Braving The Heat

The burnished gold eyebrows flexed over his eyes. “You don’t have anywhere to stay, do you?”

She was too weary to fib or bluster through. “I figure there’s an available motel room somewhere in town.” She waved a hand at the clock. “I only need a few hours of sleep. Tell me what time to come by.”

His lips pressed together and he nodded once as if an internal debate had just been settled. “I didn’t think so. You’ll stay here tonight.”

He got out of the car and walked to the camper. She gawked at him through the windshield, trying to make sense of his statement. Trying to catch up as her pulse went racing ahead of her at his abrupt declaration.

When he noticed she wasn’t behind him, he came around to the passenger door and opened it. “Come on.”

She gripped the edge of the seat. “No thanks. If you’ll give me the car key and open the gate I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“As you said, it’s already tomorrow,” he said, completely ignoring the salient point that she would leave and handle her troubles on her own. He reached past her for the backpack, his forearm brushing across her bare knees.

“Hey, that’s mine. What are you doing?” She shifted her leg, pinning his arm. Mistake, a small voice warned her too late. His skin was warm against hers and in this position his handsome face was close enough that the security lights sparked in the dark blond stubble shading his jaw.

The tough, callused palm of his free hand landed on her leg and he extracted his trapped arm and simply lifted her out of the car. He handled her as if she weighed nothing. Worse, he behaved as if he had the right to move her about at will. Where was her fight?

“You’ll stay here tonight,” he repeated, setting her on her feet. “I’ll stay on the couch in the office. We’ll sort out the rest in the morning.”

She dug in her heels as he opened the camper door and waited for her to go inside. “Stephen, this isn’t right. It’s too much,” she added, when he refused to agree with her.

He tipped his head. “Go on in and make yourself at home. We’ve both lost enough sleep as it is.”

Nothing else he could have said would have convinced her to cooperate. Fully aware she’d been a big imposition already, she obediently walked up the steps. She glanced back before he could close the door. “Stephen, why are you doing this?”

He shrugged. “Good night, Kenzie.”

She watched him disappear into the office, bewildered by his unexpected kindness.

Emotions she’d rather not examine churned inside her as she stood in his camper. It was neat and clean, and the evidence that he lived here was everywhere. The plain, heavy white mug stationed near the coffeepot on the narrow counter. The mail tucked into a slim wire basket next to a laptop computer on the shelf behind the table. She passed the bathroom and caught a whiff of the crisp, green scent she’d noticed on his skin.

Why would Stephen give his home to her, even for a night?

Her pride had taken a hard tumble in recent weeks and she’d been so consumed with the lawsuit that she couldn’t ask her friends to let her crash on couches or in spare rooms. Requests like that left her too vulnerable. Her friends, with lives and concerns of their own, didn’t need to hear her worries and fears about her future.

Her backpack slid from her grasp and hit the floor with a soft thud when she spotted the stack of clean towels at the foot of the perfectly made bed. He must have found the trouble with her car and then cleaned up in here, turning his home into a guest house. For her.

Gratitude swamped her. Everyone but Stephen had let her get away with her small fibs about having things under control. He didn’t even know her. They were basically strangers. How had he seen through her defenses so easily?

It was a question she would never answer while she was exhausted. She stripped away the Escape Club uniform and readied herself for bed. As she slipped between the cool, clean sheets, she decided none of the whys and hows of Stephen’s actions mattered as much as figuring out what she could do to make it up to him.

Chapter 2

Almost three hours later, Stephen woke with the sun and a colorful vow to find something to cover the bare window on the back wall. He supposed he could board it up, but that seemed extreme for a temporary situation. He squinted at the window and considered planting a tree. That would have a lasting benefit even if it didn’t help in the short term.

Short term, he reminded himself. Kenzie wouldn’t be in his trailer for long. She gave off independent vibes as bright as the sunshine glaring in his eyes. He sat up, scooping his hair back from his face as his bare feet hit the cool vinyl flooring. At least it wasn’t winter, when the freezing temperatures tried to climb right through the heavy-soled boots he wore in the shop.

With no hope of more sleep, he decided to get to work. He grabbed clean clothes from the pile he’d brought over last night and headed into the bathroom wedged between the office and the storage room. The cramped space didn’t have an ounce of aesthetics, since clean, efficient and functional were all the design elements he’d cared about when he made the improvements.

Back in the office, he punched the button on the machine to brew coffee, and checked phone messages. Disappointment crept in when none of the callers asked about the restored Mustang he’d listed for sale last week. It had been in rough shape when they found it at an auction. He’d warned his brother that particular car would drain time and money. At least he had a better distraction today.

Turning, he opened the cabinet over the coffeemaker and pulled a foil-wrapped toaster pastry out of the box. Filling a stainless steel mug with fresh coffee, he carried it and the pastry into the shop and circled Kenzie’s disassembled car while he waited for the caffeine and sugar to kick in. The poor excuse for transportation put a knot in his stomach as he debated where to start. So many options, and the best choice might be scrapping it for parts. Couldn’t move forward on any of it until they discussed what she wanted. Please scrap it, he thought. It would be a public service.

He drank more coffee, savoring the jolt of caffeine, and shifted his focus to the far more appealing 1967 Camaro SS. This was the car that got Stephen out of bed every morning since the client, Matt Riley, had dropped it off. A total rebuild, inside and out, and despite the need for fresh paint, about as far from Kenzie’s nondescript junker as a car could get. He’d cleaned every inch of the engine until a person could practically use it for a dining table, and now that the muffler was installed the Muncie four-speed transmission was ready for a second test drive.

Inside the Camaro, the upholstery was in decent shape, with only a few repairs and touch-ups needed. Same with the body. Stephen wondered where Riley had managed to find such a gem and if he’d share the source.

The Camaro wasn’t the only thing waiting on him, just the most fun. Finishing the pastry, he dusted the crumbs from his fingers and trashed the wrapper. Time to get busy. With a sigh, he turned to the car parked in the last of his four service bays. His sister Megan had dropped off her minivan for new brakes and fresh tires. Naturally, she was hoping he’d deliver it when they were all at family dinner tomorrow.

Did none of them realize he could smell these setups a mile away? Megan and her husband could pick up the minivan as soon as he was done this afternoon. By insisting on making the exchange tomorrow, they made sure he couldn’t skip the dinner. He supposed he should be grateful for Megan’s willingness to go without her beloved minivan for nearly forty-eight hours. Given half a chance, she’d tell him to appreciate her devoted-sister sacrifice, but he recognized his mother’s influence at work. No one was better at keeping family together than Myra Galway.

With more affection than gratitude, Stephen turned up the music and put the vehicle on the lift to knock out the single straightforward job on today’s agenda.

* * *

Kenzie came out of the recurring nightmare riding the hard wave of adrenaline and confusion. It always started with the same call to the row house fire. The same search protocol. When she found the victim, the nightmare shifted on her. The man was too heavy for her alone and the fire was burning too hot and fast, blocking every route as her team tried to reach her. The victim shouted at her, berating her until his throat went dry, yet none of his ideas was remotely plausible. Huddled in a corner, surrounded by smoke with flames marching toward them, she would wake up with the unbearable pressure of failure in her chest and the sheets tangled around her legs.

She had not failed that victim. Randall Murtagh was alive because she’d done the right things. She’d pulled him out of a terrible fire with minor burns that were probably healed already.

She tried to wriggle free of the sheets, nearly ripping them away before she remembered they weren’t hers. Her skin clammy with the sweat of the nightmare, she found herself registering other details. This wasn’t her bedroom. The space was too bright, the mattress too firm, and the scent of the laundry detergent on the linens was wrong.

Scrubbing at her face, she felt the rest of her situation crash over her like a bucket of ice water. At least the last wisps of the nightmare were gone. She untangled her legs from the sheets and paused as a variety of sounds and smells drifted by her waking senses.

For a moment she wallowed in the comfort and familiarity of clean motor oil, grease and new rubber tires. She heard the pulse of heavy metal music underscored by the whirr of power tools. All of it mingled with the promise of another hot and humid summer day in Philly.

She straightened the bedding and then headed for the bathroom, which was almost roomy, considering the limits of the camper. Fifteen minutes later she emerged refreshed and feeling human again. Dressed in denim cutoff shorts and a T-shirt sporting the logo of a local microbrewery, she made a cup of coffee and tried to figure out what to do with all the hours between now and her shift at the club tonight.

Her stomach growled, but she didn’t feel right about helping herself to Stephen’s groceries, despite his hospitality. Of course, with the loaner car he’d given her, she could restock his supplies easily. It still felt weird going through his cabinets for a bowl and cereal. She added milk and found a spoon in the basket of utensils on the counter. At the table she ate her cereal and used her cell phone to scroll through travel sites, looking for the best prices on decent motels near the club.

She knew she was hiding from Stephen, and life in general, when she’d washed her dishes and caught herself reorganizing her backpack. Stephen deserved better from her. For that matter, she deserved better. The sooner she got out there and helped him with her car, the sooner she could be on her way. She shoved her bare feet into her tennis shoes and headed over to the garage to say thanks again and refine her plans to get out of his hair.

The music crashed over her as she approached the garage through the open bay door nearest the office. Though her car was in pieces, she grinned, recognizing one of her favorite heavy metal bands doing a cover of one of the recent pop chart hits. She was about to follow the sound of an impact wrench to the other side of a champagne-colored minivan on a lift when the phone rang.

Stephen didn’t seem to hear it over the tools and the music. Kenzie assumed he had a machine or service that answered calls for him. He might even have his calls forwarded to his cell phone during business hours. The phone kept ringing and, following impulse, she picked it up. “Galway Automotive.”

“Hello?” a woman said, clearly startled. “Where’s Stephen?”

Is this a girlfriend? “His hands are full changing a tire at the moment,” Kenzie improvised.

“Who are you?”

Not as much jealousy as speculation in those three syllables. “I’m Kenzie,” she replied, using her best polite-receptionist voice that she’d refined during her first week of administrative duty for the PFD. “May I take a message for him?”

“Umm, sure. This is his sister Megan. I was checking on my minivan.”

Kenzie smiled. She’d heard a few typical big-brother stories from Mitch, but never met Megan. “If you can hold a moment, I’ll see if I can get an update for you.”

“Great.”

The curiosity and confusion came through loud and clear and Kenzie had to stifle a chuckle. Stephen must not keep a receptionist around. The place did have the feel of a one-man operation. Accustomed to working with a team and having people around constantly, she couldn’t imagine so much solitude. She didn’t want to risk making a mistake with the hold button and cutting off Megan’s call, so she placed the handset gently on the desk and hurried into the garage.

She saw her little rust-bucket in pieces, but her gaze locked for a long, reverent moment on the classic Camaro SS. A 1967, she knew. Oh my. Her hands tingled to peek under the hood. It would benefit from fresh paint and oh, that pure American muscle cried out for a touch. This was as close as she’d come to a car like this since her dad died. She hoped Stephen would be willing to show it to her and fill her in on the details later.

A classic Camaro was her dream car, if money weren’t an object. It was a pipe dream at the moment, and likely would remain so for the next decade. One day, she promised herself, exerting significant willpower to stay on track with the minivan, when she would’ve happily gone exploring the Camaro.

From her vantage point only Stephen’s legs and lower torso were visible under a minivan on the last lift. She failed in her attempt to ignore the appeal of those long legs and the T-shirt lifting to reveal toned abs when he stretched for something. Whew. She tucked away that little buzz of attraction.

Kenzie had no chance of getting his attention over the blaring music. It wasn’t hard to find the speakers, but she didn’t see the controls. She shouted. He didn’t flinch. There were too many things in a working garage that might catch a finger or hand wrong if he was startled. She came around the front corner of the car and shouted his name again.

This time he froze. Slowly, he turned in her direction, and she could see the wire brush he was holding in hands darkened by brake dust.

He stared at her as if he couldn’t figure out why he wasn’t alone. “Kenzie.”

She started to shout, pausing when he held up a finger and lowered the volume with a voice command. “Your sister Megan is on the phone,” she said. “She’s asking about her minivan.”

He rolled his eyes and then glared down at his hands. “Give me a second.”

“I can handle the call for you. You’re doing both front and rear brakes?” she asked, when he didn’t volunteer any information.

“No. Just rear brakes, and new tires all around,” he replied.

Kenzie glanced about, judging his progress. “Do you want her to come by this afternoon?”

“Not really,” he muttered.

Kenzie laughed, understanding the sibling dynamics. “When works for you?”

“She’s such a nag,” he grumbled. “When she dropped it off, she made me agree to deliver it for her at Sunday dinner tomorrow.”

“No problem. Leave it to me.” Kenzie returned to the office and picked up the phone. “Megan?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks for waiting.” Kenzie smiled as she explained Stephen’s progress and his confidence that the minivan would be delivered on time to Sunday dinner.

“Great. Thanks, um, what was your name?”

“Kenzie.”

“I’m so glad you’re there. It’s about time he hired good help,” Megan said. “Have a good day,” she added brightly.

“You, too.” Replacing the phone in the cradle, Kenzie sat back in the chair and swiveled side to side gently. Maybe she could give Stephen some time in the office or the garage while she waited to return to her normal schedule at the firehouse.

“Was she rude?”

Kenzie smothered the reaction as the deep burr of Stephen’s voice skimmed over the nape of her neck. He stood just outside the door frame, wiping dark streaks from his hands with a shop towel. Something about him sent her heartrate into overdrive. This was not the time for her hormones to take a detour.

“Not at all,” she replied, she managed in a steady voice.

His eyebrows arched in disbelief. “She didn’t do any wheedling to get her minivan back today?”

Kenzie shook her head.

“Huh. Thanks.”

The man was pretty cute when he was baffled. “No problem.” She was about to ask about her own car when the phone rang again. Stephen’s face clouded over with a scowl. “Go on back. I’ll handle it,” she told him.

“Really? Thanks. Just take messages,” he said, practically running back to the shop.

She handled the various inquiries for the rest of the morning. When her stomach was rumbling around noon, she wandered back into the shop with the intent of picking up lunch for both of them. Stephen wasn’t in the garage. The bay where the minivan had been was empty and Kenzie followed the sounds of water running outside.

She found him power washing the brake dust off his sister’s tire rims, and her first thought was that he should hire someone to handle that kind of thing. It would be a great job for some high school kid. Not her business how he wanted to run his garage.

Her second thought, and those that followed right after it, were centered on the way his T-shirt, damp from the spray of water, molded to his chest. When he turned that serious, brooding gaze on her she nearly forgot she was here about lunch.

“Keys are in the loaner,” he added, after requesting a meatball sub from the pizza place down the block.

“They are?”

“Well, sure. It’s yours to use whenever you need it. The key fob will handle the security gate for you.”

She was still processing all the implications of his easy generosity when she returned with lunch. He’d finished the brakes and cleaned up the service bay during her brief absence, and she marveled at his efficiency.

A man who obviously appreciated solitude, he didn’t want her hanging around while they ate, she assumed, but she didn’t want his well-earned break interrupted by the phone. He’d seemed almost afraid of the thing earlier.

“So what’s with delivery over having Megan pick up her minivan?” Kenzie unwrapped her sandwich and took a big bite. “This is amazing.”

He nodded, his mouth full, too. When he’d swallowed, he said, “Delivery tomorrow isn’t ideal, but I’m already doing the job for the cost of parts. If I do it in record time, they’ll never let me rest. Do you know how many Galways there are?”

She did a quick head count. “You have four siblings, right?”

“Yes,” he said between bites. “Add in parents and cousins and in-laws, and a man wouldn’t have time for anything else.”

“I thought Mitch helped you out.”

“He does. He prefers the custom work more than the maintenance stuff,” Stephen said.

“Don’t we all?” There was an excitement in restoration, in breathing new life into quality machinery.

Stephen raised an eyebrow. “To be fair, he would’ve handled Megan’s van if I’d been slammed.”

“Based on the phone calls I managed this morning, I’d say you could be slammed at any given moment. If you can spare the bay, and time with the tools, I can fix my car on my own,” she said. “After hours, so I can stay out of your way.”

“You know cars?” he asked.

“My dad taught me more than enough to handle that particular car.”

He lifted a bottle of water to his lips and Kenzie caught herself staring at his jaw and throat. It was as if he was carved from some substance that could shift between a solid and fluid state at will. He was almost too lean and the shadows under his eyes were a sure sign he didn’t sleep as much as he should.

She belatedly recalled he’d been engaged a few years back, the woman murdered before the wedding. It put Kenzie’s own issues into sharp perspective. Her career was at risk thanks to Murtagh, not her life.

“You think your car is overwhelming for me?”

“I think my car is a piece of crap and well beneath your level of expertise.” She found herself on the business end of that inscrutable expression. What was going on behind the hazel eyes shadowed by those burnished gold eyebrows?

“I can spare the space and tools,” he said. “Thanks for helping out with the phone. I usually just check messages at the end of the day.”

“I didn’t realize you had an answering machine,” she said, trying to contain the happy urge to bounce in her chair. Working on a car, even the pitiful rust-bucket, would be a fabulous distraction until she was back on shift. “That makes me feel better about leaving you this afternoon.”

His brow wrinkled. “You’re leaving?”

“Yes,” she replied. “I’m scheduled on the late shift again tonight at the club. Between now and then I need to find a place to stay.” She pointed to the boxes he’d stacked for her near the storeroom. “I can’t just leave all my stuff here in your way.”

Stephen’s hands stilled, the sandwich wrapper balled up between his palms. “You have a place to stay.”

Finding herself the focus of his full attention made her mouth go dry. She felt like the proverbial deer in headlights. It took two attempts to get the right words past her lips. “Last night was too kind. I’m not kicking you out of your house.”

“It’s yours,” he stated. “For as long as you need it.” He stood up, as if that was the end of the conversation.

“But last night you said—”

He cut her off. “I said we’d sort it out today.” He tossed his trash and leaned back against the counter, apparently waiting for her to say something else he could shoot down.

“That feels like way too much of an imposition.”

“You’re wrong.” A muscle jumped in his tense jaw. “I know what firefighters make,” he stated. “And I know what lawyers can charge. If it makes you feel better, keep answering the phone and taking messages when you can.”

“That’s hardly a fair trade for kicking you out of your home,” she protested.

His fingers flexed around the edge of the countertop. The muscles in his forearm bunched and relaxed slowly. “If it’s all I’m asking for, why argue the point?”

“Do logic and reason ring a bell?” Why was he insisting she stay here?

“Does sabotage ring a bell for you?” he countered, his gaze heating up.

This wasn’t the conversation she’d planned on having with him, but it was too late now and she was too aggravated to successfully turn the topic to the Camaro. “I don’t need protection.”

He folded his arms over his chest. “Duly noted. Do you want to file a police report about the damage?”

That gave her pause and she took her time to think it through. As both Grant and Stephen had previously pointed out, someone had most likely targeted her with the sugar in her gas tank. At the moment she could think of only one person angry enough with her to try such a stunt. “No.”

“Because you know who did it?” Stephen pressed.

“What good would it do to file a report? I have no idea when it happened.”

“Based on the settling and filter damage, I would guess it happened within the last week,” Stephen said, his voice as hard as his gaze now. “A police report is an official record. It could establish a time line or a pattern of behavior.”

“Stop. Please.” She held up a hand as she studied him. There was obviously a bigger issue on his mind than a disabled car. Filing a report would also mean suggesting Murtagh as a suspect, which could make her look like an idiot grasping at straws to undermine his credibility in the lawsuit. She had to trust her lawyer’s advice that the truth would come out and clear her of any wrongdoing or errors.

“I hear what you’re saying,” she continued. “This was probably a prank gone wrong. Yes, the timing makes it unlikely, but it is possible this was a case of mistaken identity.” Logic and odds aside, she couldn’t risk giving voice to the outrageous theory that Murtagh had done it. “I’ve only had the car three weeks.”