On Second Thought(78)

“Okay, okay,” he said, sliding onto his knees in front of me. “Let’s see if you can answer a few questions. Put your head down and try not to pant, that’s a good girl.” I did, feeling his hand on my shoulder. “That’s it. Nice and slow. What color panties have you got on?”

My head snapped up. “What?”

He pushed my head back down. “Answer the question. Or I could check for you if that would be easier.”

“Aren’t you supposed to ask about—hehn—the President?”

“I don’t care about the President’s underwear. What color are yours? Throw me a bone and say a red thong.”

“You’re such—hehn—a pig,” I said, staring at the grass. The gray splotches were getting smaller.

“I know, I know, red thong, such a cliché. But I’m a guy. We like visual stimulation. White lace panties, they’d be good, too, I guess. Or black. Or none, now that I think of it. Any chance you went commando this morning?”

“I can’t believe they...let you do this...for a living.” I sucked in a slow breath, held it, let it go. Did it again.

“Good point. But guess whose panic attack is dying down, huh?” He lifted my head with both his hands and smiled into my eyes. “Ta-da.”

He was right. I was still sweaty, and my heart was thudding fast, but the panting had stopped, and I didn’t see gray anymore.

“God, I’m good,” he said with a grin, sitting back on the bench with me. “FDNY, baby. We live for this shit. Now, don’t compliment me just yet. Just sit there and breathe. I’ll stay with you.”

*

An hour later, after I’d calmed down, met Jane, Daniel’s sister whose “rat-faced shithead husband” walked out on her, as well as her two adorable sons and demonic daughter, after Daniel had handed his sister some money for the ice-cream truck, he informed me he was driving me home.

I didn’t protest. For one, I felt weak and wobbly. For two, I didn’t want to go back to that house alone. And for three, having a firefighter around made me feel safer. He made me take his arm on the way to the car, then fished my keys out of my purse and slid the driver’s seat way back. “Tell me which way,” he said, and I directed him through Cambry-on-Hudson.

“Holy shit,” he said as we pulled into the driveway.

“Yeah. It’s impressive.”

I tapped the security code in, opened the door, then tried to turn on the front hall light. The den (or study) light went on instead. Good enough.

We went into the kitchen, and I heard Ollie’s dog tags jingling as he came down the stairs, dragging his blanket, wagging his tail so hard his whole back swayed.

“Hi, Ollie!” I said, bending down to pet him. “Did you have fun napping today? You did? Did you miss me?” I looked up. “This is Ollie. Ollie, this is Daniel the Hot Firefighter.”

Daniel was looking around, openmouthed. “Nice house,” he said.

“Nathan was an architect.”

“It could be in a magazine.”

It had been in several, in fact. Nathan had copies framed in his work office. One of his coworkers had packed up his stuff and sent it over, but I hadn’t managed to open the box yet.

I finished worshipping the dog and stood up, leaving Ollie to trot over to seduce Daniel’s shoes. “Want something to drink?”

“I’m starving,” he said. “You got any food?”

“I have a freezer full of sympathy meals,” I said. “What would you like? I can thaw just about anything.”

“Anything is fine.” He looked a little uneasy, glancing around. It was an intimidating kitchen, I’d grant him that. He picked up Ollie, who began licking his chin. The dog loved everything with a heartbeat.

“Would you like some wine?” I asked.

“Got a beer?”

“Maybe.” I dug around in the fridge. God, we had a lot of food! It looked like the fridge of a woman in a commercial, full of leafy dark greens and organic yogurt. All my sister’s doing.

I found a beer in the back and took it out, then glanced at the label.

Hurricane Kitty IPA.

Nathan bought this. We’d spent a chilly Sunday afternoon in March at Keegan Ales microbrewery, sipping beers at the tasting bar after the tour, the lush smell of hops seeping into our clothes. Brought a twelve-pack home with us.

For a second, I could picture him so clearly it made me dizzy—Nathan reaching into the fridge, wearing his blue sweater with the four buttons at the neck.

“I’ll have wine. Wine’s good,” someone said.

Right. Daniel the Hot Firefighter.

I put the beer back, grabbed some wine and pulled a Tupperware container of something from the freezer. “Chicken stew,” I read from the label. “Sound good?”

“Sounds great. Hey, I don’t have to stay, Kate. I’ll call a cab and go to my sister’s.”

“No, no, that’s fine. I mean, if you have to go back...”

“I don’t have to. I just don’t want you to feel like you have to entertain me.” He folded his impressive arms. He didn’t have a jacket on, though the night was cool, just a T-shirt. God forbid we should miss those biceps.

The thought brought a smile to my mind, if not my face. “Stay,” I said. “And open this wine.”