A second kiss pressed firmly beside the first, and then, he walked away, disappearing into the lobby of the building. He didn’t turn back, just left me with a puddle of estrogen pooling at my ankles.
Maybe I don’t need to meet the fireman who saved me, after all.
Luke Hotwell might be the rescue I needed twenty years later.
My phone rang, an unknown number. “Hello?” I always answered, just in case it was a potential client.
“Is this Sheridan Allen?” A man’s voice greeted me.
“Sheridan Chandler these days. Yes.”
“Oh, good. This is Garland McPhail from the Quake Commemoration committee. We are wondering if you’d be willing, now that it’s been twenty years, to finally tell the world about your true identity.”