The Firefighter's Refrain

Thanks to Mark and Torry, he’d learned a bit about Finn’s history. The terrible accident. Absentee parents. Full responsibility for her sister. Employees who relied on her for a steady paycheck. Sam thought of his own mom and dad, whose unconditional love showed in everything they said and did.

The contrasts made him hug Finn a little tighter. She’d grown up without any of that, yet she’d taken on the role of mother, father and older sibling to her special needs sister. If she’d been raised by parents like his, how much more terrific would she be?

Finn pressed both palms to his chest and gazed up at him through long, tear-spiky eyelashes. His pulse pounded when a faint, sheepish grin lifted one corner of her mouth.

“I’m not usually such a big whiny baby. Sorry.”

When she looked away, it felt as if someone had flipped a switch and turned out the light in his heart. Sam lifted her chin on a bent forefinger, gently guiding her gaze back to his eyes.

“You’re not a big whiny baby, and you have absolutely nothing to apologize for.”

Finn bit her lower lip to still its trembling, and he admired her all the more for the effort at self-control.

“I meant what I said.”

Dark eyebrows lifted slightly.

“You really are safe with me. Safe to cry or stamp your feet or put a fist through a wall.” He grinned. “Although I don’t recommend that last one.”

“Right...the place has sustained enough damage for one night.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Besides, tears and tantrums are a waste of time and energy.”

Sam read between the lines: she hadn’t come by that mind-set the easy way. How many other hard-earned lessons had life taught her? He fought the urge to pull her close again.

“Don’t know about you,” he said, “but I could go for some strong coffee and a slice of pie.”

She smiled, and the light in his heart went on again.

“Cherry or apple?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

He followed her into the kitchen, where she grabbed two plates from the shelf above the long stainless counter.

“Sorry it isn’t homemade, but it’s not half bad warmed up in the microwave and topped off with ice cream.”

Sam considered reminding her there was nothing to apologize for. Instead, he said, “I’d offer to help, but, man, you made quick work of slicing that pie!” Chuckling, he balanced on a wheeled stool. “Remind me not to startle you when there’s a cleaver in your hand.”

She used the tip of the wide blade to point at a row of knives and scissors stuck to a magnetized strip above the counter. “That’s a cleaver. This is a chef’s knife. It’ll slice, chop, dice, mince or mash—as in garlic cloves. Most useful kitchen tool ever invented.”

It was good to see her more relaxed. “Aha. So that’s why you have half a dozen of them.”

One shoulder rose in a dainty shrug. “Rowdy uses them, too. Sometimes we’re in here together, plating up customers’ orders. Nothing less appetizing than for customers to hear the crew bickering over cutlery.”

He wanted to keep her talking—about anything but the damage out front—so he said, “Ever heard of Aggie Jackson?”

Finn laughed and slid their plates out of the microwave. “Who hasn’t heard of her?”

She dropped a scoop of ice cream on top of each wedge. “How do you know the woman whose main claim to fame is that she’s a descendant of Andrew Jackson?”

Sam thanked her for the pie and reached into one of the bins at the end of the counter, helping himself to a fork. “She’s my landlady. One of these days, I’ll meet someone who doesn’t know she’s the great-great...” He handed her a fork, then cut into his pie. “How many generations back do we need to go to get the right number of ‘greats’?”

Finn sat on the empty stool beside him. “Gosh. I’d need a calculator—or a time machine—to go back that far in history.”

Laughing, Sam made his way to the cooler, doing his best not to limp. When he returned with a carton of milk, she nodded toward his leg. “Overdid it tonight, I see.”

He grabbed two glasses from the drying rack near the dishwasher. “No biggie. It’ll be fine by the time I’m married.”

She’d just taken a bite of pie, and her mouth froze, midchew. Her expression reminded Sam of his cousin Zach’s boot camp graduation photo, stern and no-nonsense. He’d meant it as a joke. Looks like the joke’s on you, Marshall. He handed her a glass of milk, then hid his embarrassment by taking a long, slow gulp from his own glass.

Her laughter started soft and low, then escalated until it bounced off every hard surface in the kitchen. Sam loved the sound if it—rich and throaty and wholly feminine—and his pulse pounded harder.

“Guess it’ll be a while before you let me live that one down, huh.”

Her question implied they had a future together, and Sam liked that. Liked it a lot.

She toasted him with the tumbler. “This was a good choice, by the way. It’ll be hard enough to sleep tonight, even without caffeine floating around in my system.”

Sam doubted he’d sleep well, either...because Finn would be floating around in his system. But she looked tired and understandably stressed.

“I should probably hit the road so you can—”

“How long have you been in Nashville?”

“Going on six years now. Seems half that...” At times like this. “And twice as long.”

Finn nodded. “I know exactly what you mean. My family landed here when I was thirteen.”

“Musicians?”

“My parents are singer-songwriters, and play about half a dozen instruments apiece. But that’s true of a big chunk of the city’s population. Connor and Misty tried all sorts of gimmicks but couldn’t find the one that set them apart from the competition.”

Based on her faraway expression, she was thinking of a far less pleasant time. She’d already gone through a lot tonight, and he felt bad, having opened an old wound. Sam covered her hand with his. For a moment she sat nodding, lost in her thoughts, and he was glad she hadn’t pulled her warm little hand away.

“It’s a rough road,” he admitted.

“Road?”

“The one that leads to a recording contract.”

One eyebrow rose, and she wasn’t smiling when she said, “And you know this because...”

“Because I’ve walked it a time or two myself.”

Coincidence that she chose that moment to take back her hand? Sam didn’t think so.

“It’s nowhere near the top of my priority list anymore, though,” he quickly added. “Family, the department, the academy, then music, in that order. Performing is more a hobby now than anything else.”

She turned on the stool to face him head-on. “Hypothetical question—if somebody with clout heard you perform and offered a contract, would you sign it?”