Charming the Firefighter

And he was rarely wrong when it came to reading people. Especially women.

The sound of running water made him turn. He approached the closed door tucked under the stairs and tapped on the wood. “Ms. Denning? Are you all right?” When she didn’t answer, he knocked again. “Ms. Denning?”

The water shut off. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

He pursed his lips. Not exactly a confirmation that her physical and mental states were A-okay, but at least he now knew she was conscious and capable of communication. He’d give her two more minutes. If she didn’t come out on her own, he’d go in after her.

Deciding to give her some space and privacy, he returned to the kitchen. The counters were granite, the cabinets a glossy dark cherry, the tile floor Italian marble—or a really excellent facsimile—done in an intricate pattern. The walls were a soft yellow that carried into the bright and airy dining room. Splashes of green and blue accented both rooms in the form of knickknacks, wall hangings and a vase of cheerful flowers on the table. Whoever had done the remodeling did a good job—although his family would have done it better.

Just because he hadn’t wanted to be a part of Montesano Construction, had never wanted to spend his life pounding nails, hauling boards and installing windows, didn’t mean he wasn’t biased when it came to the work they did.

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