“Out of my way, big nose,” one of the kids said, shoving Amalie Hartigan out of her place in line.
Ford jumped up from his chair on the porch and was halfway down the stairs when Amalie pulled back her right fist.
“Amalie,” Gina’s voice called out.
Their little girl froze, then turned to her mother with as close to an innocent smile anyone with Hartigan blood could pull off—even at three years old.
“We don’t hit our friends,” Gina said as she walked over to Ford’s side on the stairs. “And Christopher, it’s not nice to call people names. Do it again and I’ll tell your mom.”
The little dark-haired boy, whose fifth birthday party had been the weekend before, glanced over at his mom and then turned to Amalie, who was practically his twin in all but parentage. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay, let’s go fly.” Amalie grabbed her cousin’s hand and they clambered inside the bounce house together.
Only once they were inside and giggling together did Ford let out the breath he’d been holding.
“Calm down there, papa bear,” Gina said with a laugh. “That won’t be the last time she gets teased for having the Luca schnoz, but I’m glad she has it.”
“Even though you hated it for so long?” he asked, trying to figure out where his wife was going with this.
“I’ve decided that it’s lucky.” She tapped the tip of her nose. “It means she’ll end up with the perfect man who loves her for who she really is—just like it was lucky for me.”
“I’m the lucky one here.” He curled his arm around her waist and brought her closer, dipped his head, and kissed the most beautiful woman in the world.
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Chapter One
Nothing good ever happened when the captain asked Frankie Hartigan to come into his cramped office at the back of the firehouse and close the door. Frankie ran the last few calls through his head. It had to be about the asshole with the Jag. They’d had a warehouse fire down by the docks, and this idiot had parked right in front of the hydrant. Really, the guys didn’t have a choice but to bust the car’s windows and run the line to the hydrant through there. The rich dipshit had pitched a royal fit, right up until Frankie had come over, loomed his entire six-foot-six frame over him, and asked him if there was a problem. There hadn’t been. Shocker.
“Have a seat, Hartigan,” the captain said as he sat down behind a desk overloaded with paperwork and manuals and—rumor had it—a computer untouched by human hands.
Frankie looked around. Captain O’Neil’s office always needed its own Hoarders episode, but today it looked worse than usual. There was shit everywhere. The two chairs in front of the desk were stuffed with half-filled boxes, old standard operating procedure manuals were stacked four feet high up the wall, and the coveted firefighters vs cops rivalry trophy from last year’s charity hockey game had the place of honor on top of the tower. Even if he wanted to sit down, there wasn’t a place to do it. So, he did what he always did when he got brought in for a good reaming out: he stayed standing.
“I’m good.”
The older man sat there, staring at Frankie from under two bushy gray eyebrows so fluffy they looked like they were about to take flight. “Is there anything you’d like to tell me before I start, Hartigan?”
Frankie did the walk down memory lane again and came up with only one possibility. He’d been a fucking angel lately. At thirty-three, he really must be mellowing with age. “Is this about the dipshit with the Jag?”
“Oh, you mean the one who plays golf with the mayor? The one who needs two new windows and a fresh detail?” O’Neil gave him a hard, steely glare that lasted for all of thirty seconds. “That little prick got exactly what he deserved, which is what I told the fire commissioner when he called to take a chunk out of my well-endowed ass.”
“Well, that’s the only thing I can think of.” And if it wasn’t that, then why in the hell was he in what amounted to the principal’s office of Waterbury Firehouse No. 6?