Passion Point Firefighters: Extended Collection Read online

I close up my office and he’s there waiting, leaning back against the wall. Those long legs crossed at the ankles and a half a plastic body thrown over his shoulder in a fireman carry. I wish I could imagine him throwing me over his shoulder, but my love of food and genetics makes that only a dream. I’ve got the bootie. I’ve got the boobies. And I’ve got the jiggly-bits. But honestly, I love it all and wouldn’t want it any other way. And from what I can see in Boscoe’s eyes, I think he wouldn’t either.

  I lock my door. “Ready?”

  “Yup. I need to run by the station and return Mike here.” He pats his assistant’s back. “You want to come along?”

  “What about my car?”

  “I’ll bring you back tomorrow morning…I mean tonight after dinner.”

  I tip my head. “Now, don’t go making grand plans in your head, Mr. Boscoe.”

  He steps close and his fingers slip a lock of my hair behind my ear, his fingers brushing along the outer curve and grazing the fleshy drop. “I have plans, Jess. I have big plans for you.”

  I see the storm in his eyes. He’s like a hurricane, swirling and pounding inside of my head. I know I should be saying, “Slow down,” but a part of me wants to go faster. To ride the tidal wave and allow this man to tow me under.

  I take a deep breath. “I’m hungry, let’s go.”

  I spin on my three-inch, gray suede heels. Fridays are casual, so my jeans are perfect for a night out on the town. I might’ve opened up a couple buttons on my short-sleeved silk shirt. Not to give the goods away, but to make sure he knows there are goods. I remember being pressed to his body.

  The man has the goods. Good god, it’s good.

  He follows behind me and I look back to find his eyes pointed at my ass. As suspected, he’s an ass man.

  I clear my throat as we exit the building. “Dude…” I say with a little condemnation.

  “Sorry, I have a condition where my eyes randomly fixate on a moving object.” He smirks. He points me toward a red pickup truck.

  “Oh, really?” I pull all my hair to one side of my neck as I heat just a little from that intense stare.

  I like hearing that he likes what he sees. Too many men in the past have tried to pretend that my hips aren’t full and my stomach’s not soft. I know what my body looks like. I know I’m not slender. And I want to hear that the guy is okay with that.

  “A beautiful moving object.”

  I roll my eyes while he’s still behind me so he can’t see. I’ve heard cheesy lines before, and I’ve heard scuzzy lines before…his ride the fine line between the two that seems to be a good blend for me. I don’t expect a man to be a gentleman constantly because I like a little bad boy, too, but I do expect to be treated with respect.

  He puts Mike in the back seat and closes the door.

  I put my bag into the passenger’s side floorboard. I put a leg on the running board and reach up to the grab handle.

  His breath flutters over the back of my neck. “Can I help you, Jess?”

  I nod and his long fingers dig into my waist. As I push off the ground, he assists me to slide onto leather seat.

  He starts up the truck and turns to me. “I promise, two minutes at the station and then I’m all yours for the night.”

  I fiddle with my purse. “Dutch tonight.” I want to see what I’m really working with here. Can he give up a little control?

  By his tight jaw, he seems to be stopping his mouth from opening. “Okay…but the second date is on me.”

  “Who says there’ll be a second date?”

  “There’s going to be a second date, Jess. Life’s too short not to make plans for a second date.” How he almost whispers the last sentence tells me there is something broken in him. He’s hurt. I mean, in many ways we’re all hurting. Even people who have the best lives can be hurting. But how hurt is he?

  He drives in front of a red brick station with a plaque that says:

  passion point fire station, est. 1988. to the rattle watchers, sounding the warning and sacrificing their lives

  I point up. “What’s that about?”

  “Let me get this put away and I’ll tell you the story.”

  “I love stories.” My grandfather was a storyteller and I love learning about legacies and folklore. I’m hoping for something good.

  “This one didn’t always have a great ending.”

  I sigh. “Then it’s not a story. It’s a lesson.”

  The way he smiles tightly is like he understands that statement. “That’s exactly what it was.” He reaches over and squeezes my arm. “I’ll be right back, promise.”

  I’ve learned lots of lessons in life. One, some people aren’t always meant to stay in each other’s lives. My mother divorced—no wait—my parents divorced each other last year. Twenty-three years, and both in their fifties, but it was longer than my brothers had with our mother. Two, people could stay friendly even after divorce. Of course my brothers didn’t have the same experience as me, and my mother warned me that they had some lingering harsh feelings. I hoped I could help them to get past those. Having Dairen blowing me off a second time didn’t speak great things.

  I’m never ever getting married. And it isn’t because of my parents’ divorce, it’s because of their marriage. They didn’t speak. They didn’t make their unhappiness known and just drifted apart. I’m not sure how to keep that from happening. And I’m never having kids either. I could see how much divorce affected all of us. And maybe my cynicism isn’t everyone’s journey, but the rough hollows across my heart definitely made me feel like that life wasn’t for me. I had a good life. A great job now. My own place. A decent car—not new, but new to me. Food on the table and clothes in my closet. I didn’t need anything else.

  Movement catches my eye. Boscoe seems to almost be sprinting toward the truck. He jumps in and tears out of the parking lot.

  I grab the oh-shit bar as my body gets thrown toward the door. “Whoa, are we on the way to a fire?”

  “Nope. Just need to get going.”

  I look back and see a familiar guy walking out of the firehouse. “Hey, that’s my—”

  “So, that story…” he says, glancing in the rearview mirror.

  I turn back. “Yes, please.”

  The truck slows to a reasonable pace and I bring my full attention to Boscoe. His side profile is chiseled cheekbones and all that dark scruff, which has a little silver sparkle in it. His skin is a soft tan, and his almost-black curly hair is tight on the sides, but a little longer on the top. Something to hold onto.

  I’d say he’s in his mid-thirties, but he could be a little older than that. And that gives me a slight pause. There’s no doubt he’s as old as my brother and I’m sure they know each other from the station. I don’t know Dairen that well, but I can’t imagine him being upset by me dating another firefighter. Hell, Boscoe probably knows my oldest brother, too. I prepare to ask, but he takes a deep breath to start his story.

  “In 1631, the mayor of Boston outlawed thatched and wooden chimneys. Seems reasonable, right?”

  I chuckle. “Definitely. Flammable, in a word.”

  He turns the truck and then glances to me. “Exactly. Well, there were some rebels back in those days who tried to get away with not having a brick chimney and not making better roofs out of tin and safer materials.”

  “Again, shocker.”

  He smiles wide and I love seeing how I can make it happen. “And so future mayors found men who were willing to volunteer their extra time to watch for fires and do what was called a ‘Rattle Watch.’ Using a wooden tool that made a clicking noise, kind of like those flipping rattles we use for New Year’s Eve now, they would walk the city with green lanterns letting people know what and who they were. When a fire would happen, they would make the community aware.” He shakes his head like he almost remembers the days. “Fires spread quickly and without warning killing a lot of people before they started this effort. After this, people would come out and they would set up a buc
ket brigade to transport water to the fire to save others. Eventually, the whistle, which could go for twice the distance, came into usage, but those Rattle Watchers were the first firefighters.”

  “Wow. That is really cool.”

  “And that’s why the fire station has two green lanterns on the outside. It’s in their honor.”

  I reach over and press my hand onto his forearm. “I had no idea. I guess we forget how much times have changed. And that change can be a very good thing.”

  He flips his arm over and slides his hand up until my fingers drop in between his and our warm palms flatten, pressing together. “What’s your full name, Jess?”

  “Jessica Saunders.”

  His face falls and he gives my hand a squeeze. “Pretty name.”

  “Thanks. And your full name?”

  “Avery Boscoe.”

  “Avery? Family name?”

  “Mother’s maiden name. She died two days after I was born from a stroke.”

  “Oh my…Boscoe, I’m so sorry.”

  “It was just my dad and me for a while and then he remarried and that lasted about as long the moon’s cycle. She was nice but he was messed up. Never really got over my mother’s death, but I know how that goes. Losing someone can really mess a person up.”

  I squeeze his hand. “Sounds like you’re talking about more than your mother.”

  He swallows hard. “Oh, I mean…my dad. Losing my dad was rough.”

  “Sorry to hear that. Was it recent?”

  He turns off the main drag of Passion Point. As a suburb of Boston, where I grew up, you’d think that I’ve been here several times, but I rarely strayed from Boston proper, a city girl through and through.

  “Five years ago.”

  “That’s not long. Not that we ever get over loss of those we love.”

  I could see the struggle in his smile, but he winked at me. “Okay…enough of that. We’re on a date.”

  “Dutch date.”

  “We’ll see, honey.”

  I’d only dated a few men in college. High school was for getting good grades and getting into the college I wanted to. The university scene thing ended up not being exactly for me, but when I went for a paralegal degree at a community college in Vermont, I found a niche I loved, and now I was wondering if law was my thing and if I could give college another chance. I’d grown up, even if the numbers on my license only said twenty-three. I had perspective now.

  The restaurant bombards my senses as Boscoe opens the door and ushers me inside. The evenings in May can be cool in Massachusetts and I should’ve grabbed a sweater from my car. A shiver runs through me.

  “You cold?”

  “Little.”

  “I’ll be right back.” His hand touches the area between my shoulder blades, the thin fabric of my shirt not hiding how warm his palms are.

  In a blink he is gone, and I find myself hoping that he’s coming back.

  “How many?” a woman lifting menus in her hand asks.

  “Two.” I hold up fingers.

  She motions with her head. “Jaylen, send him back to booth fourteen.” A teenager nods to the woman who isn’t much older than him. “How’s your day going?”

  “Good. Really good now that I’m here.”

  “First time to Season 617?” she asks.

  “Do we look like Season-dining virgins?”

  She chuckles. “Glad to have you here. I’m Reese Dynas, owner.”

  “Wow. Not to be rude but aren’t you a little young to own a restaurant?”

  She acknowledges the question with a short shrug of her thin shoulders. Her body rounds out from that point down and with her midnight dark hair and sage green eyes, she reminds me of someone from lower Europe or the Middle East. And when she smiles, I truly feel like I’m welcome in her home. “I’m twenty-three. My family owns the Greek restaurant down the street, so it’s kinda in my blood.”

  “I’m twenty-three, too. And are you talking about the Greek Leaf?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “So anything Greek on the menu here?”

  Her eyes widen. “Not one damn thing.”

  We both laugh.

  She crosses her arms, leaning on the booth’s back. “We’re Asian fusion with a few American standards kicked up a notch.”

  Boscoe steps in behind her. “Hey.”

  She backs away. “Hello, I was just introducing myself to your lovely date. I’m Reese. I own Season 617, so if you need anything, please let me know.”

  “Nice to meet you, Reese.” He slips by her without touching her and without even a glance. Like he’s on a mission. His arms hold up a well-loved but still usable zip-up hoodie. “To keep you warm.”

  His fingers curl the fabric over my shoulders. I instantly snuggle inside of the jacket. It’s warm and it smells like his cologne—spicy, a little smoky, and a lot soothing.

  Reese points to the menu. “I highly suggest the five-spice pork spring rolls, ramen noodle dishes and the pad thai. Everything is great, but I might be a little biased.”

  “As you should be,” I offer and start examining the menu. “God, I could order one of everything.”

  “I’d be fine with that,” Reese’s glassy smooth voice offers. “Anyway, I’ll send over a shot of sake for each of you virgins.”

  “What?” Boscoe’s eyes widen.

  I giggle. “I’ll tell you later. Thanks, Reese.”

  “You can have mine,” Boscoe says after she leaves.

  “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

  He sets his menu down. “No, I’m just not a big drinker. Couple beers during football season over a few hours at house parties and maybe a drink with the guys when we’re out, but otherwise, I don’t keep alcohol in the house. I’ve been to one too many car accidents where alcohol is involved and I’m not going to do that to anyone.”

  I sit back as a cool blast hits me. I can’t tell if it’s off of him or the heating and cooling system. I slip my arms through the coat sleeves and I’m warm again.

  We order a couple of dishes to share and the pork spring roll she suggested that I couldn’t get out of my mind.

  Conversation is easy with Boscoe. He’s seen life, but he doesn’t like to talk about work. I appreciate that. I remember my mother being sick of hearing about my father’s business. He sells computers to businesses. She was a model for print, the season for women to do that job short, apparently. They agreed to not talk about it, but I like that Boscoe didn’t want to talk about it from the beginning. I’m sure that his job is dangerous and I just don’t want to think about that. There is so much more to learn about him than what he does for a living.

  “So where do you like to travel to?” I ask.

  “Last place I went was Seattle.”

  I rear back. “Jeez, could you pick some place that’s farther away?”

  He lifts a spring roll and dips it in the sauce before taking a bite. “My roommate from college lives there. Well, at least he does for the time being. He’s in between jobs and thinking of coming back to the East Coast.”

  “You okay with that?”

  “Yeah, Ryan is a good guy and I’d love to hang with him more often. He’s been through a rough divorce and I feel like shit for not being there for him more. He was there for me…” He stares at his iced tea. “I remember this one time in college, he lit a fart on fire and we were all laughing until he was bouncing around with flames on his jeans. I had to actually smother my buddy’s crotch to put out the fire.”

  Reese walks by just as he says it. “Okay…wait…what?!”

  I laugh. “Was he okay?”

  “Stupid. But okay.”

  “Were you guys drunk?”

  “He was. I wasn’t. Thank god. Think he would’ve set the place on fire. Stop. Drop. And roll. It saves lives and man goods.”

  I lifted my second shot of sake. “Here’s to saving those man goods.”

  “Man goods forever!” Reese says, walking away laughing.


  “Is that when you realized you wanted to be a firefighter?” I ask, allowing the warm sake to lighten my head while simultaneously heating my stomach, kinda like that kiss.

  “I lost someone in a car accident and for a long time I thought that if they just could’ve gotten to us faster she’d still be alive.”

  My stomach hollows out just as our dinners are set in front of us. I reach across the table as he grabs for his napkin. “Boscoe, I’m sorry.”

  “Drunk driver.”

  That clears up a lot for me. Lingering pain seeping its way into his life. Sometimes we justify with the simple, when the truth is so much harder to deal with.

  I give his hand a squeeze. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “I was nineteen. Twenty years ago in a month.” He squeezes back.

  I release his hand and he seems to move to grab it, but picks up a serving spoon instead. “High school girlfriend?”

  “Yeah.” He serves the beef and vegetable dish onto his plate. I serve up some of the pad thai, the earthy and deep smells permeating the air around us.

  “Why law?” he asks after swallowing his first bite. He reaches out to Reese as she passes by. “This is fantastic. Seriously.”

  “Glad to hear you like it. I’ll send a dessert on the house for the compliment.” The doorbell rings again. It’s been non-stop. “I think I need to turn that bell off.”

  “Maybe,” I offer.

  “Excuse me.” Reese walks off.

  “Well, when it comes to choosing a career, I’m still kind of finding myself. I do enjoy what I’m doing, but I think I could love doing something else more, too. I’ve thought about going back to school to get a law degree.”

  “Harvard?” he asks with a chuckle.

  “Nope. Already did that place.”

  His head rears back. “Really?”

  “Yeah, I barely made it through with a degree in women’s studies.”

  “Oh…like being a…” His eyebrows go up. “You know, a doctor down there.” Now his eyebrows are in his hairline.

  “No.” I shake my head and release a big laugh. “That’s an obstetrician and gynecologist.”

  “Oh. Then what’s a women’s studies major?”

  “I learned about how to determine and confront injustice and oppression, not only of women, but also minorities, people with disabilities, marginalized populations, and it helps a person to know themselves.” I shake my head. “But in some ways, I walked across that stage not knowing me any better than when I first sat in a classroom chair. That’s why I went to a community college and got the paralegal degree. I wanted to see if law might be a good direction.”