Secrets in a Still Life, Kari Ganske [best fiction books to read .TXT] 📗

start to think you liked being pressed up against me."

I backed up abruptly. "If you weren't always in my way, I'd stop bumping into you."

"I thought you might need a ride," he said, ignoring me.

"I'm fine. I can walk."

"You are not going to walk all the way home. So, we can argue about it for another ten minutes, and then I can drive you home. Or you can just get in my truck now and save some time."

I glared at him. Part of me really wanted to push by him and walk home anyway. A bigger part, the part that included my feet which were currently drowning in the two-sizes-too-big shoes I'd borrowed from my mother, really wanted that ride.

I huffed, but said, "Fine. You can tell me all about what I'll be doing at the firehouse for one hundred hours."

He lowered his sunglasses and flashed his full megawatt smile at me. He was what my mother would call traditionally handsome—like the dashing male stars of the mid-1900s. He looked like if Gene Kelly and Chris Hemsworth had a baby. Throw in a dash of wholesome guy-next-door, and Lincoln Livestrong was every small-town mother's dream. I wondered what all those mothers would think if I told them it was Linc and I who'd let the goats loose in the high school as a senior prank.

"Are you getting in my truck or are we fighting? One or the other, because standing here with you silently staring at me is unnerving." Linc smirked again. He was perpetually amused at life. Whereas life seemed to be perpetually amused by me.

"I'm getting in the stupid truck," I said, pulling my eyes away from him. "Where are you parked?"

He gestured in the direction, then put his hand on the small of my back to escort me. I tried to ignore the wave of heat that crashed through my body at his touch.

"What were you doing here today anyway?" I asked as we walked.

"Mondays at the courthouse? Best entertainment in town!" he said with a chuckle. "Lots of craziness happens on the weekends. That bit with Mr. Oliphant—totally worth it. Not to mention the look on your face when Judge Cockran announced you'd be doing your community service at the firehouse. Priceless."

I smacked his arm. "It surprised me, that's all. And I don't believe you for a second. Don't you have imperative firehouse stuff to do? It is business hours."

Linc shrugged and stopped beside a beat-up red pickup truck. I recognized it immediately.

"Holy Moses! You still have this thing? Is it safe?"

"Perfectly safe," he said, giving the door a loving pat as he opened it for me. It squealed in protest. "Just needs a bit of grease in the hinges."

"Tell me this is a replica of the one you had in high school," I said, hesitating at the open door.

"Same frame, new trimmings under the hood. I rebuilt her a few years ago. Lots of good memories in this baby," he added, holding my gaze.

I swallowed hard and looked away, the heat from his touch now creeping up my neck in a blush. I had some memories in this rattletrap too, only I didn't know if I would consider them good or not. Good at the time, absolutely—no one would argue that a few moments alone with teenaged Linc on this bench seat wasn't good. But good, now, in hindsight, knowing the humiliation that came after? That's where the line between good and not-so-much started to blur. I'd been able to get past those memories by chalking it up to a learning experience.

Totally past it. Hardly ever thought about it.

I pushed those memories aside once again and climbed in. Linc shut the door as I settled into the all too familiar seat. It still smelled the same—leather and oil and Lincoln—and as much as I tried to squelch my memories, they persevered. I'd ridden here countless times to and from school, to and from the mall, to and from the reservoir. Of course, that was before the "teach me how to kiss" episode in our senior year. It seemed like a great idea at the time—I didn't want to go to college without having my first kiss; Linc knew how to kiss if Missy's stories were any indication. Plus, he was my best friend. My safe space. Easy peasy, no-brainer.

Except it turned into a disaster of epic proportions that ended in humility, slobber, and tears—all on my part.

When he hopped into the driver's seat, I willed the fire threatening to overtake my face to stay put in my gut where it belonged.

"What are you gonna make me do?" I asked.

He snickered, and I realized how it sounded.

"At the firehouse," I added quickly. "For my community service."

"There's lots of stuff to do. We definitely need help organizing the office. And we need someone to spearhead the calendar shoot."

I gaped at him. "You don't seriously do a Piney Ridge Firehouse calendar. How cliché. How small town."

"Whatever works. People love it. We include adoptable pets too. Think you can handle that, Ms. World Famous Photojournalist?"

I scoffed at him. "A few decrepit firemen and some cats? I think I'll be fine."

"Who are you calling decrepit?" he asked, feigning offense.

"Current company excluded. How does Piney Ridge have enough firemen to fill a calendar? This place only has three police officers."

"First of all, the correct term is firefighter. We have a few women among our volunteers, I'll have you know. Between those of us who are paid, the volunteers, the support staff, and the three police officers, we have enough to get us through September. Then we double up for the rest of the year. I'm usually in two months—"

"Of course you are," I mumbled. I was actually surprised he wasn't in every month. Besides the mothers in