Chasing Fire
Page 49

Her voice sounded so cheerful, so breezy. He nearly panicked.
Iron Man, my ass, he thought.
“Ah, Ella, it’s Lucas.”
“Hello, Lucas.”
“Yeah, hello.”
“How are you?” she asked after ten seconds of silence.
“Good. I’m good. I had a really good time the other night.” Jesus Christ, Lucas.
“So did I. I’ve had a lovely time thinking about it, and you, since.”
“You did?”
“I did. Now that you’ve called, I’m hoping you’re going to ask to do it again.”
He felt the pleasure rise up from his toes and end in a big, stupid grin. This wasn’t so hard. “I’d like to have dinner with you again.”
“I’d like that, too. When?”
“Actually, I—Tonight? I know it’s short notice, but—”
“Let’s call it spontaneous. I like spontaneity.”
“That’s good. That’s great. I could pick you up at seven.”
“You could. Or we can both be spontaneous. Come to dinner, Lucas, I’m in the mood to cook. Do you like pasta?”
“Sure, but I don’t want to put you out.”
“Nothing fancy. It’s supposed to be a pretty evening; we could eat out on the deck. I’ve been working on my garden, and you’d give me a chance to show it off.”
“That sounds nice.” A home-cooked meal, an evening on a deck by a garden—two dinners within three days with a pretty woman? It sounded flat-out amazing.
“Do you need directions?”
“I’ll find you.”
“Then I’ll see you around seven. Bye, Lucas.”
“Bye.”
He had a date, he thought, just a little stunned. An official one.
God, he hoped he didn’t screw it up.
He thought about Rowan while he drove home to change for dinner. She’d be in the thick of it now, in the smoke and heat, taking action, making decisions. Every cell in her body and mind focused on killing the fire and staying alive.
He thought of her when he walked in the house, only minutes from the base. A good-sized place, he reflected. But when Rowan was home, she needed her space, and his parents came home several times a year and needed theirs.
Still, during the long stretches without them, the empty seemed to grow.
He kept it neat. All the years of needing to grab whatever he needed the minute he needed it carried over to his private life. And he kept it simple.
His mother liked to fuss, enjoyed having things around the place, which he packed up whenever she wasn’t in residence and stored away until the next time she was.
Less to dust.
He did the same with the colorful pillows she liked to toss all over the sofa, the chairs. It saved him from shoving them on the floor every time he wanted to stretch out.
In his room a plain brown spread covered his bed, a straight-backed tan chair stood in the corner. Dark wood blinds covered the windows. Even Rowan despaired at the lack of color or style, but he found it easy to keep clean.
Shirts hung tidily in his closet, sectioned off from pants by a set of open shelves he’d built himself for shoes.
Nothing fancy, Ella had said, but what did that mean? Exactly?
When panic tried to tickle his throat, he grabbed his basics. Khaki trousers and a blue shirt. After he’d dressed, he checked in for another fire report.
Nothing to do but wait, he thought, and for a few hours, this time, he wouldn’t wait alone.
Because Ella had mentioned her garden, he stopped on the way and bought flowers. Flowers were never wrong, that much he knew.
He plugged her address into the GPS in his truck as backup. He knew the area, the street.
He wondered what they’d talk about. He wondered if he should’ve bought wine. He hadn’t thought of wine. Would wine and flowers be too much?
It was too late to buy wine anyway, plus how would he know what kind?
He pulled into the drive, parked in front of the garage of a pretty, multilevel house in a bold orange stucco he thought suited her. A lot of windows to take in the mountains, flowers in the yard, with more in an explosion of color and shape spiking and tumbling in big native pots on the stones of the covered front entrance.
Now he wondered if the yellow roses he’d bought were overkill. “Flowers are never wrong,” he mumbled to himself as he stepped out of the truck on legs gone just a little bit weak.
He probably should’ve gotten a burger and fries from the cafe, hunkered down in his office. He didn’t know how to do this. He was too old to be doing this. Women had never made any sense to him, so how could he make sense to a woman?
He felt stupid and clumsy and tongue-tied, but since retreat wasn’t an option, rang the bell.
She answered, her hair swept back and up, her face warm and welcoming.
“You found me. Oh, these are beautiful.” She took the roses, and as a woman would, buried her face in the buds. “Thank you.”
“They reminded me of your voice.”
“My voice?”
“They’re pretty and cheerful.”
“That’s a lovely thing to say. Come in,” she said, and, taking his hand, drew him inside.
Color filled the house, and the things his mother would have approved of. Bright and bold, soft and textured, a mix of patterns played throughout the living area where candles filled a river stone fireplace.
“It’s a great house.”
“I love it a lot.” She scanned the living area with him with an expression of quiet satisfaction. “It’s the first one I’ve ever bought, furnished and decorated on my own. It’s probably too big, but the kids are here a lot, so I like having plenty of room. Let’s go on back so I can put these in water.”
It was big, he noted, and all open so one space sort of spilled casually into the next. He didn’t know much—or anything, really—about decorating, but it felt like it looked. Bright, happy, relaxed.
Then the kitchen made his eyes pop. It flowed into a dining area on one side and a big gathering space—another sofa, chairs, big flat-screen—on the other. But the hub was like a magazine shot with granite counters, a central island, shiny steel appliances, dark wood cabinets, many of them glass-fronted to display glass and dishware. A few complicated small appliances, in that same shiny steel, stood on the counters.
“This is a serious kitchen.”