Chapter Seven
Zoe traced the bright red Scarlett’s Diner logo on the menu in front of her with one finger, her eyes making an obligatory scan of the breakfast options even though she hadn’t changed her usual order in over a decade. Clacking the menu shut, she let her gaze wander through the sun-filled window at her elbow, taking in the post rush-hour bustle as she slowly gathered her resolve. These Friday morning breakfast dates with her father, where they exchanged pleasantries and danced artfully around the twin elephants in the room named Divorce and Disapproval, were really bad enough. But today she had to contend with the ridiculous arrangement she’d made with Alex, too, and honestly, all the fortitude in the galaxy might not get her through the double header.
Who the hell had been in charge of her mouth when she’d impulsively blurted “fine” in response to his risk-reward challenge, Zoe had no idea. But the promise of Alex’s much needed help sans his reckless, who-cares attitude had been all too appealing, and one eight-hour chunk of her life had seemed like a smart trade-off for four weeks of slow and steady work that she wouldn’t have to pry out of him or worry about at every turn.
Even if she was one million percent certain she’d spend all of her day with him regretting it.
“Morning, Zoe. Can I get you some coffee?”
Zoe straightened against the red leather banquette at her back, knocking herself back to the here and now. Sara Martin, who had been waiting tables at Scarlett’s since she and Zoe had been in high school together, held up a pot of the diner’s city-famous brew, and Zoe’s mouth watered in a way that would make Pavlov beam with pride.
“Oh God, yes. Please.” Zoe flipped the white ceramic mug in front of her to a right side up position, nudging it across the patterned Formica to put it in Sara’s reach. If anything could jump-start her in the right direction, Scarlett’s coffee definitely topped the list.
“So how’s it going over there at Hope House?” Sara’s brown ponytail slid over her shoulder as she leaned in to fill Zoe’s cup with just enough room to accommodate the healthy splash of cream Zoe favored. Although they’d spoken more words in the three months Zoe had been back than they had in all four years of high school combined, Zoe worked up an optimistic smile. Sara’s steel-toed crowd might’ve scared her ten years ago, and the woman might still be a little rough around the borders, but Zoe had learned a lot about judging people from the so-called wrong side of Fairview since high school.
“We’re getting there,” she said. “There’s still only enough funding for us to run five days a week, but last month we were able to add hot breakfast on a limited basis, so it’s a step in the right direction.”
Zoe hated not being able to feed the shelter residents three square meals, seven days a week, but limited five-day service had been her only option since they’d opened the soup kitchen’s doors. What wasn’t an option, however, was going back-to-back days without offering any kind of food service, especially when the meals at the soup kitchen were often the only thing the residents had to eat. With Friday being payday for most people—as meager as it might be for Hope House’s residents—it seemed the best day to close the kitchen in favor of having breakfast and lunch service on Saturdays.
Sara nodded, just a quick tip of her chin. “Well, I think it’s cool you’re able to feed so many people, although with all that experience you’ve got, I bet you don’t hate the cooking.”
“I don’t hate the cooking,” Zoe agreed, selecting her words with care. Might as well warm up for the dance and defend she was about to have with her father. But, God, even though Fairview wasn’t a small city by any means, everybody sure was on a first name basis with what Zoe had left behind in DC.
“Nice to do what you love,” Sara murmured, dropping her gaze to the Formica as she gestured to the empty coffee cup across from Zoe. “Let me go ahead and fill that for your dad.”
“Oh, but he’s not . . .” Zoe shifted her sights from the woman in front of her to the main entrance of the diner, a ribbon of surprise uncurling in her belly at the sight of her father making his way past the brightly stenciled plate glass.
“Wow.” Zoe flipped the mug and slid it across the tabletop with a soft shush. “Your head is on one hell of a swivel.”
“Keeps me honest.” Sara lifted one shoulder beneath her bright red T-shirt. She filled the empty coffee cup, stepping back from the table at the exact moment Zoe’s father appeared at her side.
“Morning, Captain. Can I get you anything else to drink today?”
Zoe’s father smiled, the move showcasing a set of wrinkles around his eyes that were a relatively recent acquisition.
“No, thanks, Sara, although you can go ahead and put me down for the usual for breakfast. I’m starving.”
“You got it. Zoe, you going for your usual, too?”
No point in knocking a good, reliable meal, and anyway, she needed all the energy she could get today. “Yes, please.”
Sara nodded and angled herself back toward the long stretch of counter space that led to the pass-through to Scarlett’s kitchen. “One breakfast special, eggs over easy, bacon crisp, hash browns on the side, and one veggie egg white omelet, extra green peppers, no onions, cheddar cheese, coming right up.”
“Thanks.” The smile Zoe’s father gave Sara in parting became decidedly more difficult to decipher as he turned it on Zoe in greeting, gesturing to the booth she’d chosen in the intersection of the L-shaped diner before sitting down across from her. “Still opting for the best seat in the house, I see.”
“I never sit with my back to the door. You taught me that when I was twelve.” Along with how to catalogue all the exits in a building, how to estimate the number of steps to get to said exits, and how to determine which one was most viable for a safe escape in an emergency. After all, you could take the man out of the firehouse, but taking the firehouse out of the man? Not even Saint Anthony could pull off that miracle.
Her father straightened the cuffs of his dark brown canvas jacket, lifting a brow as he wrapped his hands around the cup of coffee Sara had left on the table. “Well, I suppose it’s good to see you haven’t lost all regard for your safety.”
Great. Looked like they were going to bypass well-mannered conversation and jump right in to the disapproval portion of the morning. Not that her father would actually cave and express his emotions directly so they could actually talk about them. God, all this bobbing and weaving was enough to drive a woman bat-shit crazy.
Zoe sighed. “I’m not a little girl anymore, Dad.”
“No, you’re not,” her father said, his voice remaining perfectly level despite the taut line of his jaw that said his molars had just gone tighter than Fort Knox on lockdown. “You’re a woman—a pretty woman—who puts in all sorts of odd hours in a terrible neighborhood. You’re also my daughter. As much as you might hate it, I’m not going to apologize for not liking your job or worrying about your welfare.”
Her hands tightened to fists over the paper napkin in her lap, although she regulated her voice to its calmest setting to match her father’s. “And as much as you might hate it, I’m not going to apologize for running the kitchen at Hope House. Look, I get that you’re disappointed I left Kismet.” She stopped, letting the serrated pang of his disapproval stick into her for a second before pulling up her chin to soldier past it. “But feeding people is what I do, and nobody needs it more than the people at the shelter. Anyway, it’s not as if I’m putting my life on the line every time I go to work just because Hope House is in a poor neighborhood.”
Her father didn’t flinch at the unspoken implication—not that she’d expected him to. God, this conversation could probably have itself, they’d been through it so many times, which was pretty ironic considering he never actually expressed his feelings in anything other than gruff one-liners and heavy innuendo that reeked of disappointment.
Her father let out a breath, although the ladder of his spine stood firm against the well-cushioned banquette. “I don’t want to have another argument with you, Zoe. Can’t we just have breakfast together, please?”
She paused. While standing her ground over her work at Hope House was and always had been priority number one, trying to get her father to understand her career change was like shouting into the wind. After three months of her best efforts, all she had was a sore throat and even sorer pride, and she’d sure as hell come by her stubborn streak honestly.
If they weren’t going to see eye to eye, the least they could do was share a good, hot meal. Especially since he’d said he was hungry.
“Okay,” she said, releasing her breath on a slow exhale. She examined her father more closely across the table, her eyes purposely avoiding the six-inch swath of scar tissue on his neck while taking in his leaner-than-usual frame and the slashes of dark shadow beneath both eyes. “Speaking of having a meal, you look a little worn out. Are you eating enough?”
“I thought it was my job to look out for you. When did we switch roles?” he asked, and although she eked out a barely there smile at the hint of humor in his non-answer, no way was she letting him off the hook.
“At about the same time you started dodging my questions. Seriously, Dad, when was the last time you had a good meal and some decent sleep?”
“I’ve been a little busy juggling things at work. I know how you feel about the department.” Her father held up a hand, probably to stave off the frown fitting itself to Zoe’s mouth. “But I’m down a man on Engine for four weeks, and that means I’ve got to fill a lot of holes in the schedule. It’s only temporary, but it’s still a pain.”
“Boy, don’t I know it.” Zoe realized a fraction too late that she’d let the words slip out, and damn it, there was no possible scenario involving Alex Donovan that didn’t turn her normally unflagging composure into tapioca. But the last thing she wanted was to bring Alex into the mix of an already precarious conversation, so she dove headfirst into a redirect. “Well, even if you’re working overtime, you still should eat. And before you argue, those microwave meal-sicle dinners don’t count as food. I’m tinkering with some new recipes on Sunday. I’ll bring you a few things to keep on hand so you don’t go hungry.”
“You don’t need to take care of me,” her father said, clipping out the words just hard enough to make them sharp around the edges. He took a breath, audible and slow, to smooth out the rest. “I’m not a charity case just because your mother and I are no longer married.”
An odd emotion Zoe couldn’t pin down glinted in his stare like ice cubes in whiskey, and despite the fact that they’d just called a temporary cease-fire, her own emotions came scraping up from where she’d stuffed them behind her breastbone. “I do if you’re not going to take care of yourself. And I don’t need a reminder that you and Mom are no longer married.”
Her father sat completely unmoving even though every muscle in his body went bowstring tight, and Zoe’s heart gave a stiff twist as she braced herself to blow past the pleasantries and finally, finally air out all the laundry that had been spin-cycling between them ever since her parents had separated last year.
But then Sara arrived with their breakfast plates stacked halfway up her forearms, and by the time she’d delivered the food, whatever reply the captain had intended to launch—along with the strange emotion flashing in his eyes—had cooled right back down to unreadable, impenetrable, and totally silent business as usual.
One hour, two cups of coffee, and three overstarched topics of conversation later, Zoe planted a cool parting kiss on her father’s cheek and dropped into the driver’s seat of her tried-and-true Prius. While breakfast hadn’t exactly been a stroll on the beach, the fact that she’d escaped mostly unscathed gave her hope for the rest of the day.
If only round two wasn’t going to be even more difficult to maneuver than a healthy dose of parental disdain.
Making sure her hands-free device was set and ready to go on the polished black dashboard, Zoe popped her iPhone into the waiting dock, tapping her way through the screens to get to her navigation app. She’d only been gone for five years, but downtown Fairview was big enough to make piloting the mostly urban streets a chore, plus the place had seen enough growth spurts in her absence to make her eager for the backup. Alex had stayed true to his promise of remaining completely mum about his plans for their day, to the point that the only advance notice he’d given was that she should wear comfortable clothes she didn’t mind sweating in. He hadn’t even given her the location for their meet-up until they’d been on their way out of Hope House after last night’s dinner shift.
Of course, the address hadn’t been immediately familiar. So of course, she’d Googled it.
And of course, other than a grainy aerial photograph of about three city blocks’ worth of real estate, she’d come up completely empty.
“Okay. Four-sixty-six Edgewood Avenue,” Zoe murmured, forcing the traitorous tremble in her fingers into submission as she hit the green icon marked Go with the pad of her thumb. At least once she got there—wherever there was—she’d know what sort of reckless crash project she was up against. And more importantly, how to manage it.
She recognized the path through scenic downtown Fairview well enough, even after she’d exchanged the familiarity of Scarlett’s location on Church Street for about ten minutes of city driving. Confusion combined with the anticipation already pushing a steady course through her veins, thrumming over her skin in a low prickle as she crossed the threshold of one of Fairview’s oldest and quietest urban neighborhoods. The automated voice of her GPS guided her through a maze of neatly kept streets lined with classically understated row homes, and wait . . . this had to be a mistake.
“You have reached . . . your destination . . . on the right.”
Zoe pulled over to the curb, alternating her stare between the tidy, brick-faced brownstone outside her passenger window and the GPS display on her phone. The brass numbers on the plate next to the gleaming black door read 466, and she double-, then triple-checked the piece of paper Alex had given her last night at the soup kitchen before quieting the Prius’s engine and exiting the car for a better look.
Why the hell did a young, single, impulsive-to-the-teeth firefighter want to meet her for Mission: Adrenaline in one of the most family-oriented neighborhoods in Fairview?
“Hey. I was starting to think you got lost.” The masculine rumble of Alex’s voice shot through Zoe’s blood with twin helpings of mischief and pure sex, and oh, God, she’d seriously miscalculated how much fortitude she was going to need to get through this day.
She unfolded her spine to its full height, turning toward the spot where he’d appeared in the open door frame of the ground-level garage. “Maybe I was thinking of standing you up,” she replied, and okay, yeah. Meeting his boldness with some of her own couldn’t be that bad a plan.
Except of course, Alex called her bluff. “No you weren’t.” He lifted a sturdy backpack from a nearby shelf in the garage, the hard contour of his shoulders flexing and pulling beneath the snug material of his compression gear T-shirt.
Zoe’s throat worked over a tight swallow. “No?”
“No. You want the chance to get me to follow the rules too badly. Plus, you said you’d be here, and you don’t ditch out on your word.”
Nothing she could argue there. Unfortunately. “Clearly, I need a better game face,” she said, but Alex just laughed.
“I believe in honesty, remember? A game face only covers up what’s real. And you’re going to need to be up-front with what you’re feeling today if you want to get anything out of what we’re going to do.”
“Speaking of which . . .” Zoe extended one arm in a sweeping gesture to encompass both the brownstone in front of her and the wide ribbon of concrete sidewalk leading up the sun-strewn avenue. “Something tells me you and I aren’t going to take a scenic tour of the real estate and call it daring. What are we doing here?”
“We’re joining forces.” Alex swung the backpack all the way up over one shoulder, and seriously, couldn’t he at least have chosen a shirt that didn’t showcase all of his damn muscles? “I figured if I told you where to meet me directly, it would ruin the surprise. Anyway, we need some equipment for what I’ve got planned, and it’ll be easier to transport it in your car than on the back of my bike. That is, unless you want to go for a ride.”
He tipped his head at the single-bay garage behind him, his gaze cutting a path toward the same sleek red and black motorcycle Zoe had seen him ride into the sunset last night, and realization crashed into her like a brick on a one-way trip through plate glass.
“Wait . . . you live here? As in, this is your house?”
He had to be messing with her. There were daffodils and crocuses sprouting from the small rectangular plot by the front doorstep, for God’s sake. No way did Alex Donovan, with his predisposition for air travel the hard way and the most lax impulse control in town live here. In suburbia.
Was that a lady with a jogging stroller he’d just waved to across the street?
Alex flipped a set of keys over in his palm, the metallic jingle bringing Zoe just far enough out of her shock to catch the nothing-doing expression that went with the gesture. “That’s what the mailbox says. So do you want to drive, or should we take the bike for a spin?”
“Yes. No. I mean . . .” She blew out a breath, praying her idiocy would dissipate along with the carbon dioxide. “I don’t mind driving. I’ll pass on the motorcycle.”
His expression broadcast his complete lack of surprise, although all he said as he grinned and entered the key code to close the garage door was, “Maybe next time.”
Zoe bit back the temptation to tell him that today’s outing would definitely be a one and done. She didn’t doubt the conviction—in fact, with the nerves jangling through her belly right now, she was more certain than ever that today was likely to obliterate her comfort zone to the point that she’d never hit the Repeat button. But Alex was cocky enough all by himself. The last thing she needed was to toss out anything he could construe as a dare. Not unless Zoe wanted him to follow through on the challenge or die trying.
She popped the locks on the Prius, sliding into the driver’s seat to refit her iPhone back to the dock on the dashboard. “Okay, so where to?”
“Do you ever go anywhere without a game plan?” Alex asked, placing the backpack firmly behind the driver’s seat before situating himself next to her.
Although a smile tilted his mouth as he asked the question, his tone asked for an honest answer, so Zoe said, “Not really, no. I like to be prepared.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” He pressed himself forward, tapping an address into her GPS app with a few easy flicks of his wrists.
“Do you ever do anything with a plan?” She dropped a surreptitious glance at her phone’s display before putting the car in gear and starting to drive. At least they were only a handful of minutes from whatever lay beneath the green End icon. Being in the dark was threatening to send her over the edge.
“Sure. I planned this.”
“But not the bet that got you into it.”
“No,” Alex said, although not before his hesitation told Zoe she’d hit home. “But some of the best things happen when you don’t have a road map for them. And anyway, I didn’t need much foresight for this bet, since I know I’m not going to lose.”
Zoe’s laughter popped out despite her efforts to cage it. “You do remember the stipulations of this bet, right? I have to actually enjoy myself in order for you to win.”
“Mmm-hmm.” He stretched all the way out against the backrest of the passenger seat, the long frame of his body completely relaxed beneath his workout gear. “I remember.”
“You seem awfully sure of yourself.” God, his body language practically radiated self-assurance from every leanly sculpted, magazine-perfect muscle.
“You say that like there’s another way to be.” He shifted against the passenger seat, angling both his body and his gaze toward her, and even though Zoe kept her eyes fixed firmly to the road, she felt the weight of his bright blue stare like an unmistakable touch.
Whoa.
She readjusted her grip on the steering wheel along with her mutinous libido. “I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with confidence. After all, I never would’ve made it through five minutes of culinary school without at least a little ego. But when you cross the borders of arrogance, it tends to get you burned, both in the kitchen and out.”
Alex let out a huff of surprise. “I never thought of chefs as a ballsy bunch.”
“Oh, God. They’re even worse than firefighters.” She clamped down on her bottom lip just a fraction too late as a wash of heat crept over her cheeks. “No offense.”
“Zoe, please,” Alex said, and if he took even the slightest insult from her blip in decorum, it sure didn’t ring through in his voice. “You’ll have to work up a hell of a lot more than that to offend me, and it’s not as if you’re wrong about most firefighters being pretty cocky. I just didn’t realize chefs were that bad, too.”
She guided the Prius through a couple of back-to-back turns, bringing them closer to the portion of Fairview that boasted a lot of restaurants and commercial storefronts, before she answered. “They’re not bad, per se. Most of the chefs I trained under were unbelievably talented. But they also had a metric ton of hubris, and none of them was afraid to sling it around. All that posturing and tenacity just made it a little tough to concentrate on what’s important.”
“I don’t know. I’ve seen how you run your kitchen. You seem pretty tenacious to me,” he said, and she caught his grin out of the corner of her eye as he added, “No offense.”
God, she supposed she’d earned that one. “None taken,” Zoe laughed. “But there’s a big difference between being confident and taking cocky risks that make you reckless.”
“That may be true,” Alex said at the same moment her GPS signaled the final turnoff on the navigation screen. “But you might want to trade in a little of one for the other, at least for today. We’re here.”
Confusion filtered through Zoe’s brain. She leaned forward, her seat belt digging into her shoulder as she squinted through the windshield at the row of nondescript buildings beyond.
Quick-Clean Dry Cleaners . . . Milton’s Auto Body . . . Miss Marie’s Bakery and Sweet Shop . . .
“But there’s nothing—”
Zoe’s gaze hooked on the red and white sign over the door of the last building in the row, her breath jamming to a hard stop in her lungs.
No way. No. Way. He was out of his freaking mind.
Alex pinned her with the full measure of his stop-traffic smile. “Maybe a little bit,” he said, and only then did Zoe realize she must’ve spoken the words out loud. “But a bet’s a bet. Which means that if you want to win, you’re gonna have to be crazy right along with me.”