In Love With The Firefighter. Amie Denman

when she and her boss, Bryan, at the furniture plant were just flirting. Flirting has the potential for danger, but she told herself it was harmless. She ran his human resources department and online sales accounts, was flattered when he asked her to sit next to him at meetings and enjoyed an occasional lunch on his dime. It was a nice distraction.

      Until they’d traveled for business and she ended up in his hotel room. The match was struck and burned hotly for about a week. Then it fizzled, and they both discovered there was no fuel left. The cold ashes remaining would make it impossible for her future with Bryan as a boss.

      Jane happened to call to say hello at just the right time. Nicole told Jane about the big office mistake and the downward career spiral she was now being flushed along. And Jane begged Nicole to leave Indianapolis behind, swearing she needed someone with a head for business. Getting away from her work, Bryan, her memories, was such a tempting offer, Nicole couldn’t refuse.

      But she’d worried every day in the weeks since—as she’d finished out her lease, given her notice and packed her things—that Jane was only being nice. Being a friend. That she didn’t need a business manager any more than Nicole needed another pair of shoes.

      “I know what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong,” Jane said, scrutinizing Nicole. “I really need your help. I have big plans to take my painting business to the internet. When the tourists are gone—nearly half the year—my sales are so dismal I can hardly pay the rent. I want to set up a website and sell online.”

      “Really?” Nicole brightened.

      “Yes. That’s where you come in. Since you’re also an excellent photographer, I’m hoping you’ll photograph and post my pieces on my website that doesn’t exist yet.”

      Nicole felt a weight lift from her chest. “I could do that,” she said, energy infusing her voice.

      “I’ve thought of selling my one-of-a-kind stuff online, but I also need your opinion about doing some stock or custom items. I just have to figure out exactly what people want. Market surveys, you think? You know about that.”

      “I do,” Nicole said, thinking of the market research she’d conducted for the furniture company and how excited she’d been to share the results with her former boss. She’d been foolish enough to think that working extra hours for Bryan’s approval was some kind of honor.

      Working for Jane would be better.

      “And I don’t know if I’m opening a can of worms offering to do custom pieces,” Jane continued. “I’ve just done a few for close friends, but I’m worried about going online. People can be a real pain. They think they know what they want, but sometimes they only know it when they see it.”

      “We’ll look into it, do a search and see what other artists like you are doing.”

      Jane nodded and scooped the last fries out of the basket.

      “I think I’ll start tomorrow by securing your web domain. I have to do a search and see if seajanepaint.com is taken,” Nicole said.

      “What are the chances?”

      “About as good as having the door of your car taken off by a fire truck,” Nicole said. She chuckled, the laughter scattering the tension from her neck and shoulders. For the first time in a long time, she felt free. Maybe this would work out.

      When Jane and Nicole asked their waitress for the check at the end of their meal, she told them it had already been covered. “Tip, too,” she added, smiling.

      Nicole looked at her friend, eyebrows raised.

      “It wasn’t me,” she said. “Although I was planning to buy since you’ve had a tough day and I wanted to wine and dine my favorite new employee.”

      Nicole risked a glance at the corner table where all eyes were on the television. Except for one stormy green pair. It was no mystery who had paid their tab, but Nicole wondered what had motivated the gesture. Guilt? Remorse?

      She hadn’t seen any of that in the testosterone club at the bar.

      “Least they could do,” Jane commented. “And don’t you dare think of going over there and saying thank you.”

      “Believe me, that’s not what I was thinking,” Nicole commented. She picked up her purse and followed her friend from the bar, carefully resisting the urge to look at the back corner.

       CHAPTER THREE

      A PILE OF Nicole’s luggage took up a corner of the back room at Sea Jane Paint, hastily unloaded from the trunk of her damaged car before it got hauled away a few days earlier. When Nicole left Indianapolis, she had no definite plans, but she didn’t intend to go back anytime soon. Her summer clothes were already unpacked neatly into her closet and dresser drawer at Jane’s house. The winter clothes could stay in the heavy suitcase until at least October. If she was still there.

      “We should be able to fit it all in my car after we close up today and we’ll get you permanently moved into my guest room,” Jane said, smiling at Nicole. “I hope you know I’m happy to have you stay as long as you want to.”

      “Thanks,” Nicole said. She handed her friend a diet soda from the mini-fridge. “I appreciate it. Maybe I’ll meet your Realtor friend to look at a few places. Now that I’m actually here I think I could commit to something. At least a rental.” Nicole cracked open an orange soda. “Not that renting a place is much commitment.”

      “I rent,” Jane said. “It’s nice not having to fix the roof or unclog the kitchen drain.”

      “Did Charlie help you find the place?”

      Nicole watched her friend’s expression when she mentioned him. She’d noticed a hint of something between them at the bar. Was it her imagination? Jane tapped the top of her aluminum can and then exchanged it for a bottle of water from the fridge, avoiding Nicole’s gaze the whole time.

      “He did. He was one of the first people I met when I moved to Cape Pursuit five years ago. I had no idea at that time that I’d be renting a house and a running a gallery now.”

      “To the future,” Nicole said, clinking her aluminum can against Jane’s bottle. “Whatever it may be.”

      The front door opened and set off the chime, a foghorn sound that scared Nicole every time. It fit the nautical theme of the gallery and the tourists loved it, but to Nicole it sounded like a freighter about to run over a tiny boat. After the car door incident, she was jumpy about big loud things wreaking havoc on little ones. Too jumpy. There were a lot of things she was trying to get over. That was why she was here in Cape Pursuit.

      “I’ll get it,” Nicole said. “You finish your lunch.”

      She moved aside the filmy curtain that separated the back room from the gallery and store and stopped in her tracks. It was not a tourist at the door.

      Dressed in a navy blue shirt and pants, a fire department insignia over the left side of his chest, Kevin Ruggles stood inside the door of Sea Jane Paint. He shifted from foot to foot, rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand and glanced out the front window. Uncomfortable, she noted. He ought to be.

      Her movement caught his attention and he strode toward her, closing the gap. He was tall, over six feet. Broad chest. A day’s growth of beard darkened his square jaw. His dark hair was tousled as if he’d been up all night. He was far more attractive than she wanted him to be, considering that his occupation put him on her do not touch list.

      He stood in front of her as if he wanted to say something, an expectant look on his face. Maybe the guy was used to a hero’s welcome wherever he showed up, but Nicole wasn’t handing out any accolades. She waited, giving him no encouragement other than one raised eyebrow.

      “I brought you this,” he finally said, holding out a plastic grocery bag.