It was also coming clear that when he said we were building something, he’d decided not to waste any more time doing that.

Meeting the boys at the firehouse, in my opinion, was one step down from telling your children you were seeing somebody and you were all going out to dinner.

Thus, I was entering the firehouse with a stack of containers holding blonde brownies baked in cupcake tins with a wedge of Dove chocolate shoved in the top of each.

I was doing this in my silver pumps, a pair of boot-leg dark wash jeans, a filmy, blush, sleeveless blouse with understated silver threads and profuse ruffles up the front and my hair in a loose bun at my nape, curling tendrils pulled out around my face.

I jumped when I heard a male voice shout, “Hot chick on the premises!”

I looked toward the sound and saw a very big man in Mickey’s firefighter-not-fighting-a-fire uniform standing at a bank of lockers against the wall, head turned my way, grinning at me.

“Hey,” I called.

“Yo,” he called back.

“Is Mickey here?” I asked.

He didn’t answer.

He bellowed, “Mickey!”

“Jesus, Jimbo.” I heard Mickey mutter loudly and my eyes went his way. He was grinning and walking to me. “Hey, baby.”

“Hey,” I said quietly, slightly shyly, grinning back tentatively.

He stopped in front of me and his eyes dropped to the containers.

“You baked,” he noted.

I lifted them up a smidge. “Blonde brownies with Dove chocolate.”

His eyes came back to mine and they were dancing. “Buyin’ the boys approval with baked goods?”

I didn’t deny this because it was clear I was doing just that.

“Just so you know,” the man called Jimbo joined us, his gaze resting on my lower half. “You got my approval with those jeans.”

I felt my cheeks flush, but I did this fighting a gratified smile.

Mickey cut narrowed eyes to his colleague.

Jimbo caught his look, lifted his hands, but said, “Bud, you asked her here and you know I’m not blind.”

“I know that. But I knew it thinkin’ you got manners,” Mickey returned.

Jimbo looked at me. “I offend you?”

“Not exactly,” I told him. “And I’m pleased you like my jeans.”

He settled a bit back, remarking, “Good jeans. More what’s in ’em I approve of.”

My eyes got big and Mickey turned fully, and a little scarily, to his fellow firefighter.

“Seriously?” he asked dangerously.

“Mick, dude, you cannot be pissed I’m glad you scored a hot chick with a great ass who makes brownies,” Jimbo returned. He looked to me. “No offense.”

“Not certain I can take offense to you thinking I have a great ass,” I replied.

He smiled big.

At that point, I found myself divested of the containers and Mickey was shoving them into Jimbo’s hands.

“Take those to the kitchen,” he ordered.