It was coming clear that when he said he’d make time for me, he meant it.
It was also coming clear that when he said we were building something, he’d decided not to waste any more time doing that.
Meeting the boys at the firehouse, in my opinion, was one step down from telling your children you were seeing somebody and you were all going out to dinner.
Thus, I was entering the firehouse with a stack of containers holding blonde brownies baked in cupcake tins with a wedge of Dove chocolate shoved in the top of each.
I was doing this in my silver pumps, a pair of boot-leg dark wash jeans, a filmy, blush, sleeveless blouse with understated silver threads and profuse ruffles up the front and my hair in a loose bun at my nape, curling tendrils pulled out around my face.
I jumped when I heard a male voice shout, “Hot chick on the premises!”
I looked toward the sound and saw a very big man in Mickey’s firefighter-not-fighting-a-fire uniform standing at a bank of lockers against the wall, head turned my way, grinning at me.
“Hey,” I called.
“Yo,” he called back.
“Is Mickey here?” I asked.
He didn’t answer.
He bellowed, “Mickey!”
“Jesus, Jimbo.” I heard Mickey mutter loudly and my eyes went his way. He was grinning and walking to me. “Hey, baby.”
“Hey,” I said quietly, slightly shyly, grinning back tentatively.
He stopped in front of me and his eyes dropped to the containers.
“You baked,” he noted.
I lifted them up a smidge. “Blonde brownies with Dove chocolate.”
His eyes came back to mine and they were dancing. “Buyin’ the boys approval with baked goods?”
I didn’t deny this because it was clear I was doing just that.
“Just so you know,” the man called Jimbo joined us, his gaze resting on my lower half. “You got my approval with those jeans.”
I felt my cheeks flush, but I did this fighting a gratified smile.
Mickey cut narrowed eyes to his colleague.
Jimbo caught his look, lifted his hands, but said, “Bud, you asked her here and you know I’m not blind.”
“I know that. But I knew it thinkin’ you got manners,” Mickey returned.
Jimbo looked at me. “I offend you?”
“Not exactly,” I told him. “And I’m pleased you like my jeans.”
He settled a bit back, remarking, “Good jeans. More what’s in ’em I approve of.”
My eyes got big and Mickey turned fully, and a little scarily, to his fellow firefighter.
“Seriously?” he asked dangerously.
“Mick, dude, you cannot be pissed I’m glad you scored a hot chick with a great ass who makes brownies,” Jimbo returned. He looked to me. “No offense.”
“Not certain I can take offense to you thinking I have a great ass,” I replied.
He smiled big.
At that point, I found myself divested of the containers and Mickey was shoving them into Jimbo’s hands.
“Take those to the kitchen,” he ordered.
“Gotcha, captain,” Jimbo said through his smile, took the containers and strolled away.
I moved closer to Mickey. “Captain?”
He stopped scowling at the departing Jimbo, looked down at me, hooked me with an arm and pulled me to him whereupon he laid a hard, swift kiss on my mouth.
He kept hold of me with one arm as he lifted his head and gave me a much nicer, “Hey.”
“Hey,” I gave it back. Then repeated, “Captain? Is that a nickname?”
“Rank,” he stated.
I felt my brows draw together. “Rank?”
“I command this company.”
I was no less confused. “You…sorry?”
“Chief is the Battalion Chief. He commands five houses in the five big towns we got across the county. Each house has a captain who commands the company, which is the rig and the men who work it. But also the house, which is everything to do with this department that isn’t handled by the chief. We got two lieutenants as well as me. Chief schedules it so each shift, I’m on it or one of the lieutenants is on it, takin’ charge of the equipment and the boys and managing shit if we go out on call, at least until the chief gets there. Don’t really got enough to go around for all shifts, so we got acting lieutenants with enough experience in to take shifts if that’s needed.”
“Oh,” I mumbled. “So you’re kind of second-in-command head honcho.”
His eyes again started dancing as he confirmed, “Yeah.”
“That’s pretty impressive,” I noted.
His eyes warmed on his muttered, “Thanks, Amy.”
I lifted my brows. “So your chief commands five houses?”
“Yep.”
“Isn’t that a lot?”
“Nope.”
I tipped my head to the side. “It isn’t?”
“Not really. In a bigger city, a Bat Chief would command all the houses in that city.”
“Part-time?” I pushed and he gave me a squeeze.
“That would be a no.”
I did not like this. I didn’t like it because Mickey wanted this position and it seemed a lot more work, overseeing five fire departments in five cities across the entire county, rather than just Magdalene’s.
“Want a tour before dinner?” he asked, taking my mind off this.
A tour of a firehouse?
What girl would say no?
I focused on him. “Absolutely.”
That earned me another squeeze before he took my hand and guided me around.
They had a big red truck (obviously). On the lower level with the truck there was a bank of lockers down one side. They had a variety of equipment like axes, wound hoses and such mounted on the walls.
There were also pictures in cheap frames put up here and there. They depicted the crew either formally arranged for an official photo or with arms thrown around each other’s shoulders in a line. There were also candid shots of everything from someone grinning while washing the fire truck or someone wearing a tee shirt that had a big “MFD” on the front and jeans, swinging a bat during a softball game.
Close to the truck there was firefighter-actually-fighting-a-fire gear (which Mickey told me was called bunker gear) set out and ready for men to jump into boots, pants and grab jackets and helmets.
They even had a shiny brass fire pole.
Which meant they had an upstairs, and although there were equipment rooms and a small bathroom downstairs, upstairs there were full showers with more stalls (Mickey called out for an all clear before we peeked in) as well as a workout room that was small and held mostly weight equipment.