satisfaction and of satiety. This was what Laura had dreamed of all these years. This bliss.
And nothing more.
Chapter Four
Dylan couldn't wipe the smile off his face. The past few weeks with Laura and Mike couldn't have been scripted to this kind of perfect. Maybe he was a bit biased, but he felt like he had really aligned the planets or pleased the gods or found the secret to the cosmos that day he'd read her profile, her sweet smile and creamy skin almost climbing out of the computer screen and saying, "You found me, Dylan. You found me."
As he sauntered into the fire station and unlocked his locker, he shot Joe, the chief, a look that must have been pretty wild, because Joe frowned and said, "You been hit by the dumb love stick, Stanwyck? Why you smiling like a lovesick dumbass?"
"Because I am a lovesick dumbass?" Dylan stripped off his Howard Jones t-shirt ( man, his brother must have had a lapse in judgment in 1989 ) and slipped his arms into his freshly-pressed uniform shirt.
Joe smirked back. "That explains it. The lovestruck part. You've always been a dumbass, and no woman will change that." A couple of guys nearby chuckled and Dylan just rolled his eyes. The banter was part of the job. Joe motioned for him to follow into the chief's office.
The station looked like the set of Barney Miller, frozen in 1977 with the exception of Internet service and the computers. Scratched metal desks with cheap, fake-wood tops, battered filing and storage cabinets that were Army green and probably army-issued in the 1940s, or castoffs from the war. The floor was Army-green tile streaked with an off-white marble-like pattern that fooled no one; it was linoleum, cheap, and the second the custodians finished the annual stripping and waxing it was scuffed all over again, making Dylan wonder why on earth they bothered.
The place was clean as a whistle, though. When there was nothing to do the paramedics and fire fighters all had chore rotation, and Joe kept a tight ship. A veteran of Vietnam and the first Gulf War, he ran the place like a military officer and it showed. Response time was lightning fast, employee retention was nearly 100 percent, and they hadn't had a new hire in four years. The waiting list to work there was dozens deep.
Joe closed the door, but didn't sit down. He pulled out a manilla envelope and said quietly, "Murphy just found out his wife has breast cancer."
Cold descended over him. "Oh, shit." His heart rate shot up. No man should have to go through this. He and Mike had, though, and he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, imagining what Murphy was going through.
"You know how hard it is, Stanwyck. And Murphy's dad has Alzheimer's. His wife's been taking care of him. They need to hire some kind of caregiver to help with his dad now, and they have the kids... If she gets the right treatment they think they caught it nice and early. We're taking up a collection, though." He handed Dylan the envelope and reached for the doorknob. "It's none of my business what you put in – just give what you can manage. No amount's too small."
You have no idea. "Of course."
"Put the envelope in my top drawer when you're done." He slipped out, face impassive. Dylan stared at the envelope in his hand, full of 5s and 10s. He'd just been to the money machine that morning and had taken out $300. Reaching into his back pocket he pulled out his wallet and threw it all in there, mixing it in with the 5s and 10s to reduce suspicion. Not that it would help; it was pretty obvious.
He wondered if there was a way to ask the trust guy to send a bunch of money anonymously to Murphy's family. How many other guys like Murphy were out there, though? He had fifty million a year coming in, and the station was trying to get a few hundred to help with parking, meals, and babysitting for this poor family struggling with cancer and so much more. The weight of the money rested heavily on his shoulders, a new burden to carry. How could he help
And nothing more.
Chapter Four
Dylan couldn't wipe the smile off his face. The past few weeks with Laura and Mike couldn't have been scripted to this kind of perfect. Maybe he was a bit biased, but he felt like he had really aligned the planets or pleased the gods or found the secret to the cosmos that day he'd read her profile, her sweet smile and creamy skin almost climbing out of the computer screen and saying, "You found me, Dylan. You found me."
As he sauntered into the fire station and unlocked his locker, he shot Joe, the chief, a look that must have been pretty wild, because Joe frowned and said, "You been hit by the dumb love stick, Stanwyck? Why you smiling like a lovesick dumbass?"
"Because I am a lovesick dumbass?" Dylan stripped off his Howard Jones t-shirt ( man, his brother must have had a lapse in judgment in 1989 ) and slipped his arms into his freshly-pressed uniform shirt.
Joe smirked back. "That explains it. The lovestruck part. You've always been a dumbass, and no woman will change that." A couple of guys nearby chuckled and Dylan just rolled his eyes. The banter was part of the job. Joe motioned for him to follow into the chief's office.
The station looked like the set of Barney Miller, frozen in 1977 with the exception of Internet service and the computers. Scratched metal desks with cheap, fake-wood tops, battered filing and storage cabinets that were Army green and probably army-issued in the 1940s, or castoffs from the war. The floor was Army-green tile streaked with an off-white marble-like pattern that fooled no one; it was linoleum, cheap, and the second the custodians finished the annual stripping and waxing it was scuffed all over again, making Dylan wonder why on earth they bothered.
The place was clean as a whistle, though. When there was nothing to do the paramedics and fire fighters all had chore rotation, and Joe kept a tight ship. A veteran of Vietnam and the first Gulf War, he ran the place like a military officer and it showed. Response time was lightning fast, employee retention was nearly 100 percent, and they hadn't had a new hire in four years. The waiting list to work there was dozens deep.
Joe closed the door, but didn't sit down. He pulled out a manilla envelope and said quietly, "Murphy just found out his wife has breast cancer."
Cold descended over him. "Oh, shit." His heart rate shot up. No man should have to go through this. He and Mike had, though, and he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, imagining what Murphy was going through.
"You know how hard it is, Stanwyck. And Murphy's dad has Alzheimer's. His wife's been taking care of him. They need to hire some kind of caregiver to help with his dad now, and they have the kids... If she gets the right treatment they think they caught it nice and early. We're taking up a collection, though." He handed Dylan the envelope and reached for the doorknob. "It's none of my business what you put in – just give what you can manage. No amount's too small."
You have no idea. "Of course."
"Put the envelope in my top drawer when you're done." He slipped out, face impassive. Dylan stared at the envelope in his hand, full of 5s and 10s. He'd just been to the money machine that morning and had taken out $300. Reaching into his back pocket he pulled out his wallet and threw it all in there, mixing it in with the 5s and 10s to reduce suspicion. Not that it would help; it was pretty obvious.
He wondered if there was a way to ask the trust guy to send a bunch of money anonymously to Murphy's family. How many other guys like Murphy were out there, though? He had fifty million a year coming in, and the station was trying to get a few hundred to help with parking, meals, and babysitting for this poor family struggling with cancer and so much more. The weight of the money rested heavily on his shoulders, a new burden to carry. How could he help
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