“She’s lucky you were there.”
“Grace did the hard part.According to Patsy, she handled the extinguisher like she came out of the womb with one.”
Despite myself, I smile.Again.“That doesn’t surprise me.”
Her gaze lifts to my face, narrowing slightly, my mother’s version of a tactical assessment.“You like her.”
I nearly choke on my own breath.“Mom.”
“What?She’s bright, brave, and thoughtful, not to mention a smoke show.”She waves her cloth at me.
“A smoke show?”Laughter bursts out of me.“What do you even know about that?”I’m teasing, but I don’t deny it—how can I when it’s true?
“I know a thing or two despite my age, mister.”The knowing curve of her lips makes me want to scoff like a teenager caught out by a parent who’s supposed to be clueless.“And best of all, Grace clearly rattles you in all the right ways.”
“She’s a reporter.”I cringe at my own defensive tone.“She’s only here because Marcos twisted my arm about the interview.”
“Could be.”Mom shrugs lightly.“But sometimes the wrong reason puts the right person in your path.”
I don’t answer.I’m not sure I can.
Not long after, she heads to her room on the ground floor, and I move through the house doing the rounds—checking locks, switching off lights, all the small rituals my dad drilled into me when I was a boy desperate to be taken for a man.
As I pass the foot of the stairs, a faint thud echoes from above, followed by a low, irritated curse.It isn’t Mom.
“Grace?”
Silence.Then another frustrated sound.
I take the stairs, wood creaking under my weight, and follow the noise to the guest bathroom.The door is ajar.
I knock lightly on the frame.“Everything okay?”
“No.”Her snarl filters into the hallway.“There’s no hot water, the window’s jammed, and I can’t get all this soot out of my hair.”
I hesitate at the threshold.“Want me to take a look?”
A pause—I can practically hear her wrestling with her pride—and then a long, weary exhale.“Yes.Please.”
I push the door open and have to remind myself to breathe.Grace kneels by the tub, still dressed, a towel draped over her shoulders, hair wild and damp and streaked with stubborn lines of soot.
Twin spots of color warm her cheeks, and her eyes are tired but defiant, like someone who’s fought two disasters today and is already bracing for a third.
I can’t help it.I grin.
What is it about this woman?I’m always smiling, either at her or at the thought of her.
Juggling the edges of the window frame, I slide it shut and latch it.“I thought you were done playing hero for the day.”
“Apparently not.”She gestures helplessly at the bathtub faucet.“The water’s barely trickling, and it’s freezing.”
“Old pipes.”I roll up my sleeves, mentally adding a plumber to my list.“Mind if?”
She slides back and I crouch beside the tub, fiddling with the handle.Our arms brush, and something tightens in my chest at the pull I have no business feeling, fierce and poorly timed.
The pipes groan in protest like they resent being disturbed at this hour, but after a few stubborn twists, the warm water finally gushes out in a steady stream.
“There.”I sit back on my heels and make the mistake of looking at her.