Page 13 of Christmas with Three Firemen

“You’d make a great firefighter,” chimes in Mateo.

“No, I wouldn’t,” I snap, a little too fast and much too harsh.

Mateo raises his brows, and I’m all too aware of Wes’s gaze on the side of my face, but I turn my focus back to their captain.

“Grant,” he tells me.

“What?”

“No need for titles. You can call me Grant.”

“Aw, that’s cute,” Mateo interrupts before I can respond. “Can I call you Grant, too?”

“No, but you can put that junk food away and go sweep the gear closet, Ruiz,” quips Captain Hale—or rather, Grant.

Mateo sighs heavily, but obediently slinks out of the kitchen.

“Is that fresh coffee?” Grant asks Wes.

I take his temporary distraction as the perfect opportunity to scamper out of there before either one of them can make me feel something, good or bad, that I’m not willing to wrestle with.

Chapter three

Chapter Three: Mateo

The first thing I learn about Noelle Meadows is that she glares at Christmas decorations like their very existence is a personal affront to her.

The second thing I learn is that she apparently doesn’t sleep.

I’m not a professional investigator, nor do I consider myself much of an idea guy, but I’m inclined to wonder if those two facts are connected.

People who hate Christmas usually have a good reason to. I’ve read A Christmas Carol. And by that, I mean I watch the Muppets version at least once a year during the holiday season.

Typically, those aforementioned reasons are pretty tragic. Wes, for example, while not an outright Scrooge, always lacks enthusiasm for Christmas whenever it comes around. Part of that is because he has a difficult time being enthusiastic about pretty much anything, but another part of that is because he’s spent more than one miserable and devastating Christmas in an overseas warzone.

So, I avoid teasing him about it. Because it’s also basically the same reason that Wes struggles with insomnia.

But Noelle isn’t a veteran. She must have been through something difficult in her life, though. Something that would build barriers to universal joys like the holidays. Something that would turn the seemingly simple vulnerability of being able to sleep through the night into an impossible conquest.

Then again, it’s probably none of my business.

It’s just that I’m a man with eyes and a brain and a dick, and she is easily one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. All wild red hair and piercing green eyes that kind of make me feel like they’re drilling right into my skull.

But, like, in a good way.

She’s hot. And smart. And a little mean.

And totally my type.

Which means that I’m spending way too much time and energy on trying to figure her out. It’s a habit.

The morning after her arrival at Station 23, I find her sitting alone at the kitchen table, surrounded by enough paperwork and documents to mimic a full-blown federal investigation. A mug of coffee sits forgotten beside her laptop, probably gone cold a while ago. Judging by the shadows beneath her eyes, she’s either been awake since I ran into her and Wes during my cookie run, or she’s naturally blessed with the ability to look annoyed with every single aspect of life before the sun even has the chance to drag its ass all the way up into the sky.

Honestly, either seems possible.

Outside, fresh snow blankets the neighborhood. Lights twinkle from stoops and window boxes in the buildings across the street. The station smells faintly of coffee, cinnamon rolls, and diesel fuel.

But Noelle looks like someone has sentenced her to life imprisonment. Which, to be fair, is how she seems to feel about being assigned here. I’m so used to spending the majority of my life at the station that I forget it’s not normal for people to feel at home in firehouses.