Free One Fine Fireman by Jennifer Bernard Page A

the room, as if looking desperately for escape. It occurred to her that she wouldn’t get far in her career if she was this hard on everyone who bought one of her pieces. But . . . one, she could understand. Seven?
    “Do you have others?”
    “No. This is it.”
    She took a step back and folded her arms across her chest. “Do you think these will be worth something someday? I hate to break it to you, but the chances of that are very, very minuscule.”
    “They’re worth something now.” He flushed in a rather endearing way. “To me, anyway.”
    “Why?”
    “Because . . . because they’re . . . you. You made them. That’s worth something.”
    She shook her head with disbelief. “You felt sorry for me. You knew I needed money. They were mercy purchases.”
    “No! Damn! ”
    He turned away and slammed a fist against the punching bag that hung in the corner. It spun away in a blur of red leather. When it swung back toward him, he sent it whirling again with another roundhouse punch. After a minute of this, a minute during which she berated herself for upsetting her one and only collector, he deliberately stopped the bag and turned to face her.
    “Okay, I knew it would help you out, but that’s not the only reason. I like looking at your photographs. I like the way you see things. I’m a fan. That’s all.”
    “That’s all?” It felt like something was missing, but the hell if she knew what. She frowned, oddly disappointed, and shrugged. “Okay, I guess. I’m flattered. To the best of my knowledge, you’re my only fan. So, thanks.”
    He gave her a frazzled glance, like a drowning man watching the last lifeboat disappear. She took a step toward the door, more than ready to end this awkward scene.
    “Wait! That’s not all.” There went his hand to the back of his neck again. “For God’s sake, Maribel, don’t you get it? I love your art. I love everything about you. I love you .”

 
    Chapter Seven
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    “W HAT?”
    Now that Kirk’s silent-type shell had cracked, he kept talking, as if he couldn’t stop himself.
    “I’ve loved you forever, it feels like. Since I don’t know when. Early on. Why do you think we always come to the Lazy Daisy? But I couldn’t have you. You were with someone. At first I figured it was a crush and it would go away. But it hasn’t. I still feel it, more than ever.”
    She shook her head, trying to clear it, unable to grasp what he was saying. “That’s why you bought my photographs?”
    “I like them. I wanted to support your career because . . . I think you’re really good. That’s just my opinion, and I know I’m not an expert.”
    He looked so wretched, she couldn’t stand it. “It’s okay. I’m glad. I mean . . . I’m glad they’re here.” She gave one last wild glance around the bedroom. She thought about Duncan waiting at home, and what she’d almost done here, with Kirk. Who said he loved her.
    But she couldn’t think about that now. Couldn’t take it in. “I have to go. In the living room, she scooped Pete up, barely managed a stammered goodbye, and fled. Thankfully, her son slept through the short wait for the cab, insertion into the cab, and the drive home, which gave her lots of time to lose herself in her windmilling thoughts.
    For the last six years, she hadn’t spent time with any man other than Duncan. Being with Kirk wasn’t anything like being with Duncan. Kirk made her feel more—how to pin it down?— interesting . Duncan claimed to find her adorable and enchanting, not to mention his haven, but he tended to glaze over when she talked. This had never bothered her. He was a celebrity photographer, after all, and she was a teenage mom turned waitress turned amateur shutterbug. But now that they were really, as opposed to hypothetically, getting married, big alarm bells were going off right and left.
    Duncan didn’t inspire any sort of urge to have sex on a kitchen table. Duncan hadn’t ever spent one dime on