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  She asked more questions, and he answered them all, though she got the sense he didn’t really like talking about himself. Still, she learned that he was from a big Irish family and that most of them lived on Long Island. He’d been playing hockey since he was small, and one of his brothers-in-law—also a firefighter—was trying to talk him into learning the bagpipes. Sean was reluctant. Hockey took up enough of his time; he didn’t need another hobby. When it was time to sit down for dinner, she was thrilled when he asked to sit with her. He ordered veal, then must have seen the disappointment in her eyes.

  “You don’t eat meat?” he asked.

  “My rule is to never eat anything with a face.”

  Sean shot her a look. “I’m not touching that one.”

  ———

  Dinner flew by. They talked about hockey, the beach, animals, and photography. After dessert Gemma excused herself to search for Domenica. Come hell or high water, she was going to cuddle that baby before the night was through. She found mother and child sitting on the battered old couch in the restaurant’s business office.-

  “Someone needed her diaper changed,” Theresa explained as Gemma came toward them. “And someone else needed a few moments of peace and quiet.”

  Gemma held out her arms. “Hand her over.”

  Theresa smiled proudly as she passed her daughter to Gemma.

  “She’s gorgeous.” Gemma cradled the baby in her arms. Domenica’s perfect, rosebud mouth was closed, but her big green eyes were wide open and curious, framed with the longest lashes Gemma had ever seen. “She’s going to be a stunner.”

  “Don’t let Michael hear that. He’ll get on the Internet and order a chastity belt now.” Both women laughed, and Theresa stifled a long yawn. “Sorry. I’m exhausted.”

  “You must be.”

  “Miss Thing here likes to sleep all day and stay awake all night.”

  “You should have named her Vampira.”

  “Can you suggest herbs or anything?” Theresa asked seriously.

  “For you or for her?”

  “Both. I’m tired, and she’s gassy.”

  “She’s a true Dante; Michael and Anthony used to have farting contests when they were small.”

  Theresa sucked in her cheeks, mildly appalled. “Thanks for sharing that, Gem.”

  “My pleasure. You should take ginseng for energy. As for Princess here”—she brushed her lips against the velvety soft perfection of Domenica’s forehead, reveling in her gorgeous baby scent—“there’s a tonic called Baby’s Bliss Gripewater. You can find it in any good health food store. It’s got fennel and ginger in it, which should relieve stomach pain.”

  Theresa looked grateful as her body slumped farther down the couch. “How can I ever repay you?”

  Gemma’s mouth turned up into a sly smile. ‘Tell me everything you can about Michael’s adorable firefighter friend, Sean Kennealy.“

  Theresa snorted. “Michael’s friend? I’m the one who invited Sean! I’ve known him for years.”

  Gemma blinked. “But he said he knew Mike through the fire department’s hockey team.”

  “Well, maybe he does, but he knows me from the building. He’s been living in the apartment above mine—now yours—for years.” She looked baffled. “I thought for sure you guys already met. You’ve been chatting away all night like bosom buddies.”

  Gemma gingerly handed Domenica back to her mother and edged quietly toward the door. “Can you excuse me a minute? I just remembered something I was supposed to tell Anthony.”

  “Sure.”

  Leaving the office, Gemma’s mind turned to Sean Kennealy. That devil! she thought, not without affection. Beginning to put two and two together, she went back out to join him at the party. Sean Kennealy didn’t know it yet, but his feet were about to be put to the fire. Only this time, it wouldn’t be in the line of duty.

  CHAPTER 4

  The Dante family reminded Sean of his own.

  They were large, close knit, and obviously enjoyed each other’s company. They also knew how to have a good time, if the free flow of wine and spontaneous bursts of song were any indication. But while any friction in his family was subterranean, with the Dantes it was right out in the open. Michael and Anthony were shouting at each other one minute, hugging the next. And despite pointing her out to him, Gemma hadn’t spoken with her mother all evening.

  Gemma. Gem-ma Dan-te.

  Her name sounded musical to him. Lyrical. They’d spent almost the entire party together, and he was seriously attracted to her. She seemed gentle and sweet, a genuinely good person. A bit New Age-y—he was skeptical when she suggested some herb for the carbon monoxide headaches he got from eating smoke. Meditation, herbs, vegetarianism—they weren’t his thing. He was a man who liked steak for dinner, aspirin for headaches, and when he wanted to relax, he read Alan Furst or watched the History Channel. But she was just trying to help. He liked how she looked, too. She was petite. Five foot three, he thought. If that. Yet she wasn’t small. She had curves in the right places. Soft, that’s what she was. Soft.

  Best of all, she’d never dated a firefighter, wasn’t related to a firefighter, and seemed to know nothing about firefighter culture. She was different, new, interesting. How that would go down with his buddies, he wasn’t sure. He could already imagine the comments he’d get for dating a woman who probably made three times what he did. But that was putting the cart before the horse. First he had to get her to go out with him. And then… Sean drained his beer and ordered another. Just thinking about making love to her made him throb. That long red hair, those plump, curvy hips… God she was sexy.

  “There you are.”

  A thrill shot through him as Gemma sidled up to him. He’d been sitting at the bar listening to her cousin Anthony, who was expounding on ricotta while puffing on a fat cigar.

  “I thought smoking was banned in restaurants,” Gemma said.

  “Not when you own the place and it’s a private party,” Anthony declared.

  Gemma shook her head. “It’s bad for you, Ant.”

  “Listen to Miss Incense over here. All of a sudden she’s the Surgeon frickin‘ General,” he cracked to Sean. He snuffed out the offending stogie nonetheless. “There. Happy?”

  “Very. And so are your lungs.”

  “Madonn”, you’re worse than Angie, I swear to God.“ He wiped his hands on his apron. ”I’m being a bad host. Sean, this is my cousin Gemma. Gemma—“

  “We’ve met.” She smiled at Sean sweetly. “Sean and two of his buddies tricked me into thinking someone had called the fire department to complain about my incense.”

  Sean spit up beer. “Excuse me,” he rasped, turning away to cough into a napkin. Damn. Busted. He had planned to come clean with her at the end of the evening, preferably while they were alone, driving back to the city together.

  “I don’t understand,” Anthony said thickly.

  “It’s a long story,” Sean muttered.

  Gemma’s eyes flashed wickedly. “Shall I tell it?”

  Sean used his eyes to plead for clemency. “I don’t think that’s necessary, do you?”

  “I don’t know. You sent the note, too, didn’t you?”

  Before Sean could answer, Anthony swung off the bar stool, his discomfort obvious. “Okeydokey. You guys are communicating in some bizarro code. I’m going to say adios.” He leaned down for a quick kiss to Gemma’s cheek. “I’m going to take Nonna home now. She seemed a little off today, no?”

  Gemma nodded absently, amused eyes still fixed on Sean.

  ‘Too much vino, I bet,” Anthony surmised, then walked away.

  Alone with Gemma now, Sean launched his plea. “Look—”

  “Confession time. Did you send the note?”

  Sean’s shoulders slumped. “Yes.”

  Gemma chuckled. “Why not just knock on my door and tell me face-to-face to stop burning incense? Why send a nasty note?”

  Sean looked sheepish. “Because I had a kil
ler headache and was in no mood to get into it with a stranger. Besides, that sh—incense you burn is strong. Admit it.”

  “What’s wrong with strong?”

  “Nothing, if the smell is nice. Like your perfume, for example.”

  She blushed, and he knew he was home free. Or so he thought.

  “You said you knew Michael from the FDNY hockey team.”

  “I do know Michael through the hockey team!”

  “That’s splitting hairs. You purposely didn’t tell me you knew Theresa from the building.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry.” Feeling bold, he let his knuckles brush her cheek. “Anything I can do to make it up to you?”

  He could see from the red rushing once again into her face that she was thinking the same thing he was.

  Gemma suddenly seemed to turn shy. “Let me think about it.”

  “Buy you a new smoke detector,” he said enticingly.

  She tipped her head up, smiling at him. Sean felt his heart reel in his chest. “You already promised that.”

  “Guess it’s time to get more creative, huh? Tell you what.” He slipped his arm around her shoulder. “How ‘bout I come up with some great way to make my deception up to you, and in return you agree to have dinner with me one night?”

  “I’ll think about it,” Gemma said lightly, ducking out of his embrace.

  Sean grinned, shaking his head. “You’re torturing me on purpose, aren’t you?”

  “Torture? Moi?”

  “Then say yes to dinner with me.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Gemma promised. “After you surprise me.”

  ———

  The next morning, Gemma slid into her regular booth at the Happy Fork and waited for Stavros to come and harass her. She hadn’t gotten any sleep; instead, she had lain awake thinking about Sean: Sean kissing her, Sean peeling off her clothing, Sean whispering in her ear all the things he wanted to do to her. She was glad when Frankie appeared. She was bursting with the need to talk about him.

  Before she could get a word in, Stavros appeared, pouring Frankie’s coffee and then depositing an empty coffee cup in front of Gemma. He passed the steaming pot back and forth beneath her nose.

  “Smells good, no?”

  “Smells great,” Gemma concurred. “Pour me a cup.”

  Stavros and Frankie exchanged shocked glances as Stavros complied.

  “Sugar?” he asked in a stunned voice. “Cream?” .

  Gemma nodded. “Both.”

  Looking as if he might pass out, Stavros ran to fetch them for her.

  “If this isn’t a sign of imminent apocalypse, I don’t know what is,” said Frankie.

  “No apocalypse,” Gemma rejoined gaily. “I’m just up for trying new things.”

  Frankie caught her drift and her arm shot across the table. “Don’t start yet; here comes Stavros with your milk and cream.”

  His demeanor was now obsequious, as if Gemma were a queen whose pronouncement he awaited. She fixed her coffee and, with Stavros and Frankie both looking on intently, raised it to her lips.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “Best coffee I’ve ever tasted.”

  “Ha!” Stavros beamed down at her knowingly. “I knew that would be your answer! Hasn’t Stavros been telling you this for years?”

  “You have,” Gemma admitted.

  He waddled off looking as if he’d just won the lottery.

  “What’s going on?” Frankie demanded.

  First she told Frankie about the firefighters coming to her apartment. Then she told her about the hockey game. She finished with details of Domenica’s christening party. Frankie practically lunged across the table.

  “You’ve crossed paths with this guy three times?” she said excitedly. “And he has blue eyes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Like in your vision?”

  “Yup.”

  “You think—?”

  “I don’t know.” For the first time, Gemma felt uncertain. “I want it to be. I think.” She drank some coffee. “He asked me out to dinner,” she added shyly.

  Frankie’s eyes bulged so far out she looked like a cartoon. “And you said no?”

  “I said maybe.”

  “Maybe? Why? Because Venus isn’t in the third house of Lexus or some crap like that?” Frankie eyed her critically. “Something else is going on here. Why don’t you want to go out with this guy?”

  Gemma peered at Frankie over the rim her coffee cup. “If I tell you, do you promise not to laugh?”

  “No. Now tell me.”

  “I think I’m a little nervous about going out with him because he’s a firefighter.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “They’re tribal.”

  “Excuse me? You come from an Italian family where two brothers married two sisters and you’re worrying about tribal?”

  “That’s different,” Gemma insisted. “Look, I know they’re heroes, okay? I know what they do is dangerous. I respect that.” She ran a thumb along her napkin. “But remember the neighborhood firehouse in Brooklyn? Remember how those guys used to sit outside and call out rude things to us when we’d walk by on the way home from school?”

  Frankie cringed. “Remember that time they rated us like they were Olympic judges and held up number cards?”

  “Yeah, and gave us both zeroes.” The memory still stung. “Remember how drunk they’d all get on St. Patrick’s Day, spilling out onto the streets singing ‘Danny Boy’ and ‘A Nation Once Again’?” Gemma shuddered. “That’s not a tribe I want to be part of.”

  “Just because he’s a fireman doesn’t mean he acts that way.”

  “You’re right. Though he was pounding down the Guinness at the christening party.”

  Frankie frowned. “Pounding down or had a couple? Which is it?”

  “Had a couple,” Gemma mumbled.

  “Oohh, what a sin, a man having a few beers at a party. Better drag his ass to AA right now.”

  Gemma smiled at her friend affectionately. “You’re a bitch, you know that?”

  “I’m your favorite bitch and don’t you forget it. Give this guy a chance. Please. I think he’s got real potential.”

  “We’ll see, okay? We’ll see.” Gemma was eager to get off the topic of Sean. “How’s your flesh-eating disease?”

  “The mental fuzziness and blister seem to have disappeared on their own,” Frankie admitted sheepishly. “But now I have this.” She lifted the pale blond bangs off her forehead to reveal… nothing.

  “What?”

  “I’m going bald, Gemma.” Frankie’s voice was laced with despair. “Look at my hairline! It’s receding.”

  “The only thing receding is your grip on reality. I swear to God, you have got to talk to someone about your hypochondria. It’s not healthy.”

  “I’ll talk to someone about my ‘hypochondria’ when you talk to someone about why you’re hesitating over a gorgeous guy who’s obviously been put in your path. Sound fair?”

  Gemma squirmed. “Stavros! More coffee!”

  ———

  “Croppy’s having a shit fit.”

  Tony the doorman’s usual greeting was, “Hey, Short-stuff, what’s up?” The words “Croppy” and “shit fit” were not words Gemma wanted to hear at the end of a long day.

  “What’s going on?” she asked as she put down her grocery bags.

  “She,‘s complained to the super twice about the junk outside your door. Says it’s blocking the hall. It’s a fire hazard.”

  “I don’t have any junk in the hall.”

  “Croppy says you do.” His tone was exasperated. “Do me a favor, will you? Whatever it is, whether it’s yours or not, could you get rid of it? She’s a pain in the ass. That’s the only way she’ll ever shut up.”

  “Not a problem,” Gemma assured him. According to Mrs. Croppy, Gemma was responsible when the hot water didn’t work, when the kids in the apartment upstairs blasted the TV, and
when the elevator was out of order. She probably thinks I’m responsible for global warming, too.

  “Thanks, Gemma. Have a good night.”

  “You too.”

  Since the grocery bags were unwieldy, Gemma asked another woman boarding the elevator to please press the button for the fifth floor. The woman complied, pressing the buttons for both five and twelve.

  The doors opened on the fifth floor, and Gemma stepped out into the hall. She hadn’t taken three steps before the door to Mrs. Croppy’s apartment flew open. The old woman was hurtling toward her like one of the Furies, her shrill voice loud enough for the entire floor to hear.

  “You! I’ve been waiting for you all day! Your junk is littering the hallway! People can’t walk! It’s dangerous!”

  “What are you talking about?” Gemma tried to make her way down the hall. Her bags were getting heavier with every step. If she didn’t put them down soon, they’d slip from her hands.

  “Look! ” Mrs. Croppy squawked, pointing a crooked, bejeweled finger at the other end of the hall. “Just look!”

  Gemma wearily lowered the bags and looked. There, in front of her doorway and extending the entire width of the hall, was a menagerie of stuffed animals large and small. Penguins, polar bears, orangutans, rhinos—every animal imaginable, their colors as vivid as a rainbow.

  “Oh my God,” Gemma whispered, transfixed. Mrs. Croppy was still screeching, but Gemma had stopped listening. Slowly, as if in a dream, she made her way toward her apartment. Tigers, elephants, woodchucks—she was ankle deep in faux wildlife, the soft synthetic fur of zebras and raccoons brushing her skin as she fumbled to open the door of her apartment.

  “What are you going to do about this mess?” Mrs. Croppy squawked.

  Gemma barely heard the poison in the old woman’s voice. “Just give me a minute, okay?”

  Mrs. Croppy grunted and slammed her door shut, leaving Gemma in blessed silence. She knew just what she’d do. First, she’d dump her groceries on the kitchen table. Then she’d move her furry friends inside. And then—dear God, how she wanted to shout out his name!—then she would go upstairs and pay a visit to Sean.