Every Little Kiss (3 page)

“I'm fine,” Casey managed. “I just don't like small spaces much.”

“What an ordeal. Take the rest of the day off. Please.”

“I'm sure I'll be all right.”

“Just do it, okay? It'll make me feel better, anyway.”

She hugged Casey just as Abe's voice sliced through the commotion. He was directly behind her. “Get the ladder hauled up. Talk to the mechanic. I want it logged in.”

“Yes, Lu.” The firefighters scurried to get their tasks finished.

“Abe!” Ingrid said, waving at him. “You saved our girl here. Thank you.”

Casey was momentarily confused as to how these two were acquainted. Abe had been tutored at Robot Lit years ago. Had he stayed in touch with the staff?

“You guys know each other?” she asked dumbly.

“Abe's a good friend to this place,” Ingrid said.

Recognition dawned. Casey hadn't been around nonprofits very much, but she was beginning to understand that
friend
meant donor.

Abe smiled at Ingrid—big enough to show two rows of gloriously straight white teeth. Casey's heart jerked. “Happy to help,” he said. “You two take care.”

He started off, radioing more commands. He wasn't leaving, was he? The thought had her stomach clenching unexpectedly. Casey gave Ingrid a hang-on-a-minute gesture.

She trotted after Abe. “Thank you,” she said, sliding in front of him to stop his forward march. “You kept me calm down there and I'm grateful. You were great. Are great, I mean. At your job, that is.” Her brain still felt tangled, her words twisted into each other.

Oh, God, what was she doing? She should have just let him go. She was making an ass of herself.

If Abe minded her babbling, he didn't show it. In fact, his eyes flashed with emotion and, if Casey didn't know better, she'd say that look was filled with warmth. Maybe even something hotter—a light closer to flame.

“Happy to help.” Then he tipped his helmet at her and walked away, barking orders at the other firefighters. The sound of his fireman's boots on the warehouse's wood floors grew more and more distant.

The connection she'd felt between them stretched thin as he retreated, like taffy pulled too far apart. She felt a pang of hollowness, an unexpected disappointment. Did he really have to walk away like that? He'd been so comforting, so calming, in the elevator, telling her about Robot Lit and the German city he loved. Underneath all those layers of fireman's gear, she thought she'd glimpsed his tender side, and it left her wanting more.

She thought maybe he'd seen something in her that he wanted more of, too. The way he'd pulled her close, the way he'd murmured into her hair.

Apparently he was just doing his job.

She pulled in a breath. It was just as well. Abe Cameron was a stranger to her. In her frazzled state in the elevator, she'd simply contrived a connection to a man she barely knew. Even worse, she'd turned him into something he clearly wasn't—gentle, caring, even sexy, a
hero
—and when the hard light of day hit her again, she'd been left staring at something that had never been.

It's all for the best.
She wasn't looking for someone whose lifelong dream was to visit an orderly German town. Practicality was not on her list of sexy attributes. She had enough of that in her own life, thank you very much.

Which reminded her…

She pulled out her phone and typed an e-mail to herself, a note to get a new fire extinguisher for the basement tomorrow and a new set of batteries for the carbon monoxide alarm. Plus a smoke detector.

She couldn't always shed the responsibilities that seemed to follow her around like a pack of stray dogs, but by God she could shed them when it came to a man.
If
it came to a man, that is.

Which was a big if, considering this was White Pine, and the bachelor selection wasn't exactly brimming.

“I hope those are Abe's digits you're typing into your phone,” Ingrid said, standing beside her once more. Ingrid was smiling like she could read every single thought about Abe Cameron that had passed through Casey's brain in the past hour.

“Just the opposite. I'm going to make sure the basement has all the equipment we need so I don't have to see him again.”

“Huh. I thought maybe there was a spark there. A little flirty fun, perhaps?”

Casey didn't have the heart to admit she'd thought that, too. For a moment, anyway. Instead, she grabbed Ingrid's arm and plastered on a smile. She reminded herself that this was a fresh start. Maybe she could learn to shelve her responsibilities for a few minutes and get to know her colleagues. Perhaps even develop a friendship here or there.

“We both missed out on the Rolling Pin's hot cocoa this afternoon,” she told Ingrid. “How about we pop down for some now. My treat.”

“You sure? By the time I'm done asking for extra whipped cream on mine, the up-charge is, like, eight bucks.”

Casey grinned. “Maybe I can find a way to file it as a tax deduction.”

Ingrid patted her sides. “Maybe I can find a way it won't all end up on my hips.”

Laughing, Casey followed Ingrid down the warehouse's hallway toward the main entrance. She gave herself an imaginary high five. Her colleagues didn't have to know she'd been a stick in the mud for years. They didn't have to know about the embarrassing things she'd done. Not if she worked to show them a different side of herself, anyway.

And when it came to a man, well, Casey knew that she was going to have to find a guy who was her complete opposite. Fun-loving, carefree, adventurous—everything she wanted to be.

She stepped out into the darkening afternoon, the snow swirling and the holiday lights twinkling, and reminded herself she was back in White Pine to change. To be better.

She walked alongside Ingrid to the Rolling Pin and faced the truth.

A man like Abe Cameron would be nothing but trouble.

T
he morning sun crested over a snow-covered hill, igniting the icy limbs of the cedar trees in a fiery orange glow. Abe Cameron gulped down the cold air, lungs burning as his hiking boots trundled through the fresh powder on the trail. His hands clutched at the straps on his backpack. Sweat dripped down his neck in rivulets that froze almost as soon as they formed.

Three miles in. Five to go. Eight miles every other day along this trail, rain or shine, carrying a backpack filled with weights and a rock or two from along the path, when he felt like throwing them in.

It was the hardest workout Abe could think of. It was also the only one that made sense to him. Because if something was challenging, you did it. It if was tough, you tackled it.

Abe shifted the backpack slightly, ignoring the ache in his shoulders and neck. He'd long ago stopped asking himself how he felt about things. If he focused on the pain, the hurt, the desire to stop, he'd never do anything.

He'd never run into a flame-engulfed building.

He'd never hold the hand of a car-crash victim and tell him to hang on.

He'd never breathe air into the lungs of a drowning victim, willing himself to bring her back.

In White Pine, fire and rescue were wrapped into one, meaning he could get called on everything from a house fire to a sprained ankle. Doing both meant he'd seen his share of broken bodies and tragic situations.

He pushed himself down the trail harder, as if trying to outrun the memories of the middle-of-the-night calls when someone stopped breathing, and the pain in the family members' faces as they helplessly watched him work.

An icy wind blasted his face. He turned into it, welcoming the raw cold. His job should have made him grateful for every day he was alive and healthy. Oddly, it had done the opposite. It had numbed him, in a way, to his life. It could all get taken away so easily, so why get invested?

It was part of why he kept himself cordoned off from any relationships that got too deep or too heavy. He often thought of his love life like those confetti cannons that fire at concerts. They went off with an explosion that took your breath away, and had you thinking the whole world was shimmering—only to realize that it had just been crumpled, wrinkled paper the whole time.

That's just the way it is
, he thought—then immediately wondered how he'd gotten so jaded. He didn't much like the hardened cynic who stared back at him every morning from the bathroom mirror.

What might be altogether worse, though, were the ways in which the reflection was cracking—the ways in which he had to accept that his parents weren't going to be around forever. His dad, especially. It was impossible not to see the fissures in his façade when he thought about it, and to feel as though he might rip apart like a fault line during an earthquake.

He stumbled, nearly losing his footing. He threw out his arms, fighting for balance. When he righted himself, he took a deep gulp of the crystal air. His thoughts were too heavy, too coarse. He knew it. All this existential clamor about feelings was useless. It wouldn't change a damn thing. He should stop right now.

But at the same time, he felt a heavy weariness he couldn't shake. God, but it was exhausting work, living with this reality that life was tenuous, even delicate. It could all end—
poof!
—in a single moment. A fire. A misstep. A piano falling from the sky.

This truth had kept him on the on the edge of his own existence, in a way. It had given him his nickname at the station: Ninety-Eyed. “Eyed” was a homophone for IED. Every relationship he'd ever been in blew up within ninety days. Ninety-
IED
. He did it. He pulled the trigger and he knew it. The guys at the station knew it. And the parade of women through his life certainly knew it—if not at first, then certainly by the time they'd dusted off the rubble and gotten over the shock.

For years, he'd enjoyed the nickname because he'd been happy. Hot sex for a while, then an explosion before things got complicated. But now he was beginning to wonder if he wasn't happy as much as he was…indifferent. It was hard to be too bummed about anything when nothing really mattered.

He grunted, straining under his pack. For the first time in memory, he was experiencing feelings he didn't want to bat down. A tiny spring bubbled inside him every time he thought about Casey Tanner, and he was barely doing a half-assed job of damming it up.

The memory of her soft hand inside his while they were trapped in the elevator had his heart pounding more than it normally would along this section of the trail. He followed a fork to the left into a cluster of birch trees, ducking amid low branches.

If he'd been put off by her reckless decision to go down to the basement when they'd first showed up, he'd warmed to her when she said she was an accountant. He respected the logic of numbers. And then to find out she was working at Robot Lit was an added bonus. The place had been able to teach him to read, had emphasized the wonder of books when most of his teachers had simply shrugged off his struggle for literacy, saying the words would be there when he was ready. Robot Lit mattered to him, and he liked meeting people who felt the same way.

It also didn't hurt when those people had thick auburn hair and wore form-fitting sweaters that emphasized just the right curves.

A pheasant took flight from nearby brushes, startling him into a full stop. His lungs heaved as he watched the bird warble into the air, snow falling like stars from its wings. An ache pressed behind his sternum, and he instinctively brought his gloved hand to his chest.

What the—?

Chest pain.
He stilled, trying to pinpoint the source, but he couldn't do it. The soreness was too broad. Surely it was just a little bit of heartburn, he thought. He brushed it off. After all, the call yesterday had scared him more than he wanted to admit, and he was probably worked up as a result. He'd been extra gruff when his crew arrived because the thought of anyone on the Robot Lit team being in harm's way made his stomach twist. Secretly, he felt bad for turning a low-battery warning on a carbon monoxide detector into a full-blown inspection, especially when that wasn't even his job. Ty Brady was White Pine's fire inspector, and Abe knew he had no business stepping on Ty's toes. That was why Quinn and Reese were irritated about the whole call, though they'd dutifully checked out the building even when they didn't want to. He didn't blame them for being miffed. But he wasn't going to pass up a chance to make Robot Lit as safe as he could.

He started back down the trail, his breath puffing white in the cold. He'd been high-strung about the call to begin with, which was probably why Casey Tanner was affecting him more than she should. They'd shared several minutes in a dark, confused space, and Abe knew better than anyone that trauma could forge bonds with people that normal situations didn't. That was why he'd pulled her closer than he should have, why he'd let his guard down for a few minutes, speaking into her hair and letting his cheek graze hers briefly.

He might like the ladies, sure, but he'd never crossed a professional line. If that was, in fact, what you called what had happened in those twenty minutes he and Casey were in the elevator together.

The problem was, he was still having trouble erasing the picture of her in his mind. Especially when she'd thanked him after it was all over. She'd still been pale and shaken, but her golden brown eyes had been clear and focused. She hadn't felt sorry for herself or milked it for drama. She'd been gracious and grateful and he'd stomped away. Like an asshole.

He didn't want her to know how much he'd enjoyed being trapped in that space with her. Because it was dangerous, this blade of emotion that was pressed against his insides. It hadn't been there with Kaylee, the dance instructor from Burnsville, or Zoe, the freelance photographer who'd texted him some very artful pictures. And he'd liked them both just fine. Zoe had even made it just past the ninety-day mark—she'd gotten to ninety-two—and he hadn't felt it with her, either.

He shook his head, wishing the raw wind could just blow away his thoughts. It would be so much easier that way.

Instead, he pushed himself up a small incline that deposited him into a wide clearing. Above him, the windswept sky was patterned in pale blues and pinks. Ahead, a snow-covered field stretched for miles until it ended in another cluster of woods. He flexed his numb fingers and toes, trying to work more blood into his extremities. He grimaced as a spasm tightened the area underneath his rib cage.

He wondered if he should get it checked out. Chest pain was no joke. Then again, this was probably nothing. Just stress or an overreaction to yesterday's elevator situation.

In the meantime, he blew breath onto his gloved hands and stamped his feet. He'd welcome some warmth to his limbs, all right, but his emotions needed to stay frozen. Abe knew firsthand how dangerous feelings could be. They could cloud your judgment; they could make you think that you had any control at all over this life.

He thumped his chest once. Hard. A warning shot to his heart.
Do your job
, he wanted to say,
and nothing more
. Abe was a confirmed bachelor, he didn't get worked up about women
ever
, and he certainly wasn't going to start with Casey Tanner.

If there was a prickle of disagreement from deep within, Abe ignored it. He focused on the last few miles to his Jeep, the snow and ice as cold as he willed his insides to be.

The tortillas were burned to a crisp, and the green chili sauce was a mushy mess that Casey Tanner wouldn't feed to a dog. And yet here she was, about to serve up her Mexican casserole at the weekly Knots and Bolts recipe exchange.

She stared across the wide red table at the other women gathered in the cozy, eclectic space behind the local fabric store. Her sister, Audrey, was sipping a white prosecco that sparkled as brightly as the Christmas lights strung along the window behind her. If Audrey had been pretty before, she was stunning now, flush with a bone-deep contentment inspired by her love-filled marriage. Next to Audrey was Willa Olmstead, who ran the White Pine Bed and Breakfast with her husband, Burk. Her swollen feet were clad in reindeer slippers and propped up on a small ottoman. She was passing around pictures of her latest ultrasound. Her first baby, a girl, was due in just a few short weeks on December 30, and she was radiant with expectation.

Nearby in the small kitchenette was Betty Sondheim, who was humming “Jingle Bells” off-key. She had married the local Lutheran pastor, but this hadn't curbed her tendency to speak her mind freely—or swear. “Who took the damn oven mitts?” she hollered, her carol forgotten. “My cornbread is going to overcook if I don't get it out.”

“Try the refrigerator,” replied Stephanie Munson. “I think I put them in there.” The redheaded mom of twins was often scattered, but she also packed more into a single day than most of the other women accomplished in a week.

“If it gets toasty, we can crumble it up into my homemade flan,” Anna Palowski said. Her desserts were often the highlight of the recipe exchanges—as were her stories about her daughter, Juniper, whose recent drum lessons were beating away Anna's sanity.

Casey swallowed, keenly aware she was the only single one in the group. Not to mention the worst cook. The women politely took bites of what she brought each week, but they never slid her leftovers into Tupperware containers the way they did Anna's or Betty's. Even Willa, who supposedly couldn't make a hot dish to save her life when she returned to White Pine after more than a decade, was making casseroles that had the whole group spearing the pan for seconds.

Casey sipped her merlot, frustrated that she wasn't better in the kitchen. It should be easy, really, considering it was following basic steps in order—something her rule-prone mind enjoyed. But somewhere along the line she always got tripped up, whether it was using the wrong kind of cheese (white cheddar and Swiss were decidedly not the same, as it turned out) or putting the hot dish on the wrong oven rack so it charred the first three layers. Her food was an embarrassment tonight next to Betty's golden cornbread and Willa's homemade refried beans and Audrey's fresh guacamole and Stephanie's
arroz con pollo
.

It wasn't just the food, though, that made her shift uncomfortably in the cozy room. It was how far she felt she had to go in order to fit in with these lovely, beautiful women. They were exceptional wives, great cooks, incredible moms, close friends. And Casey was…none of those things. She wouldn't even be here if she wasn't such a mess. It was pity, most likely, that had them inviting her into the group in the first place. She certainly didn't fool herself that it was because of her sunny personality or her bubbly charm. It was because of Audrey, no doubt.

Audrey had let these women into her heart ages ago, and had kept the fires of their friendships kindled no matter what. Casey felt a stab of envy at how easy it seemed for these ladies, how they pointed out food in each other's teeth and wore stretch pants and laughed so hard they cried—or even passed gas. Just one of those things would have Casey sprinting for the door, red-faced with mortification.

Or it would have had the old Casey sprinting, anyway. She thought about her cocoa with Ingrid and her determination to change. Yes, she was trying, but cripes, it felt like work sometimes. It made her muscles tired. Her bones. She looked around the room at the smiling, relaxed women and wondered why it was so hard for her to be like them.

Not that Casey wasn't grateful to the group. She
was
. She'd grown up quickly after her parents had died, taking responsibility for Audrey and working hard at getting ahead. It was just that somewhere along the line she'd lost track of what she was working for. She'd forgotten to value happiness, to value others. As a result, this group was the closest thing she'd ever had to a circle of friends, and she wasn't about to turn her back on such a gift. She just hoped it would get easier, and that one day she wouldn't feel like such a toad among princesses.