Breath on Embers by Anne Calhoun

open in front of him. It was rush hour on a Thursday evening, headlights and taillights staking claim against the early darkness, and the truck, engine and division command vehicle were blocking two uptown lanes on Lexington Avenue. Traffic was backed up for blocks behind them. He tuned out the honking and the reverberating rush and squeal of subway brakes clamoring up through the grates in the sidewalk. There was nothing routine about any shift with the FDNY; in fact, the only similarity between any two calls was the paperwork generated afterward.
    The open door blocked the worst of the wind, biting with the sharp snapping teeth of a vicious purse dog. Across the sidewalk his guys tromped out of a high-rise building in ones and twos after responding to a civilian assist call made when two elevators stopped working, trapping residents inside. They’d gotten the civilians out, and building maintenance was working on getting the elevators running again. As calls went it wouldn’t make the news, even on a slow day. Ronan didn’t mind. He hadn’t applied to the academy for the adrenaline rush. He knew better, even then.
    One of the EMTs stopped by the door. “Lieutenant Cannon’s on his way. He and Costanzo are helping an elderly female back to her apartment.” A grin split the EMT’s face. “They’ll be awhile. She refused to be carried, so the LT’s escorting her down eight flights, step by step. Costanzo’s carrying her walker.”
    “Good for her,” Ronan said as he tabbed through fields. “Keeps the arteries clear. Stand by.”
    “You got it,” the EMT said and walked off.
    He refocused on the forms, his gaze automatically flicking between the screen, the street scene and the truck’s mirrors. The big side mirror mounted on the open door gave him a good view of uptown foot traffic. A tall female figure stood in a recessed delivery doorway, out of the wind, a black watchcap pulled down over her ears, a gray scarf wrapped around her neck, a brown leather bag slung across her body. White earbud cords stood out against her peacoat before disappearing under the scarf and blond hair, into her ears. The electric jolt to his heart sent adrenaline pumping through his veins before his synapses sent the input from his eyes to his brain.
    Thea.
    She lifted a Starbucks cup to her lips, and Ronan didn’t need to smell the drink to know what it was—a peppermint mocha. With whip , he added when the sip left white residue on her upper lip. Her tongue darted out to lick it off, and this time the electric jolt went straight to his cock.
    The body knows, all right.
    If he could see her in the mirror, she could see his face, even though his back was to her, his body mostly inside the truck’s cab. Keeping his eyes trained on the laptop screen, he used his peripheral vision to watch her watch him. He discarded the idea of getting out of the truck to talk to her; he was on duty, and she clearly wasn’t just loitering, watching the excitement. If she wanted to talk to him, she’d approach the truck and do something to get his attention. But she stayed where she was, out of the wind, gaze trained on his face in the mirror, sipping her hot drink. She stayed away, something he found difficult to do.
    After their last encounter, he had a better mental map of Thea’s internal terrain. She’d enjoyed the skating, but she’d used him to push away a conversation with her sister that pushed all her buttons. Now there she stood, with a new set of dark circles under her eyes to make them more shadowed than usual. Already haunting, they now approached haunted. The cold air put color in her pale cheeks, highlighting her classic bone structure, and in all likelihood, rage-driven, aching music battered at her eardrums even as she watched him. Maybe it was the input that let emotion surface in her eyes. Maybe it was the degree of separation the mirrors put between them. Probably she wasn’t even aware of it, but she watched him with such