The New Guy In Town. Teresa Southwick

the memory of him explaining what each button meant and letting her daughter push them, even though that meant jumping through hoops to restore settings. “She’s Team Sam.”

      “He sounds like a good guy,” Lucy summed up and Delanie nodded her agreement.

      Faith gave them a warning look. “He and I are just friends. I’ve gotten to know him because he buys a lot of flowers for women.”

      “Sounds romantic to me.” Lucy stirred the beans on the steam table.

      “Trust me. It’s not. Just a gimmick. A smoke screen. An elaborate ruse in which he appears to participate but really doesn’t at all.”

      “How do you know?”

      “He told me. I asked him, as a flower professional, whether or not I should look forward to the revenue a wedding could generate.”

      “You didn’t.” Delanie’s expression oozed admiration. “Look at you going all TMZ on him.”

      “What did he say?” The other woman stopped stirring. Apparently that revelation had the persnickety chef’s rapt attention.

      “It was a definite no on walking down the aisle.”

      “Oh, pooh. That’s not what I wanted to hear. So I shouldn’t count on a wedding reception catering contract from him.”

      “Sad but true, ladies. Commitment is not on his to-do list.”

      Her friends looked disappointed, but Faith was fine with it. Better than fine, actually. This conversation had put things into perspective. The fact that neither she nor Sam was open to romance was tremendously freeing. She could be herself around him because there was no chance of any weird man/woman stuff.

      * * *

      Sam was trying to decide whether or not to worry.

      At breakfast Faith had told him she was going to volunteer at the fire staging area after work, do what she could for the firefighters. Her lobby cart had been locked up several hours ago when he’d left work for the day.

      Was it time to do something stupid and go look for her?

      Before he could make up his mind, he heard the front door open and female voices in the entry. He’d given her a key and moments later Faith and Phoebe joined him in the kitchen.

      “Hi, Sam.” Phoebe gave him a wave.

      “Hey, Squirt.” He looked at Faith. “Long day?”

      “Yeah.” She looked tired, dirty and worried.

      Again, Sam had the most absurd urge to pull her into his arms and tell her that everything would be all right. “Any news on your house?”

      “No. And the evacuation order is still in effect.” She shrugged. “The guys have been too busy saving houses to keep track of the ones lost.”

      Were the black streaks on her cheeks and chin soot? He frowned. “How close were you to the fire?”

      “A couple of miles, I think. Why?”

      “Because you smell like smoke.”

      “You should have been in the car.” Phoebe wrinkled her cute freckled nose. “Stinks in there now.”

      Humor relaxed the tension on Faith’s features. “You do realize that I was doing a good thing? Serving food to firefighters who are working very hard to save our home. And your toys.”

      “Uh-huh.” Phoebe looked unrepentant. “You still smell like smoke.”

      “The wind is brutal.”

      Sam thought about that. “If it was blowing smoke in your direction, doesn’t that mean the fire was headed toward where you were?”

      “Are you asking whether it was safe?”

      “Was it?”

      “Of course.”

      He hadn’t given in to stupid and gone to look for her, but now it was coming out of his mouth, this unreasonable concern for her safety. He was going to stop now. “Okay.”

      “The problem is the wind keeps changing direction. It’s one of the reasons they’re having such a hard time getting a handle on containment.”

      “I see.”

      “Until the crisis is over, there’s a volunteer schedule,” Faith said.

      “So you’ll be going back into the fire area?” He glanced at Phoebe, keeping his voice conversational so as not to alarm her. But for reasons he didn’t want to examine too closely, he needed reassurance. And yes, he was aware that the stupid was continuing in spite of his effort to suppress it.

      “Everyone is pitching in.” She shrugged as if that explained everything.

      “Can’t you just make a casserole? Or cookies?”

      She glanced at her daughter now. Phoebe was staring up wide-eyed. “The firefighters have safety protocols in place. That’s one of the few things they can control. It’s the variables like wind and thick, dry underbrush that are giving them fits.”

      “Mommy, you don’t get too close, do you?”

      “No, absolutely not.” She thought for a moment. “Do you remember Des Parker?”

      Phoebe’s forehead furrowed in thought. “Is he the rancher who took you to the Grizzly Bear Diner?”

      “No. That was Logan Hunt.”

      “He’s my cousin,” Sam volunteered. Estranged, but still family. Although that distinction didn’t ease the feeling of disapproval sliding through him.

      “Really?” Faith’s eyes widened. “I didn’t know that.”

      “Long story,” he said. “So who’s Des Parker?”

      “The fire captain.”

      “I remember,” Phoebe said. “He let me sit in the fire truck on the Fourth of July and bought us ice cream. And Valerie Harris babysat me and you went out to dinner with him.”

      “Yes.”

      “I like him,” her daughter said.

      Funny, Sam thought, he didn’t. “So he’s not going to let anything happen to his girlfriend.”

      “It’s not like that. And in case you’re wondering, there was no breakup bouquet. Come to think of it, that would be awkward. Making it for myself.” Faith laughed. “No, my point is that he’s cautious and wouldn’t let anything happen to anyone on his watch.”

      Sam didn’t miss the look she gave him that said he was being weird, but he already knew.

      Phoebe wrinkled her nose again, apparently satisfied that her mother was in good hands. “You still stink.”

      “It’s not that bad.” She looked at Sam.

      “I wasn’t going to say anything...” He rested his hands on the granite-topped island between them. “However, I strongly suggest you soak in a hot bath while Phoebe and I cook dinner.”

      “You cook? I thought last night was a fluke.”

      “No.” Sam took a little satisfaction from her obvious surprise. “I’m a bachelor.”

      “And yet I, the plant lady, know that—” she glanced at her child, obviously trying to figure out how to give her comment a G-rated delivery “—from time to time you have visitors who can cook.”

      “That is blatant gender profiling.” He smiled at her unease. “Some of the world’s best chefs are men. And I actually like to cook.”

      “I can help, Mommy. Please let me do it.” The eight-year-old was quivering with excitement. “And Sam is right. You need a bath.”

      “And