The Mighty Quinns: Dylan

“No!” she said, making a move toward the door.

She slipped past him and Dylan raced after her, catching up a few steps inside the door of the shop. He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her back against him, her backside nestling into his lap in a way that made him forget all about the dangers of fire and focus on the dangers of a soft, feminine body.

They both watched as Artie Winton hooked his ax behind the smoking machine and yanked it onto the floor. Then he dragged it into the middle of the shop, raised the ax and brought it down. A few moments later, Jeff Reilly covered the mess of twisted stainless steel with a coating of foam from the extinguisher.

“This is the source,” Jeff called. “It looks like that’s all the farther it got.”

“What was it?” Dylan asked.

Reilly squatted down to take a better look. “One of those frozen yogurt machines?”

“Nah,” Winton said. “It’s one of those fancy coffee-makers.”

“It’s an Espresso Master 8000 Deluxe.”

Dylan glanced down to see the woman staring at the mess of stainless steel. A tear trickled down her cheek and she gnawed on her lower lip. Dylan cursed softly. If there was one thing he hated about fighting fires, it was the tears. Though he had given bad news to victims before, he’d never really known what to do about the tears. And to his ears, his words of sympathy always sounded so hollow and forced.

He cleared his throat. “I want you two to check around,” he ordered as he patted the woman’s shoulder. “Make sure we don’t have any electrical shorts or hot spots in the walls. We don’t know what kind of wiring they’ve got in here. Look for a breaker panel and see if it’s flipped.”

He pulled off his gloves and took the woman’s hand in his, then gently pulled her toward the door. He should have been thinking about what to say, but instead he was fascinated by how delicate her fingers felt in his hand. “There’s nothing you can do in here,” he said softly. “We’ll check everything out and if it’s safe, you can go back in after the smoke clears.”

When they got outside, he led her toward the back of the truck and gently pushed her down until she sat on the wide back bumper. A paramedic came rushing up but Dylan waved him off. Her tears came more freely now and Dylan felt his heart twist. He fought the impulse to gather her in his arms. She really didn’t have much to cry about. All she’d lost was a coffeemaker.

“It’s all right,” he said. “I know you were scared, but you’re fine. And you barely lost a thing.”

She snapped her head up and leveled an angry glare at him. “That machine was worth fifteen thousand dollars! That’s the best machine on the market. It makes four shots of espresso in fifteen seconds. And you and your ax-wielding Huns chopped it to bits.”

Stunned by the intensity of her outburst, Dylan took a step back as if scorched by her words. She owed him at least a small bit of gratitude! “Listen, lady, I—”

“My name’s not lady!” she cried.

“Well, whatever your name is, you should be happy,” he said, unable to keep the anger from edging his voice. “No, you should be thrilled. Today was a good day. No one died.” Dylan sighed, then lightened his tone. “You didn’t get hurt, no one got hurt, you didn’t lose precious family mementos or your favorite pet. You lost a coffeemaker, and a defective one at that.”

Her mouth snapped shut and she looked up at him through thick, damp lashes. Dylan watched as another tear trickled down her cheek and he fought the temptation to reach out and catch it with his thumb.

“It’s not just any coffeemaker,” she reminded him.

“I know. It’s an Espresso Deluxe 5000 whatever,” he said. “A big hunk of stainless steel with a few gauges and a lot of tubing. Lady, I have to say that—”

“My name’s not lady,” she insisted. She brushed the hair from her face, then wiped off a smudge of soot from the end of her nose. “It’s Meggie Flanagan.”

Up until that very instant, the moment she’d said her name, Dylan hadn’t recognized her. She’d changed—a lot. But there were still traces of the girl he knew so long ago. “Meggie Flanagan? Mary Margaret Flanagan? Tommy Flanagan’s little sister.”

She sent him a dismissive look. “Maybe.”

Dylan chuckled, then pulled his hat off and ran his fingers through his hair. “Little Meggie Flanagan. So how’s your brother? I haven’t seen him for ages.”

She regarded him suspiciously at first, then her gaze flitted over to the name tape on his jacket right below his left shoulder. Her expression fell and a blush rose on her cheeks, so intense Dylan could see it beneath the soot. “Quinn,” she murmured. “Oh, God.” She braced her elbows on her knees, then buried her face in her hands. “I should have figured you’d show up and try to ruin my life all over again.”

“Ruin your life?” Dylan asked. “I saved your life!”

She jumped to her feet. “You did not,” Meggie countered. “I was perfectly capable of putting out that fire on my own.”

Dylan crossed his arms over his chest. “Then why did you call the fire department?” he inquired.

“I didn’t,” she muttered. “The alarm company did.”

He grabbed the dish towel from her hand and waved it in her face. “And is this how you were planning to put it out?” Dylan shook his head. “I’ll bet you don’t even have a fire extinguisher inside, do you. If you only knew how many serious fires could be stopped with a simple fire extinguisher, I—” She tipped her chin up defiantly and his words died in his throat.

Meggie Flanagan. He almost felt embarrassed by his earlier attraction. After all, she was the little sister of one of his old buddies. There were unwritten rules between guys and one of the biggest was you didn’t hit on a friend’s sister. But Meggie wasn’t that gawky kid with the braces and the goofy glasses anymore. And he hadn’t seen Tommy for years. “I could cite you for a code violation.”

“Oh, go ahead,” she challenged. With a soft curse, she neatly turned on her heel and walked back toward the shop. “Considering our history, I wouldn’t put it past you.”

History? Dylan stared after her. “Meggie Flanagan,” he repeated, this time out loud. He’d always remembered her as a shy and nervous kid, the kind of girl who stood back and watched the world from a safe distance. This woman could never be classified as shy. She used to be so skinny—and flat as a board. Even from his vantage point, he could see that she’d filled out in all the right places.

He’d spent hours after school at Tommy Flanagan’s house, listening to music or playing video games. And she’d always been there, silently watching them through those thick glasses, standing in the shadows so she wouldn’t be seen. He’d practically lived at the Flanagan house when he was a senior, but it wasn’t the video games that brought him back again and again. Tommy’s mother was a cheerful and loving woman and she could always be depended on for an invitation to dinner, which Dylan gladly accepted.

Meggie always sat across from him at the table and whenever he’d looked up, she was always staring at him, the very same stare she fixed on him whenever they met in the hallways at school. She was two years behind him, a sophomore when he was a senior, and though they’d never shared a class, he saw her at least once or twice a day near his locker or in the lunch room. He’d seen how the kids poked fun of her and Tommy had been particularly protective, so Dylan had felt the same, considering her a surrogate little sister.

He watched now as she paced back and forth in front of her shop, rubbing her arms against the early November wind. The urge to protect was still there, but it was heavily laced with an undeniable attraction, an overwhelming need to touch her again just to see if his reaction was the same. Dylan shrugged off his jacket then walked over to her. “Here,” he said. “You’re going to catch a cold.”

He didn’t wait for her assent, merely draped the heavy waterproof jacket over her shoulders, allowing his hands to linger just a moment. The tingle that shot up his arms when he touched her did not go unnoticed. She stopped pacing and gave him a reluctant “thank you.”

“What did you mean?” he asked, leaning back against the brick facade of the building to watch her pace. “When you said I’d ruined your life once before?”

She frowned. “Nothing. It doesn’t make a difference.”

Dylan shook his head and smiled in an attempt to lighten her mood. “I hardly recognize you, Meggie. Except for the name. We never really knew each other, did we?”

An odd expression crossed her face and he wasn’t sure if he read it right, through the soot and the windblown hair. Had he hurt her by his words? Was there a reason he was supposed to remember her?

To his disappointment, their conversation ended there. The radio on the truck sounded another alarm and the firefighters gathered at the scene stopped to listen. Dispatch gave an address in an industrial area, a factory fire, already a three-alarm blaze. “I have to go,” he said, reaching out and giving her hand a squeeze. “It should be safe to go back inside now. And I’m sorry about your machine.”

She opened her mouth, as if she had something more to say, then snapped it shut. “Thank you,” she murmured.

He walked backward toward the truck, strangely unable to take his eyes away from her. For a moment, she looked like the girl he’d remembered, standing all alone on the sidewalk, unsure of herself, hands clutched in front of her. “Say ‘hi’ to Tommy the next time you see him.”

“I will,” she called, her gaze still fixed to his.

The truck rumbled to life behind him and Ken Carmichael honked the horn impatiently. “Maybe I’ll see you around,” Dylan added.

“Your jacket!” she called, slipping out of it.

He waved. “We’ve got extras in the truck.”

He hopped inside the cab and took a spot behind the driver, then pulled the door shut. As they drove away from the scene, sirens wailing and lights blazing, Dylan glanced up and found Artie and Jeff grinning at him. “Gee, Quinn, what happened to your jacket?” Artie asked. “Did you lose it in the fire?”

Dylan shrugged.