“You all right?” Jamison asks as he cautiously approaches, his tone leaving no doubt he knows exactly who purchased me for the month.
“Fine.” I crunch a piece of ice viciously between my teeth.
“Who was that woman? Do I need to scare her off for you?” Faith asks, coming to stand on my other side, propping her hands on her hips in a way that makes it clear that if I give the word, she’s ready to rumble.
Faith is the lone female member of the Bliss River Fire Department and like a little sister to me. Her uncle and my dad worked together for years and both our families boast three consecutive generations of firefighters.
Faith grew up at the firehouse and lifted weights with the new recruits while she was in high school, but that didn’t stop some of the guys from giving her shit when she first joined the department. I stood up for her from day one, earning her undying loyalty in the process. I don’t really deserve it—I only did what every other man in the department should have done—but there’s no doubt in my mind that she’s absolutely serious about putting the fear of God into Naomi if I give the word.
Too bad this isn’t a situation either of us can solve with threats.
I know Naomi—once she has her mind made up, she won’t be scared away, not by me or Faith or a pack of rabid, chef-eating werewolves.
“No, it’s fine,” I say, ignoring the skeptical look Jamison shoots my way. “I can handle Naomi.”
“Are you sure? Because I will spook her for you, J. I have no problem with that.” Faith narrows her brown eyes, managing to look convincingly menacing despite the fact she has the kind of face commonly seen in ads peddling cottage cheese, strawberries, and wholesome country living. “Anyone responsible for making another stupid cooking show for my mom to make me watch on Sundays deserves to be roughed up. I mean, come on. It’s like torture. How many of those damn things does the world need?”
This time, my smile isn’t forced. “I’ve never watched her show.”
“Good. Because it’s stupid.” Faith grabs a handful of corn chips from the bowl on the table.
“Are you sure you should eat those?” Jamison teases. “You have to go look sexy in a few minutes, sugar britches. Wouldn’t want to get chip belly.”
Faith turns her glare on Jamison. “I don’t get chip belly.” She shoves the chips into her mouth, crunching as she speaks, “But even if I did, I’d still be a five-alarm hot lady firefighter, salty britches. I’ll probably go for more money than you did.”
Jamison arches a dark brow. “Oh, yeah? You want to bet on that?”
“Yeah, I do.” Faith wipes her hands on her jeans as she backs away from the table. “But I told your daddy I wouldn’t encourage your gambling problem, so…” She shrugs and tightens the plaid shirt knotted below her ribs before lifting her hands into the air.
“I don’t have a gambling—” Jamison breaks off with a laugh as Faith sticks out her tongue and turns her back on him, sliding into line behind Brandon, a newbie to the department who looks like he’s about to vomit.
Normally, I’d go over and try to put the kid at ease, but at the moment I have no ease to spare. The reality of being forced to spend several hours in Naomi Whitehouse’s company every Friday for the next month is settling around my neck like a boa constrictor determined to squeeze the life out of me.
“You could tell Mitzy you can’t do it,” Jamison says.
My little brother can always tell what I’m thinking, even with my walls firmly in place.
I shake my head. “We need the money.”
“We don’t need it that bad,” he counters. “The other fundraisers should make up the difference for your auction price. I mean…things are hard enough for you this time of year. Don’t you think?”
I clench my jaw. It is a hard time of year, but Naomi doesn’t know that. I’ve made damned sure to keep my private life private. I don’t have a single social media account or much of an online presence at all. And none of my old friends talk to Naomi’s old friends. I’m betting she doesn’t know anything about my life since she left, or my recent, painful history.
But maybe if she did…she could be convinced to leave me alone.
The thought makes the boa constrictor around my neck ease up for a second. All I’d have to do is lower my defenses long enough to tell her I’m not emotionally fit to be friends or make nice or whatever it is she wants from me.
Naomi is stubborn as hell and has enough determination for three women, but she isn’t cruel. Not even close. If I let her see how messed up I am by her sudden return so close to the anniversary of my wife’s death, I could convince her to leave me alone.