Exes and O's (The Influencer, #2)(43)

The rest of the drive is silent, save for my singing. I think he’s grateful to escape the car when we pull into the parking lot of the redbrick firehouse. It’s wide with four massive garage doors, each housing a red truck. As I step out of Trevor’s car, I’m hit with the scent combination of gasoline, rubber, and a faint hint of smoke.

Scott comes marching around the corner of the engine bay, fully suited in fire gear, his helmet tucked under his arm. He double-takes when he spots me, running a hand through his thick, overgrown hair, which he’s very proud of. “Hey, what are you doing here?”

“She needed some sun. She was slowly turning into a vampire,” Trevor tells him nonchalantly. “I’m just gonna go gear up. Be right back.” He gives me a playful nudge to the back of the shoulder.

Scott waits for Trevor to be out of earshot before giving me a quizzical expression. “That was weird,” he mutters under his breath.

“What was weird?”

“Oh, nothing.” He drops his eyes to his boots, quickly changing the subject. “Hey, did you know Trevor got promoted before the holidays?”

I slow-blink. “What? A promotion?” Why wouldn’t he tell me?

“He’s the new lieutenant.” Scott’s expression softens. “Don’t take it personally that he didn’t tell you. He doesn’t tell anyone anything.” Before I can respond, he ushers me along. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to the rest of the crew.”

Meeting the team distracts me from angsting over Trevor’s secrecy. Notably, there’s Kevin, who is the first to tell me that under no circumstances will he lift a finger today, due to a back injury. Paula is one of three women at the station and is grateful for my presence. She even insists I need to ride in her truck to debrief about the latest season of Euphoria. Everyone is laid-back, boasting friendly demeanors that hit me like fresh ocean air, compared to the polluted smog that is the hospital, with its endless drama.

And then there’s Cameron. He’s built like a lumberjack, towering over even Scott, who’s well over six feet.

Cameron introduces himself with a burly handshake. “How you doin’?” he asks in a Joey Tribbiani New York–style accent. “You’re Scotty’s sister-in-law, huh?”

“Soon-to-be sister-in-law,” I correct, shooting Scott a look. “Although they’re eloping to tropical paradise without me. Leaving me behind in the dead of winter.”

Cameron gifts me with a Calvin Klein model smile. “Hey, it’s not so bad. I’m here in Boston.”

Before I can react to his blatant confidence, Trevor materializes behind me. “Ready to go?” he asks, eyeing Cameron.

I go to respond, but the visual of Trevor suiting up changes life as I know it. Men in uniform have never sparked the fanny flutters, until now. Even in a completely shapeless jacket, his sex appeal has skyrocketed to new heights. The whole thing plays out in my mind in slo-mo. Flexing tendons, strained forearms, all dipping and twisting like art in motion.

The corner of his mouth quirks up when he notices me blatantly ogling him like a tiger awaiting a hunk of raw, bloody meat to be tossed into its enclosure. I think I may have just ovulated.

“Why are you staring at me like that?”

My cheeks burn, and I do a one-eighty to beeline for the first available truck, which happens to be Cameron’s.

As I take my first step, Trevor gives the collar of my peacoat a soft tug. “Nope. Not that one. You’re my responsibility today.” His tone is neutral, although I can’t help but feel as if I’m burdening him. Like he’s obliged to babysit me.

I shrug it off, following him into the correct truck. There are two face-to-face seats on either side in addition to a row along the back. He promptly points me toward a face-to-face seat, taking the backward one. Kevin is our driver. Sadly, I’m not in Paula’s truck, or Scott’s. But the other two guys, Ernie and Jesse, are supportive of my suggestion to crank the music.

Everyone but Trevor belts a Queen song as the truck barrels down the city streets toward the first pickup location. Ernie even offers me a red Twizzler. I thank him, peeling one out before passing the bag to Trevor. When he reaches for it, I catch the tail end of a tattoo that extends to his wrist.

“When did you get your first tattoo?” I ask through a sticky bite.

“When I graduated high school. I moved to Arizona for a while for college. I was missing home when I got this one.” He pulls back the sleeve to reveal an artfully designed compass on the inside of his wrist.

“You were in college?”

“Yup. Had a scholarship for rugby.”

More breaking news. Yet another major detail about Trevor Metcalfe I was unaware of. I try to ignore the press of our knees together as the truck slants downhill. Trevor doesn’t seem to notice or care, because he doesn’t shift away.

“I had no idea you played rugby at the college level.”

“I dropped out after the second year.” He catches my concerned-mother reaction and quickly adds, “Came home and joined the BFD.”

“Why did you leave?”

He lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “Lots of reasons. I got injured after the second season. But mostly because I hated being away from home. And Angie was born during my second year. I knew my brother wasn’t stepping up, so it didn’t feel right to be so far away,” he says. “My grandma passed away in that same year too.”