Total Rush by Deirdre Martin Page A

O’Toole’s was the kind of place she would never choose to go to in a million years? The music was supposed to be good, right? And there was Sean.
    â€œHow’s your drink?” he asked, taking a pull of his Guinness.
    â€œGreat,” Gemma fibbed. “Yours?”
    â€œLovely,” Sean said blissfully in a fake brogue.
    â€œI’ve never understood the appeal of beer,” Gemma admitted. “It’s like”—she paused, searching for the right analogy—“potato soda.”
    Sean laughed. “Spoken like a true beer connoisseur.”
    â€œSo,” Gemma began, permitting herself the great pleasure of gazing at long length into his incredible eyes, “have you started to read the book on Wicca yet?”
    Sean dipped his head, cupping his ear. “What?”
    â€œThe. Book. On. Wicca,” she repeated loud and slow. “Have you started it yet?”
    â€œYeah.”
    Gemma took this as a positive sign. “And—?”
    â€œIt’s interesting.”
    She waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. Gemma could rattle off a slew of questions she was dying to ask him about it, but she didn’t want to make him feel pressured, or worse, that he was somehow being quizzed. Of course, there was the possibility that he thought it was bizarro mumbo jumbo and didn’t want to hurt her feelings. She was determined not to focus on that, not right now. “How’s work?” she asked brightly, practically shouting.
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œJust okay? Any interesting fires?”
    â€œThey’re all interesting. That’s the problem.” He paused thoughtfully, then shrugged. “Things are fine. Nothing exciting.”
    â€œI see.”
    â€œIt’s hard for me to talk about what I do, Gemma. If I told you half the stuff that went down, you’d never want me to leave my apartment, and the other stuff—the technical stuff—would probably bore you to tears.”
    â€œTry me,” Gemma urged playfully. “What do you guys talk about? What do you do for fun?”
    â€œAbuse each other.” He took a sip of beer. “Wait, here’s a good one: Some drunken teenager out on Long Island got stuck in the chimney of his frat house. By the time the fire department arrived, he was dead, unfortunately. Know what he died of?”
    Gemma’s hand flew to her throat. “What?”
    â€œThe flue.” Sean laughed.
    â€œSean! That’s not funny! That’s awful!”
    â€œFirehouse humor, babe. Sometimes it’s the only thing that gets you through.”
    â€œI guess I can understand that,” Gemma said. But deep down, she wondered.
    The waitress returned with a smarmy look on her face and only one plate in her hand. She dropped the sausage and potatoes in front of Sean. “The chef said to tell ya, and I quote, that he doesn’t give a flying feck if you’re Mr. Jesus H. Christ himself, we only do what’s on the menu.”
    â€œBring us an order of sausage and chips, then,” Sean said, slumping in his seat mortified. He turned to Gemma. “I’ll take the sausages off the plate. So much for firefighters having some pull in this city,” he added with a frown.
    â€œWe could go,” Gemma suggested tentatively.
    â€œBut we haven’t heard any music yet.”
    What does it matter? We’ll be deaf by the time the band gets on, thought Gemma. The decibel level of the crowd was earthshaking. Still, Sean was right. They hadn’t heard any live music yet. A few haunting Celtic ballads, a few foot-tapping ceilis, and the night would be back on track.
    â€œHere, have some of these potatoes while we’re waiting,” Sean said, pushing his plate between them.
    As delicately as she could, Gemma wiped away the perspiration she could feel beading on her upper lip. It was so hot in O’Toole’s she thought she might pass out. She tried to