Through The Fire. Sharon Mignerey

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      “The schoolteacher and the homemaker,” she said, heading for one end of the monstrous black leather couch, where she sat down. Setting the iced tea on the chrome-and-glass coffee table, she slipped off her lightweight coat.

      “You remembered,” he said.

      She didn’t respond to that, especially since everything from yesterday was vividly etched in her mind. “Your friend that you were visiting when the fire started, how is she—”

      “He,” Rafe corrected, cocking his head toward the hallway. “Malik. He was released this morning.” Rafe sat down on the other end of the couch, extending one arm across the back and balancing the iced tea glass on his thigh. “A ladder fell on him during a training exercise, and since he had a concussion to go with the gash over his eye, they wanted to keep him overnight for observation.”

      His gaze on her was so thorough that she looked away, noticing details about the room beyond the high-tech, masculine toys. The mostly barren glass and chrome shelves didn’t have a speck of dust—unlike her own oak furniture. There was a picture of Rafe with a couple of pretty women, the kind of photo she would have thought was a posed family picture, except they didn’t look anything like him.

      “My sisters,” he said.

      She looked back at him.

      “I was adopted when I was nine,” he added, as if understanding her unasked question of why there wasn’t a family resemblance, and smoothly moved on to a new subject. “I went by the children’s ward this afternoon to find out how Ramón and Teresa—and their sister—were doing.”

      “I did, too,” she said.

      “They told me I had just missed you.” His gaze roved over her face.

      She smiled. “I was wishing you were with me…or that I spoke Spanish. I couldn’t understand them.”

      “They were happy you came to see them,” he said. “Their sister has some rare kind of bone cancer, and she’s going to be in the hospital for a while, so you’ll have other chances to see them.”

      “I’m sorry for that. Not that I’ll have a chance to see them, but because their sister is sick. That’s hard—the long wait and not knowing…”

      “You’re talking about your father?”

      “Yes.” She met his gaze, reassured when she saw only curiosity and compassion in his expression. Speculation about the extent of her father’s injuries and whether he would be able to return to work had dominated the news. Lucia hated the spotlight that her family had been thrust into.

      He moved his arm from the back of the couch to take her hand. “Your family has had a rough several months, if the reports on the news are to be believed.”

      His touch was warm, offering support that she didn’t quite know what to make of. When she pulled her hand away to once again pick up the glass of iced tea, she had the fleeting thought that a hug from this man would be just as warm, just as supportive. Those were the kinds of thoughts she couldn’t afford, even though she had told Colleen that…maybe…she was ready to move on. The all-too-familiar knot in her stomach reminded her that she was no longer as confident as she once had been or as certain of her own judgment of others. She reminded herself that she had come to return his jacket—that was all. The sooner she drank her tea and left, the better.

      Taking a sip of the tea and focusing on the last thing he had mentioned, she said, “You know the news—you have to make it exciting somehow. And the truth is, we’re just waiting for him to wake up, just as we’ve been doing since those first days.”

      “Waiting and praying,” he said.

      “Yes,” she breathed, her silent admonishment to hurry lost beneath the feeling that Rafe somehow understood. “Exactly that.”

      “Then you’re doing all you can.”

      “It doesn’t feel like enough,” she said, setting the glass back on the coffee table.

      “Prayers are heard.”

      She met his kind gaze once more, feeling as though the ground had subtly shifted beneath her. He had confirmed what she had been taught all her life, what she believed to the depths of her soul. Prayers were heard. One more thing that added to her awareness of him.

      “Now then.” He winked at her. “I have a mondo huge favor to ask.”

      The butterflies returned as she realized he was flirting with her. “I’m not sure I know you well enough for ‘mondo huge’ favors.”

      “I figure being trapped together by a fire means you know me very well,” he said. “My niece’s birthday is coming up, and my sister tells me she’s not old enough for Barbie dolls, which were always my fallback gift for my sisters.”

      “A safe choice.” Personally, she hadn’t been that interested in playing with dolls when she was a girl, nor had she had the endless fascination of dressing them that she had seen in her friends.

      “And since I’m her only uncle and her godfather—”

      “You take your responsibilities seriously.”

      His grin widened. “You get the picture. So you’ll go shopping with me?”

      “When?” That was a far cry from the “I can’t” she had intended to say.

      He glanced at his watch. “No time like the present.”

      “But your dinner—”

      “It will keep.”

      “I’m not sure that I know that much about two-year-olds. Plus…” Plus what? she wondered.

      Evidently, he had the same thought because he asked, “Plus?” He stood, picking up the glasses from the coffee table, and headed for the kitchen. Lucia trailed after him, watching as he set the glasses in the sink and turned off the stove.

      “I don’t have a lot of time,” she said. “There’s a prayer service for my dad at seven thirty.”

      “We have plenty of time. If it runs tight, I’ll go with you. Do you want to take your car or mine?” he asked, coming back toward her, snagging her coat off the end of the couch and holding it up so she could put it on.

      She remained fixed on his matter-of-fact announcement that he’d go to the prayer service. The idea of sitting in church with him was one thing, but the idea of him being around her mother and brothers—she’d be setting herself up for questions she wasn’t prepared to think about, much less answer.

      So tell the man you can’t go with him, she crossly said to herself. Or tell him that you have to hurry. Instead, she slipped her arms through the sleeves of her jacket. Her silent reminder that she had only wanted to return his coat now seemed hollow…and increasingly like a fib to herself.

      “Well?”

      Refocusing her thoughts once more and remembering that he’d asked whose car they should take, she admitted to herself that she was way out of her depth.

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