Rescue Breathing (3 page)

I quickly make work of my
mom
's to-do list,
knowing that time is my enemy today.
I don
't
have time to sit and chitchat, but Mom makes good use of what
little time I do have to delve into her barrage of
questions.

She follows me around the house,
asking:
“You feeling all
right?” “What's new at the firehouse?” “What calls have you been
out on lately?” “You're not eating enough, are you?” and the
ever-present, “Been out on any dates recently, sweetheart?” I
answer her questions while I fix the leaky faucet, hang her
hummingbird feeder, bring up her lawn furniture from the basement,
and switch out the battery on a beeping smoke detector.

“
How long had your smoke detector been
going off, Mom?” I ask as I fold up and store the
ladder.

“
Ahh”—she waves me off—“it just started
going off a couple days ago.”

Days? I shake my head slowly. “Well, pick
up some more nine-volt batteries and I'll change the others when
I'm out here next, okay?

“
My son, always on duty.” She smiles up at
me, patting my face. Her thumb glides across my cheek
soothingly.

“
Adjust, adapt, conquer,” I reply, casually
reciting my Rescue Company's unofficial code.

“
You look tired, Owen. What's wrong?” she
asks.

That
's the funny thing about moms—they always know when
something isn't quite right with their kids. Is it something
they're born with? An innate sense? Something that's developed over
the lifetime of their kids? Whatever it is, it's kind of
creepy.

I take her hand away from my face and kiss
her knuckles. “A long night last night, Mom. That's all,” I sigh
with a forced smile. It's a half-truth, but why make her
upset?

She knows that things really
aren
't “all right,” but
she accepts my answer as she smiles at me knowingly.

I look down at my watch and notice that
I'm running late if I hope to catch my flight. “I'm going to take a
quick shower, change my clothes, and get out of here,” I say to her
as I grab my bag and head toward the bathroom.

“
Go,” she says, shooing me up the
stairs.

Twenty minutes later, I'm bounding down
the stairs, ready to head out. I give my mom a hug and a kiss
before I walk out the door.

“
Tell Travis I love him and
congratulations.” Mom calls out after me. “And tell Marcus that he
still owes me twenty bucks from our bet.”

“
Will do, Mom.
Love you.” I call out, waving to her from my
SUV.

“
I love you more. Be safe, son.”

As I drive off to the airport, it starts
to hit me how tired I am. I've gotten four hours of sleep in the
last twenty-four. I'm running on fumes, and need a break from my
thoughts and my chaotic life My silver lining is that I'm coming
onto my string of days off, and after cashing in some I.O.U. trades
with some guys at the firehouse, I have five glorious days off that
just happen to be over the weekend. Add to that the fact that I'm
flying to Seattle to spend time with my best buddies for a
guys'
weekend.
This is my third friend to get
engaged just this year, thank you very much. My buddies are
dropping like flies. I'm crossing my fingers that it's not
contagious. I am in no rush to get into another relationship. I'm
having too much fun being single again.

Travis, Marcus, and I have all been best
friends since the fourth grade.
I
have known
Travis my whole life, and Marc and his family moved to Woodbridge,
just outside of New Haven, Connecticut, when he was nine years old.
Trav and I bonded with Marc right away. He was mischievous and
irreverent, and he gave Mrs. Leon a hard time his first day. Right
then, we knew we would all be fast friends.

That summer, we formed the TOM club
(Travis, Owen, Marcus). We had a secret handshake, a password to my
tree house, and a strict rule that girls were enemy number one. We
formed a bond and became a band of brothers. You got into it with
one of us, you had all of us breathing down your neck.

Come fall, none of the kids at school
messed with the TOM boys. Our reputation preceded us. It was good
to be king. We were a force to be reckoned with.
We still are—it
's just that we live on opposite sides of the
country. That's probably for the best though. I'm pretty sure I
don't have enough bail money to afford their living
closer.

After parking my Range Rover in the
airport lot, I check in with the airline. Shawna, the very
attentive, very helpful, very cute gate agent helped me switch to a
first-class aisle seat. I'
m six foot four,
and the extra money for a six-hour flight is well worth it.
When my dad died, he left me and my sister a substantial nest egg.
It'll never replace Dad not being here, but his sound investments
made sure all of us were well taken care of. So every now and then,
I like to splurge on cars, vacations, and the occasional
first-class airline ticket. I give Shawna a wink and stuff her
phone number in my pocket before walking toward my gate. I check my
watch and double-check the status of my flight. I have twenty
minutes before my plane boards.
Just enough time for a drink,
I think to myself.

C
HAPTER THREE

Olivia

I walk into O
'Malley's Bar, literally the epitome of the
airport saloon. Inside, it is much as I expected. A lot of mahogany
wood, tall bar-type tables, and some booths. There is a long bar to
the side with what look to be comfortable barstools, and the
bartender is dressed in what I assume is supposed to be “Irish
bartender” wear. I wonder to myself if bartenders actually look
like this guy in Ireland.

I pull myself onto a stool in an area
where there are enough open seats that I won't be infringing on
someone else's space—or more importantly, they won't be infringing
on mine. I raise my hand at the barkeep.

“
May I have a glass of white wine
please?”

He hands me the wine list and I pick a
glass of some cheap, nondescript white wine. When he places the
glass in front of me, I grab for it much too quickly and take a
drink. I immediately feel better. After two more long sips, the
pleasant numbness starts to seep into my bloodstream and I begin to
relax.

I lean into the back of my seat and turn
myself to scan the patrons in the bar.
I love to people-watch. I'm a psychologist after
all, and for me, watching people in their natural habitat is as
captivating as a zoologist going to the zoo. Yes, I tend to
overanalyze people, and I have lost a relationship or two to my
need to constantly overthink things people do or say, but I am
alone and in my glory right now.

There is a couple leaning in to each
other, smiling and joking.
As per usual, the sight of a couple enjoying each other's
company has me ambivalent. I'm happy for them and simultaneously
hating them for having what I don't. I shake my head, reminding
myself I'm supposed to be relaxing.

I scan the room further and note a lone
man drinking beer and frantically typing on his phone. I wonder to
myself who he's texting so furiously. A lover? A business partner?
A friend? I smile to myself and take another sip of wine. I'm so
nosy.

I continue my perusal of the room, when I
notice the entrance to the bar. And then...wow. The guy coming in
through the door is tall, probably over six feet. He has
sandy-brown hair that is a little long on top but looks soft even
from this far away. He is wearing a pair of well-pressed khaki
pants and a white button-down shirt, the top few buttons open and
the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He strides purposefully toward
the bar, scanning for seats. His movements aren't awkward like that
of some very tall men. He is in control of himself, and confidence
oozes off him. He catches me gawking at him and I quickly turn
myself around to face the bar.
Oh shit. Not cool, Olivia. Not cool.

I suddenly feel someone next to me and
look to my left.
Hot-and-handsome is sliding onto the barstool next to me.
He puts his carry-on on the floor beside him and asks the bartender
for a Guinness before looking over at me.

Holy crap, he has the bluest eyes I have
ever seen.
I suddenly
feel insanely self-conscious. I'm in a fairly sensible,
knee-length, skirt and blouse. Professional but comfortable enough
for a cross-country flight—definitely not sexy.

“
Was this seat taken?” he inquires in a
very pleasing soft and seductively deep voice.

“
Um
…no. No it isn't.” Oh I am the poster girl of being
cool...Jesus. I am soooo out of my depth, and horribly out of
practice.

He looks me up and down and I
self
-consciously recross
my legs. This draws his attention.

He looks up from my knees, and with a
panty-blazing smile, he introduces himself. “Hi,
I'
m Owen
Maxwell.
”

I take his hand and offer him a nervous
smile.
“
Hi Owen,
I
'm Olivia. Olivia
Burke.”

He shakes my hand and squeezes it
gently.
I feel a zing of
electricity run from my hand to my crotch. It's been a very,
very
long time since I've had anyone
touch me at all, and clearly my body is in need. His hand slides
from mine and he returns it to his glass, taking a long pull from
his beer.

“
So, Olivia, where are you off to
tonight?”

“
I'm going to Seattle. You?”

His face lights up. “Would you believe me
if I said I'm heading to Seattle too?”

Uh, actually no,
I think to myself.
“Hmmm...Seems rather interesting that you're headed to the same
destination.” I raise an eyebrow in disbelief.

He puts his hands up as if to show defeat
or innocence. “Swear to God. We're going to the same place.” He
lifts an eyebrow at me. “Are you traveling for business? Or
pleasure?”

A smile creeps up on the corner of his
mouth as he says the word “pleasure.” Oh God...Pleasure. I shake my
head to rid it of naughty thoughts.

“
I'm traveling on business. A conference.
You?”

He takes another drink and leans toward me
as if to tell me a secret. “All pleasure. Debauchery, even.
A guys' weekend slash
pre-bachelor party.
” His
insanely blue eyes lock with mine.

“
Well that sounds like fun,” I reply. “That
certainly will be more entertaining than sitting around with a
bunch of intellects fighting to see who has the bigger
brain.”

He laughs. “That actually sounds fairly
entertaining. Do they ever get into fisticuffs?”

Fisticuffs? I start to laugh loudly.
“Wait. Have I traveled back in time here? Fisticuffs?”

He chuckles. “I spend a lot of time around
old Irish guys. They talk like that. It must be rubbing off on me.”
He smiles warmly at me, taking another swig of his Guinness. “So,
Olivia, do you call New York home or are you from somewhere
else?”

“
I'm from New York. I live and work in
Manhattan. You?”

He raises his eyebrow in interest. “I'm
from Brooklyn actually. Originally from Connecticut
though.”

“
Oh, I love Connecticut.”
I smile fondly.
“We used to stop in Mystic on
our way to Rhode Island when we were kids. Used to go the aquarium
and then Mystic Pizza.” I pause, thinking of the memory. “It's a
beautiful state. But gosh, I haven't been back in probably fifteen
years.”

“
Well, my mother still lives there. I visit
her quite a bit. You know, helping out around the house and stuff.
If you'd ever like to visit…” he says with a sly grin.

God, that grin alone makes the prospect of
that very enticing. “I might take you up on that offer. I mean,
visiting an old new place is never more exciting than when you do
it with someone who knows the terrain.” I wink at him and he smiles
back.

The bartender comes over and asks if we'd
like another round.

“
What time is your flight?” Owen
asks.

“
I have a little more time. I could have
another with you if you'd like?” I grin at him and recross my legs,
again drawing his attention.

His eyes not leaving my legs, he waves a
hand to the bartender. “Another round...on me,” he insists. His
eyes slowly roam back up my body and when they hit my face again,
he murmurs, “You'
re
quite beautiful, Olivia.
But I'm sure you hear that all the time.”

I blush, but I'm really flattered. “That's
nice of you to say, Owen. Thank you. You're not so bad
yourself.”

He smiles. “What are two gorgeous people
doing alone in a bar at the airport when there are so many other
places we could be having all types of naughty fun?”

I put a hand to my mouth, shocked, and
start to laugh. “Why, Owen, what a perfectly inappropriate thing to
say.” As he laughs, I continue. “Please...don'
t stop.
”