Chapter 1

There he is…the stud of the hour and a superhero I want to spend the rest of my days married to. The one and only Fire Lieutenant Jobe Tucker from Michigan Way. All muscle from head to toes.

He’s a six-three powerhouse of man with dark hair, matching eyes, and with a personality that can cause the angels in heaven to joyfully sing. At thirty-four and single, Jobe rocks a thin stubble, long jaw, and pearly whites. I want to say he can model or act, but he’s too humble for such self-absorbed careers. To my knowledge he doesn’t have a wife or kids. And his Tudor on Michigan Way is a single bedroom. When I spy on him, I don’t see any roommates or relatives playing stay-over. Nor do I ever see him attached to a girlfriend or boyfriend in public. Jobe keeps to himself. Solo all the way.

A purple twilight welcomes the early October night. He parks in the front asphalt lot of Speedy In, Speedy Out convenience store, climbs out of his fiery red Ford F-150 truck, and walks into my place. The macho man wears his yellow fireman boots, ash-coated matching trousers, and suspenders. Under the suspenders is a too-tight white T-shirt that shows off every dent and cut on his Zeus-sized chest. Jobe’s mounded pecs and nipples are about the hardest things I see in Templeton, Pennsylvania. His shoulders are as wide as the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco, which I know is the area he is originally from. The puffed biceps on his arms look like balloons, ready to pop. His stomach is ridged like a potato chip, which I want to eat up—yum!

“Is the bedroom fire out on 293 Misconni?” I have a scanner behind the counter and listen to the EMS, fire, and police departments on Channel 2. I know and hear all that happens in Templeton by Lake Erie.

Jobe isn’t surprised of my knowledge of the fire. Grins. Shares a wink with me. “Old Mrs. Harriston was smoking in bed again. She wasn’t so lucky this time. Second degree burns to her left arm. EMS rushed her to the hospital. She’ll be staying there for a few nights. Age is against her these days since she’s in her eighties now. TFD put the fire out in less than three minutes, which is probably a record for us.”

“I love our heroes in yellow,” I tell him, lean over the counter like a high school creeper, and watch him head to the coolers.

After every fire he comes into my store and grabs his regular: a liter of chocolate milk. On his way back to the counter area he snags a Slim Jim. He places the items next to the register. “Ring me up, Talbot.”

I like it when he calls me by my last name. It’s so much better than my first name, Stuart, which sounds vintage and unattractive and about as sexy as a mud puddle or ear wax. “On the house,” I say to him. “You know how I take care of the firepeople in this town.”

He shakes his head. “No way. I pay for everything I get. Nothing’s free in this world.” He pops a five on the counter, winks at me again.

If I don’t know any better I’d say he flirts with me with his winking. But Jobe’s the type of guy who winks at everyone in Templeton: the journalists of WTMP when being interviewed after putting out fires; while chatting with Mr. Ned Christmastine (the head librarian) after finding Binky, his runaway Siamese; and Father Benjamin Brinkly down at St. Mary’s Catholic Church after verifying all the smoke detectors and fire extinguishers in the establishment are checked and up to city code. Bottom line: Jobe’s a winker, and a flirt. So don’t fall for his game.

I snag the fiver off the counter, make change, and pass the buck-sixty-two back to him. Our fingers touch during the exchange and my heart rocks some. As I attempt to hold my composure, I ask him, “Is Harriston’s place livable?”

He nods. “The bedroom isn’t. But she’s loaded. Her insurance will cover it. No doubt she’ll have a new bedroom in less than two weeks.”

Following his spiel, he does something odd. He steps around the counter, takes my frame in, studies my feet, middle, head, and inquires, “Did you put some muscle on or is it my imagination?”

Good to know someone’s paying attention to me. A smile spreads over my face. “I’m using protein, eating better, running, and working out at Lifts.”

“Lifts is a great gym.” He reaches forward with his right hand, wraps his fingers and palm around my bicep, and squeezes the muscle. “Nice job,” he says. “That bicep is a work in progress. I like where you’re going with it, man.” To my surprise, his right hand releases the bicep and falls to my chest. I’m wearing a light blue T-shirt snug against my chest. He finds my left pec, provides the pec with a gentle and pleasurable turn as if it is a knob. “Damn, Talbot. You’re turning into Superman. A man of steel. Totally my type. Keep up the labor.”

“I’m trying. I use Lifts three evenings a week. Every weekend I go for long runs whenever I can. And I’ve cut out all sugars and carbs. It’s turning into a job for me, but I don’t mind.”

“That’s a good start.” He steers his hand down to the base of my T-shirt and finds its rim at my waist. “Let me lift this cotton a little. I want to see your stomach. Show me your real status.”

I shouldn’t let him play with me like I’m his toy, but whatever. I’ve had a crush on him for the last two years. Hard for him. Wanting him. Desiring him. Everythingfor him. It’s about time he takes an interest in me. So I let him pull up my T-shirt with his left hand and hold it below my chin. My abs and pecs are exposed. And I let him cross a line between us: admire my hourglass shape; reach for my divot of navel; caress my hairy-blond abs with his stray fingertips; run two fingers along my right hip; lick his lips; bite his bottom lip with his upper set of teeth.