Page 8 of Christmas with Three Firemen

“Distracting?” Mateo scoffs playfully. “’Tis the season, Noelle!”

“Well—”

“Wait, your name is Noelle and you hate Christmas?”

“I don’t—”

“Are you one of those people who was born too close to the holiday, so you’re doomed to spend the rest of your life being spiteful of the merriest season ever?”

Mateo leans against the doorframe.

“No,” I sigh, dropping the lights and letting one end hang there limply. “I was born in May.”

“No way. Gemini?”

“What?”

“Nah, you’re definitely a Taurus.”

I close my eyes briefly and take a deep breath. “What did you need? You said you forgot to tell me something?”

“Oh! Right. Just that you’re welcome to come join us downstairs for dinner.”

“No, thank you,” I reply instantly, not even needing to think about it.

“But you haven’t heard what we’re serving.”

“I don’t need to.”

“That’s remarkably judgmental.”

“Yes, well, I’m a professional investigator. Judgment is literally part of my job.”

His laugh echoes throughout the small room. “Alright. Suit yourself.”

I wait until his footsteps disappear before returning my attention to the room.

After waging an internal battle, the lights remain exactly where they are. Not because I’ve had a miraculous change of heart, but because the tape holding them in place appears capable of surviving a major nuclear event.

After ten minutes of fighting with it, I decide surrender is the more dignified option.

I close the door, unpack my laptop, and settle at the desk. It’s past the normal hour when I would stop working, but I’d rather get this whole thing done and over with. Mateo might be the human equivalent of a puppy, but his captain has already made it clear that I overstayed my welcome before I even showed up.

Unfortunately, as time trickles by, I quickly learn that Firehouse 23 is louder than any place I’ve lived in my entire life.

By seven o’clock, I’ve heard at least four different types of heavy machinery rumbling and growling.

At seven-thirty, a laughter-filled argument breaks out down in the main bay. Another playful debate about sports, from what I can gather.

Then, a few minutes past eight o’clock, the alarm sounds to signal a required emergency response and half the building empties in under sixty seconds.

By nine-thirty, they’re back, and I can’t even say that the hour or so in between was much more peaceful. Though it did give me a chance to sneak down the hall to the women’s restroom to do my skincare and change into semi-professional sleepwear. If that’s what you can call leggings and a Columbia University sweatshirt.

Around ten o’clock, someone starts blasting holiday music.

Approximately twenty minutes later, someone else turns it off.

The resulting argument lasts another twenty minutes.