Ablaze

Chapter 8

"I didn't realize you had the waistline of a Spanish bullfighter." Ablaze settles by the kitchen counter, chin propped on her hand. She doesn't dislodge it when she nods at him. "Makes me agree with this."

Harris glances down at his stomach. He's just rolled the apron strings twice round himself, cinching the waistline, the way Dad always does. If they don't, the ends would dangle and get into trash cans, pots and oven doors, because Harris inherited Edik's long narrow midsection. At least, he doesn't have his dad's sloping shoulders, so the willowy waist wouldn't have been a big deal. A couple-three women found it even attractive... it would have been fine, were the apron he picked plain black.

They only have—what?—half-a-dozen of those. The cruel chance has it that it has to be a novelty one Colin re-gifted to the crew last Christmas.

'Mr. Goodlookin' is Cookin'' is printed across his wide chest. A fringe of scarlet lip prints adorns the bottom. At least it's not the second one—

—the one Ablaze is scrutinizing right now, because it's next on the peg. She saunters over to unfurl it to full width.

'Try the Sausage!', it hocks its wares, with a finger pointing down from its breast.

"You've met Colin, right?" Harris says with a sheepish smile. "His theory is these kinds of things are exactly what the firehouse needs to test the candidates' mettle. Back when I was a candidate—"

Sam films, but instead of telling his anecdote, Harris rushes to the fridge for milk and butter. His skull pounds, because the fame of 'stronghold of toxic masculinity' is a given if he tells. Maybe the word's already spreading through the fiber-optic web. Villarreal won't be happy with that kind of publicity right before the fundraiser. And the boys—even more so, if the Chief comes down on them for a bit of harmless fun...

Better he keeps his mouth shut, particularly since he's measuring out flour, melting butter and mixing it all with milk, sugar, baking powder and shredded coconut.

The guys from the next shift file into the kitchen, greeting Ablaze, pulling up chairs to settle into a growing circle around her. On the bar stool, leg over leg, she rules the court. Not a single one of them, Harris wagers, even sees the stains on the hem of her pants.

Heat floods his cheeks. "I see why our shift has so much slack to pick up," he says pensively, as he divides the batter between three mugs. "All you do is flap your tongues."

He shoves the mugs into the microwave, turns it on and whirls into the storm of, "Oh, snap!" and hooting and "shots fired!" His arms cross on his chest involuntarily.

Insanely tall Derek elects himself the spokesman for his shift. His height makes him do stupid things like that. "Sure thing we ain't handsome enough to do some cookin'." 

Howls greet this witticism.

Dammit, he had forgotten about the apron! But in for the penny, in for a pound. "Yeah, I bet the lot of you can't boil an egg between yourselves." The microwave beeps. Harris pulls on the over mitts, and extracts three steaming mugs like a magician. The smell of coconut, butter and sugar perfumes the kitchen. But that's not the end of it yet.

He tops each mug with whipping cream and toasted coconut. "Move your grubby little hands," Harris grumbles over their jeers. Once the space is cleared from the elbows and hands, he sends the mug sliding down the counter-top like he was bartending all his life. "One mug-cake, Miss Leung."

"Ablaze," she says softly as he accepts a teaspoon from his hands. "Please, call me Ablaze."

He nods and proceeds to Sam with the second mug. The third is tacked away by the microwave, safely out of the vulture's reach. Please, let there be a four-alarm fire or something, to clear out the gawkers and give him time alone with Ablaze. He can't work with a dozen of other men hounding his—