the ball under his legs to number 12 who caught it and ran a few yards. “See that? He got three yards so now it’s second and seven. Second down—or try—and seven yards to go. Once you reach ten yards, your tries restart and you’re back to four tries.”

  It was still a bit confusing, but she thought she could follow it better now. “That makes sense.” In a weird, two steps forward, three steps back way. Men. Why couldn’t they invent games that were simple and logical? “Thank you.”

  “There’s plenty more to it than that, but if you start with those basics, you’ll catch on pretty quickly. And if you have any questions, you let me or that grandson of mine know.”

  She smiled at him, feeling comfortable in his easy presence. “I appreciate the help.” Andrew got tackled and she tensed, her fingers curling into her thighs.

  “He’s okay,” Mr. Montesano murmured, patting her hand. “See?”

  He was right. Her son wasn’t broken and bleeding on the ground. He sprang to his feet, hit the kid who’d knocked him down on the side of the helmet, though not in an aggressive way.

  “I’m nervous,” she admitted, then laughed. “But you already know that.”

  “Leo mentioned you might be, so he asked me to come sit with you, see how you were holding up.”

  He had? She sought him out, saw him on the sidelines, once again wearing a ball cap, his broad shoulders stretching the material of his sweatshirt. “That was...thoughtful of him.”

  Thoughtful. Kind. He was kind, she realized. Behind that devil-may-care grin and that charming glint in his eyes was a very caring soul.

  “He’s a good boy,” Mr. Montesano said. “Takes after his grandfather.”

  She laughed. “It’s nice you two are coaching the team together.”

  Mr. Montesano leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “He’s just being nice to an old man, letting me hang around, giving my two cents when they aren’t wanted or needed. Doesn’t stop me from giving them, though. It’s fun, being around him and the kids. They’re a great group of boys. Do you know many of them?”