The Firefighter's Refrain. Loree Lough

smiled, and the light in his heart went on again.

      “Cherry or apple?”

      “Doesn’t matter.”

      He followed her into the kitchen, where she grabbed two plates from the shelf above the long stainless counter.

      “Sorry it isn’t homemade, but it’s not half bad warmed up in the microwave and topped off with ice cream.”

      Sam considered reminding her there was nothing to apologize for. Instead, he said, “I’d offer to help, but, man, you made quick work of slicing that pie!” Chuckling, he balanced on a wheeled stool. “Remind me not to startle you when there’s a cleaver in your hand.”

      She used the tip of the wide blade to point at a row of knives and scissors stuck to a magnetized strip above the counter. “That’s a cleaver. This is a chef’s knife. It’ll slice, chop, dice, mince or mash—as in garlic cloves. Most useful kitchen tool ever invented.”

      It was good to see her more relaxed. “Aha. So that’s why you have half a dozen of them.”

      One shoulder rose in a dainty shrug. “Rowdy uses them, too. Sometimes we’re in here together, plating up customers’ orders. Nothing less appetizing than for customers to hear the crew bickering over cutlery.”

      He wanted to keep her talking—about anything but the damage out front—so he said, “Ever heard of Aggie Jackson?”

      Finn laughed and slid their plates out of the microwave. “Who hasn’t heard of her?”

      She dropped a scoop of ice cream on top of each wedge. “How do you know the woman whose main claim to fame is that she’s a descendant of Andrew Jackson?”

      Sam thanked her for the pie and reached into one of the bins at the end of the counter, helping himself to a fork. “She’s my landlady. One of these days, I’ll meet someone who doesn’t know she’s the great-great...” He handed her a fork, then cut into his pie. “How many generations back do we need to go to get the right number of ‘greats’?”

      Finn sat on the empty stool beside him. “Gosh. I’d need a calculator—or a time machine—to go back that far in history.”

      Laughing, Sam made his way to the cooler, doing his best not to limp. When he returned with a carton of milk, she nodded toward his leg. “Overdid it tonight, I see.”

      He grabbed two glasses from the drying rack near the dishwasher. “No biggie. It’ll be fine by the time I’m married.”

      She’d just taken a bite of pie, and her mouth froze, midchew. Her expression reminded Sam of his cousin Zach’s boot camp graduation photo, stern and no-nonsense. He’d meant it as a joke. Looks like the joke’s on you, Marshall. He handed her a glass of milk, then hid his embarrassment by taking a long, slow gulp from his own glass.

      Her laughter started soft and low, then escalated until it bounced off every hard surface in the kitchen. Sam loved the sound if it—rich and throaty and wholly feminine—and his pulse pounded harder.

      “Guess it’ll be a while before you let me live that one down, huh.”

      Her question implied they had a future together, and Sam liked that. Liked it a lot.

      She toasted him with the tumbler. “This was a good choice, by the way. It’ll be hard enough to sleep tonight, even without caffeine floating around in my system.”

      Sam doubted he’d sleep well, either...because Finn would be floating around in his system. But she looked tired and understandably stressed.

      “I should probably hit the road so you can—”

      “How long have you been in Nashville?”

      “Going on six years now. Seems half that...” At times like this. “And twice as long.”

      Finn nodded. “I know exactly what you mean. My family landed here when I was thirteen.”

      “Musicians?”

      “My parents are singer-songwriters, and play about half a dozen instruments apiece. But that’s true of a big chunk of the city’s population. Connor and Misty tried all sorts of gimmicks but couldn’t find the one that set them apart from the competition.”

      Based on her faraway expression, she was thinking of a far less pleasant time. She’d already gone through a lot tonight, and he felt bad, having opened an old wound. Sam covered her hand with his. For a moment she sat nodding, lost in her thoughts, and he was glad she hadn’t pulled her warm little hand away.

      “It’s a rough road,” he admitted.

      “Road?”

      “The one that leads to a recording contract.”

      One eyebrow rose, and she wasn’t smiling when she said, “And you know this because...”

      “Because I’ve walked it a time or two myself.”

      Coincidence that she chose that moment to take back her hand? Sam didn’t think so.

      “It’s nowhere near the top of my priority list anymore, though,” he quickly added. “Family, the department, the academy, then music, in that order. Performing is more a hobby now than anything else.”

      She turned on the stool to face him head-on. “Hypothetical question—if somebody with clout heard you perform and offered a contract, would you sign it?”

      “Well, sure.”

      He’d answered truthfully, but it wasn’t what she wanted to hear, as evidenced by the almost angry spark in her dark eyes. Finn got up, stacked his plate atop hers and grabbed the flexible hose dangling above the dishwasher. She rinsed both plates and stood them in the wash rack, then returned for their glasses. After rinsing those, too, she crossed both arms over her chest.

      “Well, it’s late, and I have a lot of phone calls to make in the morning. I appreciate everything you did tonight.”

      Sam put all his weight on the good leg as he stood. “No thanks necessary. I was happy to do it. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.” The word reminded him that he could have counted her heartbeats just moments ago.

      Her expression softened slightly. Because she remembered, too?

      She uncrossed her arms and walked to the back door. “Are you parked out front?”

      “Yeah...”

      “Sorry about that. Now you’ll have to walk all the way around the building.”

      “Don’t be sorry. It isn’t your fault that Mother Nature decided to park a tree in your diner.”

      She held open the door. “Hope the leg doesn’t keep you awake all night.”

      It wouldn’t be the leg keeping him awake.

      “Easier said than done, I know,” she continued. “But try to get some sleep, okay?”

      She glanced into the back lot and thanked him again. Subtle, Finn. Sam grinned. Real subtle. He’d given her his card. Should he repeat his offer to help anytime?

      The harsh glare of the street lamps exaggerated the worry lines and weariness on her lovely face. Had he thanked her for the pie? “Thanks for the pie,” he said, just in case. “You were right. It was great, especially warmed up and topped off with ice cream.”

      She hid a yawn behind her free hand. “I still owe you a meal, though.”

      “Aw, Finn, you don’t owe me a thing. I mean it.”

      Several seconds ticked by as those big dark eyes studied his face. Looking for proof that he was just another musician who said things he didn’t mean? If that was the case, Sam had no idea how he’d prove otherwise. But he wanted to try...

      “Lock up tight,” he said, “and I’ll see you soon.”

      Her