The Night Belongs to Fireman by Jennifer Bernard

himself.
    â€œThanks for filling in my father,” she told him as she poured him a cup of coffee. She added a dollop of cream and a healthy scoop of sugar, just the way he liked it.
    He shrugged. “Seemed like he already knew.”
    â€œSometimes I think he has spy satellites on a direct feed to his brain.”
    Marsden hmphed, sitting on one of the bar stools at her kitchen island and taking a long swallow of his coffee. “Nice brew. Thanks.”
    She eyed him carefully, debating her next question. Marsden had been in the Marines for a long time before her father had hired him. He’d raised a family. He knew much more about the real world than she did.
    â€œWhat do firefighters like?” she blurted. It had occurred to her that she ought to thank Fred the Fireman in some way.
    Marsden barely raised an eyebrow. “Depends on the firefighter, I’d say.”
    â€œOkay, well, a young firefighter.” A very attractive one . “Very . . . um . . . good at his job.” She pondered for a moment. “I was thinking maybe a fruit basket, like the ones Kessler Tech sends to clients.”
    Marsden seemed to choke a little on his coffee.
    â€œOr a spa basket,” she added quickly. “Mineral salts and so forth. Enzyme masks.”
    Marsden put his mug down carefully. He definitely seemed to be trying not to laugh. Her face heated. Was it her fault that she’d never met a firefighter before? She had no idea what sort of person became a fireman and what they might like. Signing up for a job that made you run toward danger instead of away from it made no sense to her.
    â€œYou could bake something,” he suggested.
    She cast her eyes toward the intimidating six-burner Viking stove that dominated the kitchen. It scared her and, quite frankly, the last time she’d used it, it had seemed to be mocking her. “Like a cake?”
    â€œCookies. Brownies. Something they can pop in their mouth without dirtying a dish.”
    She grinned, delighted. “That’s clever, Marsden. I wouldn’t have thought of that. Thank you.”
    He stood up. “Better go check the perimeter.” That was code for toss the ball with Greta in the park around the corner. Rachel whistled for the dog, who came running, her leash already in her mouth.
    â€œTake your time. I don’t have any clients until later. I’ll text you.”
    Marsden nodded and headed out the door, Greta practically running circles around him as he went.
    Rachel thought for a moment about his suggestion of baked goods, then carried her cup of coffee to her desk and turned on her computer. She was a Kessler, after all. Why not use the Internet to figure out what kind of gift to get for a kind, heroic fireman to whom you were sort of attracted?
    More than “sort of,” she had to admit. “Extremely” would be closer to the mark. Was he really as good-looking as she remembered? She recalled a dimple in his cheek, or maybe not so much a dimple as a dent that appeared whenever he smiled. But maybe she’d imagined it. If she watched the links her father had sent, she could find out how much of Fred’s sexiness was real, how much she’d imagined.
    She opened her e-mail and clicked the first link, gasping at the horrifying sight of the crane sprawled atop the limousine. How the hell had anyone survived? Let alone all of them?
    And then there was Fred, addressing someone holding a microphone to his face. His hair was tousled with sweat. She hadn’t taken much note of its color before. It was a luxurious brown, the color of a sable coat. He spoke with a charming sort of humility, coming across as cheerfully down-to-earth and not at all accustomed to speaking to the media. “Sometimes you just get lucky, and this is one of those times. Not to say that it’s lucky to have a crane fall on top of you. That part was unlucky. But it could have been so much worse. Maybe God has a