The Firefighter's Refrain. Loree Lough

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      “Sticking my leg out that way has become a habit since...” He ran a hand through almost-blond waves. “It’s a bad habit, I’ll admit.”

      He made a cup of his right hand and started dropping shards of glass and chunks of stoneware into it.

      “Stop, please,” she said, one hand up like a traffic cop. “I’ve got this. I can’t afford a lawsuit if you cut yourself. Besides,” she added, nodding at his leg, “you’re already hurt.”

      “A lawsuit?” Blond brows drew together slightly. “Just ask Mark—I’m not sue happy.”

      “Sue happy...sounds like the title of a country song.”

      He got to his feet and held out a hand to help her up. When she put hers into it, Finn noticed that it was warm and strong...and callused. She’d overhead Mark say that he was a firefighter. Had he earned them on the job? And what about the limp? Had he earned it on the job, too?

      Steady on her feet again, she thanked him, then dusted the knees of her jeans. A sliver of glass poked into her palm, and she drew a quick gulp of air through clenched teeth.

      “Here, let me see that,” he said, holding her hand up to the light.

      He hadn’t seemed tall, seated in the booth or kneeling beside her in the muddle of broken dishes. Bending slightly to inspect the cut, he towered over her, and something told her that even if he hadn’t been wearing stack-heeled cowboy boots, she’d still feel tiny standing alongside him.

      “If you tell me where to find some gauze and peroxide, I’ll clean it up and bandage it for you. I’m a firefighter, so I have first-aid training.”

      He was talking a lot. Talking fast, too. Her snappish reaction to the fall—and the mess—had clearly unnerved him.

      She wriggled free of his grasp. “It’s just a little scratch. I’ll clean it up later.”

      His pained expression told her his apology and the concern that followed had probably been authentic. But then, Finn could count on one hand the number of honest and decent men who’d crossed her path, and have fingers left over.

      Well, at least he wasn’t a musician, like his pal. Mark, band leader and owner of The Meetinghouse, was a regular customer. He often stopped by alone to hunch over sheet music or ledger pages. Other times, the rest of the Marks Brothers Band tagged along to discuss sets or work out four-part harmonies...much to her customers’ delight. Her years as a waitress had taught her to accept their generous tips with grace and ignore their blatant flirtations without insulting them.

      “You’re sure? Because I’m happy to—”

      “I’m sure. But thanks.”

      “Well, okay. But FYI, peroxide will foam up and help work out any glass particles that might still be in there.”

      She hid the hand in her apron pocket. “I’ve cut myself a thousand times, with things way bigger than a splinter of glass. So don’t give it another thought. It’ll be better before I’m married.”

      His left eyebrow rose slightly and so did one corner of his mouth.

      What a stupid, stupid thing to say! she thought, making note of his dimples. Pete used to say, “Small talk won’t kill you,” but at times like these, it sure seemed as though it could.

      “I’ll just get Rowdy to, ah, redo your order.”

      “No need to go to all that trouble.”

      Other customers were watching and listening, so yes, she did.

      “Hey, Teddy? Bring me the broom and dustpan, will you, please? And send Bean out here to help with this mess.”

      Discomfort sparked in his eyes as he shifted his weight from his bad leg to the good one. He’s a little careless, she thought, staring into eyes as blue as cornflowers, but he sure is easy to look at.

      She focused on Mark. “You guys sit tight, okay? We’ll have your new order out here before this mess is cleaned up.”

      The kids appeared as if on cue, freckle-faced Ted carrying the broom and dustpan, tall, reedy Bean holding a plastic tub. The firefighter took a step forward, as if planning to return to his seat. Instead, he bent again and retrieved silverware and one unbroken plate. He eased them into the girl’s tub, then relieved the boy of his broom.

      “If you’ll just hold the dustpan, son, we’ll have this cleaned up in no time.”

      Finn was about to repeat, Thanks, but I’ve got this, when Mark shook his head.

      “No point trying to stop him,” he told her. “Ol’ Sam here can’t help himself—he’s a public servant, through and through.”

      Funny. He didn’t look like a Sam.

      The cook stepped around the fragments—and the group of Right Note employees still gathered in the aisle—and delivered the replacement sandwich. “Here y’go. Just give a holler if you need anything.”

      “Thanks,” Sam said as Rowdy, Ted and Bean made their way back to the kitchen.

      “Well, don’t just stand there takin’ up space, Marshall,” Mark said. “Take a load off, why don’t you.”

      He slid onto the bench seat and gazed up at her. “When you bring the check, let me know what I owe you for the stuff I broke, okay?”

      “That isn’t necessary.”

      “I’ll just have to guess, then.”

      “Things get broken in here every day.” Finn shrugged. “So forget it. Really.”

      The slight lift of his chin told Finn that he meant to reimburse her no matter what she said.

      “More iced tea?”

      “Sure. Thanks.”

      Finn turned, picking up a few empty glasses on the way to the service counter. Did he practice that dimple-exposing grin, or was the guileless expression genuine?

      She added the glasses to the washtub as Ciara waved from across the room, reminding her that it didn’t make a whit of difference if Sam Marshall was interested or not, the real deal or as phony as a used car salesman.

      Because romance and Finn Leary didn’t belong in the same sentence.

       CHAPTER THREE

      SAM GLANCED ACROSS the diner, where the gal he’d tripped stood talking with the cook.

      “You sure know how to make a first impression,” Mark said, following his gaze.

      “Yeah, well...” He squeezed a dollop of catsup on to his plate. “At the risk of sounding redundant, why am I here?”

      “Good grief. You’re about as patient as a kid on Christmas Eve.” СКАЧАТЬ