Harlequin Heartwarming May 2016 Box Set (54 page)

“I have an audition next week with This Side Up Records, and I'd love to spend some time with you while I'm in town. Do you still have that pull-out sofa?”

“Yes, but that's where I've been sleeping. Temporarily.”

Connor pursed his lips and ground out, “
Now
I know why she looks like she's seen a ghost.”

Ciara glanced from Finn to her father and back again. “Why?”

“Because,” he said slowly, “she's talking to your
mother
.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“S
O
LET
'
S
RECAP
,” Sam said, walking between the tables. “You'll be expected to recall street names, numbers, people's names, floor plans of buildings and houses. Who can tell me the point of all this memory stuff?”

“Gotta get to a fire before we can put it out,” said one student.

Another agreed. “Dispatch won't repeat addresses over and over, so we need to remember where the fire is.”

“And once we get inside,” said a third, “we'll need to pay attention to where the doors and windows are. Escape routes...”

Sam nodded. “Excellent.” He distributed handouts. “Print your name at the top. You'll have five minutes to read this paragraph. When the timer dings, turn the papers facedown and answer the first set of questions on the back.”

Sam set the device for five minutes and the students fell silent, reading. All but Epps, who muttered and fidgeted like one of his cousin Emily's elementary-school-age kids. He stood beside her desk, hoping his presence would be enough to settle her down before she distracted those seated near her.

It wasn't.

He should consider himself fortunate; of the hundreds of recruits who'd gone through his classes, Sam could count the jakes on one hand. The timer buzzed, and he instructed the class to turn their papers over.

“I hope you took your time, absorbed every detail from that paragraph. Because I'm going to reset the timer, and this time, you'll have ten minutes to answer the second set of questions.”

“Aw, bummer,” someone complained. “These are multiple choice. I've never been very good at multiple choice.”

Sam chuckled. “Not my favorite, either. But we do what we have to, right?” He paused. “Ready?”

Unenthusiastic nods and yeses floated around the room. Sam watched them, hunched over their papers, some gnawing on their pencils, others frowning as they tried to recollect details provided in the paragraph that described which extinguishing agent was effective against a propane fire, and whether faulty brakes or hydroplaning had caused a fiery highway accident.

When they finished, Sam collected the papers and gave them another set of questions.

After gathering up the fourth handout, he reiterated lessons on mechanical aptitude and asked them to call out the various tools a firefighter needed on the job. Calipers and depth gauges, combination squares and spring dividers. A dozen types of saws, a variety of hammers and screwdrivers, wrenches, pliers and even belt sanders. In all, there were nearly a hundred hand tools that might be used in fighting a fire or assessing its cause afterward...and to pass the exam, they had to be able to identify—and use—them all.

“The written test isn't easy,” he stressed, “so we're going to take practice exams. Two, six, ten...however many it takes you to feel confident when it's time to sit down for the real thing. I've put you through your paces, mentally and physically. On the day of the physical exam, most of you will be able to lift a sixty-pound ventilator fan from an overhead bar, to the floor and back again. You'll have very little trouble carrying unconscious citizens because you've done countless arm curls. You've hefted that eighty-pound pipe up all seven flights of the training tower in one minute flat—and know better than to call it a hose. And although a timed trial wasn't required, most of you ran up the aerial ladder in your firefighter coats and masks—carrying full air tanks—in record time.”

Epps raised her hand. “Do we
all
have to crawl through that tunnel maze?”

“Yup.”

“What about scaling the wall? Do I have to vault over it without a rope or a ladder?”

“Yup.”

She studied her palms. “But...what if I can't connect and disconnect the hose couplings in under a minute?”

“Then, you take the test again, until you can.”

“And breaking into somebody's house or office building.” She groaned. “Is that really a requirement?”

He tried not to acknowledge her classmates' eye-rolls and sighs of frustration, tried to ignore it when someone whispered, “What a jake.”

Here on the East Coast, the term was reserved for quality firefighters. Where he came from, it was an insult. Sam gave a nod to the student...a guy from Detroit, where oddly, they spoke the same language as Colorado firefighters.

“We've been all through this, Epps, more than once. Those are the rules, for your sake and for the benefit of the civilians you'll serve.”

A voice from the back said, “So you really think we're ready for the exams, Sam?”

He avoided looking at Epps. If anyone failed the test, it would be her, and for no reason other than that she rarely tried and always expected special treatment.

“Would you mind going over the oral interview one more time?” a student asked.

“Don't mind at all.” He rifled through his lecture notes and slid a page from the folder. “The questions will be all over the place,” Sam reminded them. “Things like why you decided to become a firefighter, for example.”

“Because I want to help people,” one guy said.

Another chimed in with, “And make a difference in people's lives.”

“Good,” Sam said. “Real good. Now, how do you know you're qualified for the job?”

“Because Captain Sam Marshall was our instructor.”

Amid the quiet laughter, Sam said, “Too bad flattery isn't worth any points on the test.” He sat on the corner of his desk. “But on a more serious note, you need to sum up your training in three, four sentences, tops—tell the panel how many hours you spent studying for the written exam. How many you put in working on the strength and dexterity stuff. And—without sounding cocky—how well you did during training exercises. Make it known that you've worked hard because the job was worth the effort and because you understand how important it is to be ready when that bell rings in the station house.”

Some students made notes, some sat nodding...

...and Epps drew curlicues on the cover of her notebook.

“They're going to ask you to talk about yourself, too. Not résumé-type stuff...they'll have your application for that. So tell them things that prove you're well-rounded. That you're a good communicator. That you're a team player who has no problem taking orders. They might ask about a previous boss. Even if he was an incompetent jerk, you're not going to admit it. Instead, you'll say that he taught you the importance of prioritizing tasks, that he pushed you to work harder and meet goals you didn't even know you had. And you'll cite an example or two.”

Now Epps inspected her fingernails. While chewing a wad of gum. “Where do you see yourself in five years?” he asked her.

“Retired. Or maybe doing
your
job!”

The guys laughed, and she smiled.

But Sam found no humor in her reply. “What if the panel wants to know what you see as your greatest weakness?”

She sat blinking then said, “Well, I'm terrible at answering stupid questions.”

Sam was still not amused, and he stared hard at her until she responded.

“Math. Math is a
huge
weakness. I hate it.”

“Because...?”

“Because, well, when am I ever gonna need
geometry
to douse a fire or rescue a person?”

The guy beside her shook his head. “Basic math is important, Epps. Everybody uses different levels of oxygen, especially under stress. If you can't do basic math, your tank could run out while you're in the middle of a rescue.”

“Great point, Burke.” Sam faced the class. “Here's a favorite question of the panel—what are your salary requirements?”

The students recited annual earnings expectations, and when they quieted, he shook his head. “Do your homework. Find out what the going rate is for someone in your position. Go into that interview expecting an appropriate income amount, based on your work history, your exam scores, your hopes for a future with the department. And when they ask why they should hire you instead of some other candidate, what will you tell 'em?”

“Because my grandfather is Jack Epps.”

“You might think that's funny,” Sam told her, “but, trust me, the panel won't.” He wondered if she really believed she could waltz in there and walk out with a seal of approval simply because of her surname.

But he'd already given her more time than she'd earned. Sam faced the class again and laced his fingers behind his back. “They're going to ask what you see as your biggest flaw. So be prepared to tell the panel how you're working hard to overcome your stickler-for-details tendencies. Or maybe you're a workaholic. You habitually show up early and leave late. And if they want to know what your friends think of you, don't give 'em some vague answer like, ‘They like me 'cause I'm fun.' Be specific.”

“What about...I have a pickup truck so I'm always available to help them move?” a guy at the back chimed in.

Sam joined his students' laughter. “That's not a bad answer, actually. It shows you're willing to help folks, even when you're off duty. Talk about your hobbies. Your favorite sports. Maybe you volunteer at a local soup kitchen, or you helped a political candidate hand out fliers on Election Day. See where I'm going with this?”

“Yeah,” Epps said drily. “We lie.”

Silence fell over the room, and it must have unnerved her because she added, “Um, we make sure the panel understands that we're well-rounded individuals, like you said.”

He erased his notations from the whiteboard. “Questions?”

When no one spoke up, he said, “See you next time, then.”

Everyone left, except for Epps.

“I'll never pass the tests,” she said, wringing her hands. “I really
am
awful at math, and my memorization skills are even worse. I can't bench-press a box of chicken nuggets, and I run out of steam halfway up the aerial ladder.” She stamped one foot. “I'll be the first Epps to flunk out of the academy.”

“Maybe that's not such a bad thing.”

She looked hurt and shocked and angry, all rolled into one.

“You can't be serious. They'll disown me!”

“I doubt that. They're family. They want you safe. And happy. You don't seem to have any interest in the profession, so I don't understand why you're here.” He stuffed his teaching materials into his backpack. “It's pretty clear you'd rather be anywhere else.”

“Oh, so you're a mind reader, are you?”

He ignored her surly tone. “No, but I've been at this long enough to pick up on the cues.”

“Maybe that's the problem.”

“What is?”

“You've been teaching so long that you're just going through the motions.”

“Says the only student who ever fell asleep in my class.”

“Is it my fault that your classes are boring?”

Sam zipped his bag.

She stamped her foot again. “I think you're treating me this way, singling me out, because I'm a woman.”

“You're kidding, right?”

Epps bristled slightly under his hard stare. “Okay, maybe that was uncalled-for. But I'm desperate for your help. That isn't a crime, is it?”

The crime, as Sam saw it, was twofold. He'd allowed himself to get so sidetracked by her childishness that he never saw it coming: she was about to hit him with the tutoring nonsense again.

“I've tried every way I could think of to get you to help me, to teach me, one on one.” She smirked. “So much for you being able to pick up on cues.”

Oh, he'd noticed the pitiful pouts. The flirty glances. Her tendency to laugh too long and too hard when he cracked a joke. And the snide, borderline-disrespectful remarks.

“Listen, Epps. I don't have time for this right now.”
Because I need to call Finn, let her know what time I'm picking her up tonight.
“Can we talk later?” He slung the backpack over one shoulder, thinking maybe he'd just stop by the apartment.

“How much later? The longer you put it off, the behinder I get.”

If he'd been thinking straight, Sam would have suggested talking after their next class. When there were plenty of witnesses to back up his story that he'd turned her down gently, and with good reason. But Sam hadn't been thinking straight since that kiss.

The mere memory of it stirred something deep in his chest. He cleared his throat.

“You know where The Frothy Monkey is?”

“It's only one of my favorite cafés!”

“Meet me for coffee.” He didn't know how late spoiled brats slept, so he said, “Tomorrow at nine, if that isn't too early for you.”

“It isn't.”

She grabbed her purse and backpack and hurried out the door without another word. If he had a lick of sense, he'd catch up with her and cancel.

“If you had a lick of sense, you would have nipped this in the bud by now.”

Tonight, after dinner and the show with Finn and Ciara, he needed to come up with two plans. One that would help Epps understand, once and for all, why the whole tutoring thing was a bad idea. And one that would secure his future in case that backfired and she decided to sic her big-shot relatives on him.

Sam climbed into his pickup. It wouldn't be the end of the world if they fired him. He had a big, loving family back in Colorado, and if there wasn't room for another volunteer at the fire department there, he'd help Nate and Zach run the Double M full time.

Two former students had climbed the department ranks, and either one could do the instructor's job. Torry and Mark had managed The Meetinghouse for years without his help. And any day now, The Right Note would reopen and would get along fine without him.

But would he get along fine without Finn?