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years ago?
    Or that despite the fact that she’d pulled a Judge Judy on his ass over the way he’d landed his community service sentence, then met his cold shoulder with an equally arctic counterpart as she’d worked him into the kitchen tiles, he still found her unbelievably and unequivocally hot as hell.
    God, he was screwed. And not even in a way that would leave a smile on his face.
    â€œWhat’s the matter, Donovan? One day of plates and pots enough to send you around the bend?”
    Alex blinked himself back to his usual table in Bellyflop’s bar area just in time to catch the good-natured glint in the eyes of his former squad mate Nick Brennan. If anyone knew the twists and trials of working in a professional kitchen, it was definitely Brennan. After suffering a career-ending injury two and a half years ago, the guy had spent his time doing exactly that before coming back to Fairview last month to teach at the fire academy.
    After all, once a firefighter . . .
    â€œLaugh it up, fry boy,” Alex said, giving up half a grin before sliding off his padded leather bar stool to shake his buddy’s hand. “I take it you heard about my disagreement with McManus.”
    â€œWho hasn’t? The story’s all over the department.” Brennan tipped his darkly stubbled chin at their passing waitress, pointing to Alex’s beer bottle with one hand while holding up two fingers with the other as he parked himself across the table. “Gotta hand it to you, dude. When it comes to going all-in, you are definitely committed.”
    Alex shrugged. He’d had the same philosophy for the last twelve years, and while it might’ve gotten him into a bunch of scrapes, his all-in, all-the-time mindset was definitely better than the alternative. “From where I sit, there’s really no other way to be. After all, Cap’s not running a knitting circle. We either take risks or people get hurt.”
    â€œYou’re preaching to the choir. Believe me, I remember what goes down on shift.” Brennan plucked a specials menu from between the salt-and-pepper shakers on the table to give it a nice, long look-see, and even though his expression didn’t vary from its terminally easygoing status, guilt poked holes in Alex’s chest all the same. Brennan had been injured the same night they’d lost Mason in that gut-twisting apartment fire. One minute, they’d all been clearing the building, business as usual. The next, part of the third floor had collapsed, Brennan’s career had been shattered along with a pair of his vertebrae, and Mason was gone.
    And wasn’t that one more balls-out reminder that life was short.
    â€œYeah.” He finished the last of his beer, the empty bottle finding the polished wood table with a thunk , and Brennan leaned in, his voice notched low against the music spilling down from the overhead speakers.
    â€œListen, Teflon, I get where your head is, but do you think maybe—”
    â€œWell, well, look who it is! I heard this guy’s gonna be the next Martha Stewart.” Tom O’Keefe, one of Station Eight’s paramedics, arrived at the table, clapping his palm over Alex’s with a wry laugh. Cole followed behind him, sending a thread of relief beneath Alex’s breastbone. While he’d never disrespect Mason’s memory, giving his emotions airtime—especially in the middle of a moderately populated sports bar—wasn’t part of Alex’s game plan. The past was past. What mattered was the moment you were in, and not a whole hell of a lot more.
    After all, if you weren’t busy living, you were busy dying, and no way was he going out with a fizzle instead of a slam-fucking-bang.
    â€œYou’re hilarious, O’Keefe. Really. Asshole,” Alex tacked on, but his buddy just lifted his brows in an exaggerated waggle.
    â€œOh, now you’re just flirting with me.” O’Keefe