Read The Fireman Who Loved Me for Free Online Page B

bent their limbs, they still moved in perfect harmony with each other. She wished she’d paid more attention when Nelly had tried to teach her ballroom dancing.
    “Everything okay?” asked Brody, as they executed a slow spin.
    “Great. But my Grans wouldn’t be stepping on your toes like this.”
    “She’d probably be boxing my ears instead. That’s what they did in her generation, boxed people’s ears. I’m not even sure what it means.”
    Melissa laughed, and caught the answering flare in his eyes. Suddenly she wondered what it would be like to kiss him. If she pressed her lips to that firm mouth, would he lose that calm control of his? Bend her backward right here on the dance floor? Flushing, she dragged her gaze away from his mouth.
    She’d had way too much Chardonnay. There would be no kiss. It wasn’t a real date, after all. He was just doing his duty for the Widows and Orphans Fund. So why did she keep having these ridiculous little fantasies and random tinglings of various body parts?
    She took a deep breath, inhaling his scent. He smelled like clean leather, like the seats in his car. Mixed with some kind of light aftershave with a woodsy aroma. She breathed in again for another dose. It wasn’t enough—she wanted to push aside his white collar and bury her face in his chest. Maybe lick his skin to pin down that elusive essence of male.
    What was wrong with her?
    This was all her grandmother’s fault. Nelly was always going on about testosterone and red-blooded men. It was ridiculous. Melissa liked a completely different type, sensitive and artsy. One of her writer boyfriends had put her in a short story. A fireman couldn’t do that, could he? Of course, it had hardly been a flattering portrait. She’d come off as a money-grubbing sellout for working at a TV station. But still—it was art. Not bad for the daughter of an electrician.
    She should be spending the evening with a goateed artist, not this iron-armed, enigma-eyed man twirling her around the dance floor. She should be at an art gallery or a poetry reading, or in a loft sharing a bottle of red wine and a deep philosophical discussion with someone who didn’t make her pulse skip so many beats. She had to get a grip.
    She stiffened her arms to put more distance between them. “So . . .” She stuck her chin out. “Isn’t that a little archaic, the Widows and Orphans Fund? It sounds like something out of Oliver Twist .”
    “Does it?”
    “It more or less assumes that when a firefighter dies, he’ll be leaving a wife behind. What if the firefighter is a woman? Or gay?”
    “I could check the bylaws, but I’m sure exceptions can be made.”
    “Exceptions! That’s exactly the problem. It shouldn’t be an exception. It should be normal.” She glared up at him.
    Brody, taken aback, played for time with a quick spinning move. What had set her off? She’d turned stiff as a board in his arms, and her eyes were throwing emerald sparks at him. She really was quite beautiful. He suddenly wanted to see more of those sparks.
    “Speaking generally, your typical firefighter is a married man with kids.” The San Gabriel station was a glaring exception, but he saw no need to mention that.
    “Then you’re not a typical firefighter. At least in that way.”
    “But in other ways?” He arched an eyebrow. This should be interesting.
    “Probably. Do you like football?”
    “Yes.”
    “Cars? Something tells me that blue time machine is not your only car.”
    “I’ve also got a truck and a Toyota. And a motorcycle.”
    “Of course you do. You listen to country music?”
    “Something wrong with country music?”
    Her agitation had quickened her steps, and he found himself traveling double-time around the dance floor to keep her from spinning off by herself. He twirled them toward a quiet corner. The other dancers, moving at one third their pace, kept a wise distance.
    “You probably hang out in bars playing darts and waiting for the next