Charming the Firefighter

He sent a text, his fingers flying over the buttons.

Used to be a time when she could brush his hair back, make him smile and laugh. Those days were deader than her marriage vows.

“I’m gonna shower,” he said, tugging off his sweaty shirt. He dropped it on the floor—two feet from his clothes hamper.

With a grimace, Penelope picked it up by the hem, the fabric pinched between her thumb and forefinger. “Do you have some sort of genetic defect that stops you from putting your clothes where they belong?” she asked, tossing the shirt into the wicker basket. “Or do you leave them scattered all over simply because you know it bothers me?”

“That’s just a side benefit.” And he rapped out a da dum dum on his dresser.

A joke? Wow. Give the kid his way and suddenly he was a comedian. She turned. Her smile froze, her breath locked in her lungs. The safe, secure world she’d worked so hard to build for them shifted, leaving her thoughts tumbling.

No. Please, God, not again.

“Andrew,” she wheezed on an exhale, and worked to keep her voice calm as she closed the distance between them. Focused on clearing her expression. No sense worrying him. Not when she wasn’t sure what was going on. “What happened to your back?”

He glanced over his shoulder. “What do you mean?”

“You...you have a bruise.” Clearing her throat, she lightly touched his lower back, to the right of his spine. “Here.”

Turning to the mirror, he twisted so he could see what she was talking about. He shrugged. “I must’ve bumped into something.”

“I think you’d remember bumping into something hard enough to leave that big of a mark.” It was at least the size of her fist, the center a dark purple, the outer edges bleeding into yellow. “Do you...do you have any other bruises?”

Another shrug. “Not that I know of.”

But he had this one. One he’d seemingly been unaware of. Fear rose in her throat, threatening to choke her. “Do your joints hurt? Have you noticed being more tired lately? Have you been getting headaches?”

He rolled his eyes. “No, no and yes. Right now. A big one.”

“Not funny,” she murmured. This was serious. Couldn’t he see that? Spinning him around, she searched his body for more bruises. His appetite was still strong and he’d put on weight, not lost it. She reached up to check the lymph nodes in his neck.

He jerked away. “Jesus! Knock it off. I’m not sick again.”

“I know you’re not,” she said quickly, as if her words alone could make the statement fact. But she’d already learned the hard way that all the wishing, hoping and praying in the world couldn’t change what was. She tried to smile. “But I’ll make an appointment with Dr. Franklin tomorrow to—”

“I’m not going to the doctor.” He stabbed his fingers through his hair, making the strands stand on end. “Look, the truth is, I didn’t bump into something. I got it playing dodgeball in gym the other day.”

Relief made her knees weak. Her head light. He wasn’t sick. The leukemia hadn’t come back.

Thank God.

But he had been hurt. Could have been injured even worse. What if he’d been hit in the head and gotten a concussion?

“No school district should be allowing a game like that to be played in gym class,” she said, her fury and indignation growing. “First thing in the morning I’m going to call the school—”

“That’s why I didn’t want to tell you! I knew you’d freak out about it and it’s nothing. It doesn’t even hurt. And the last thing I need is you making it into some big deal.” He yanked open a drawer, grabbed a pair of socks and underwear, then shoved it closed hard enough to shake the dresser. “It’s a bruise. Not the end of the world. Not cancer. So don’t even think about calling and bitching out the gym teacher, because I’m the one who’ll have to take a bunch of shit if you do!”

He stormed out of the room, across the hall and into the bathroom. Slammed the door shut as if to punctuate his little tantrum.

She hunched her shoulders. Bit her lower lip. A moment later, the shower started.

He didn’t understand that she was simply doing her job as his mother. He resented everything she did for him. The healthy food she prepared, the doctor appointments she dragged him to, the tests and blood work. Even a simple question about how he was feeling set him off.

She worked so hard to keep him safe. Healthy.

And all it did was make him mad. But she was the one who suffered. She had to live with him, had to deal with him, day in and day out. His choices, actions and rotten, disrespectful, ungrateful attitude were her problems.

She just prayed they weren’t her fault.

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_c247fc60-ff4f-530a-bf59-359b2d2535d3)

“YOU GOING TO lie there all day?” James Montesano asked, tossing the basketball from one hand to the other.

Rolling onto his back, Leo Montesano squinted at the people peering down at him, their heads shifting as if they’d been detached from their bodies. Huh. Floating heads. That would make a great name for a rock-and-roll band.

James kept up with the ball tossing. Back and forth. Back and forth.

It drove Leo nuts.

He wanted to tell his brother to knock it the hell off, but the breath had left his lungs when he’d done his face-plant, and he couldn’t speak.

Next to James, their brother, Eddie, wiped his forehead with the hem of his T-shirt, dislodging the frayed brim of his black Pittsburgh Pirates baseball cap. On Leo’s other side, their younger sister, Maddie, smirked.

All three had dark hair, heavy eyebrows and deep, end-of-summer tans—traits Leo shared. About the only resemblances between him and his family. Because if the situation had been reversed and one of them were flat on their back, he’d be offering a helping hand.

They just waited for him to get his own ass up off the ground.

You’d think there would be a time or two when the odds were even among the Montesano siblings, but more often than not it was three against one.

Them against him, usually.

That was what he got for following his own path, being his own person. Freedom, yes. But also a lot of grief.

“Well?” James asked, as if Leo’s being bruised and sporting a possible head injury was ruining his entire day.

Leo squeezed his eyes shut, but as soon as he did, flashes of memory from last night’s accident scene bombarded him and he opened them again. At least when he did, everyone’s heads stayed put. And the images disappeared.

He shot James the middle finger.

“Guess he’ll live,” Eddie said before walking away.

James gave the ball extra spin as it moved from hand to hand, his dark eyes hidden behind a pair of aviators. “Too bad. I was hoping we could find a sub for you.”

“Your concern is touching,” Leo muttered as he shifted into a sitting position, the blacktop burning the palms of his hands, the bright sun warming his bare shoulders. He and James were both shirtless—no big deal when it came to playing a game of shirts versus skins, but not so great if you were pushed to the freaking pavement. His knees and palms—which had taken the brunt of his weight when he’d gone down—were scraped and stinging. He rubbed his hands against the sides of his shorts and glared at his brother. “Really. Warms a man’s heart to know his family cares so deeply for his well-being.”

“You want concern? Stop trying to turn a fun pickup game among family and friends into a grudge match.”

“Hey, don’t blame me. I’m the innocent victim here.” He jabbed a thumb in Maddie’s direction. “She’s the one who tripped me.”