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seemed to pipe up at once.
    “There was that explosion at the treatment plant . . .”
    “An oil truck turned over on Highway 90, that was a mess . . .”
    “What about the time Ella Joy set the turkey on fire?”
    Laughter broke out, until Roman shut it down with one hand gesture. “Hazmat calls are among the most dangerous situations a firefighter can face. These days, you have to consider the possibility of terrorist involvement. They’re no laughing matter.”
    All the smiles disappeared. Bravo, Roman . Chief Hard-ass, bringing down the hammer. Doing the job they pay you to do. That didn’t mean it felt good.
    That night Sabina woke up suddenly on her little bunk in her home away from home. She spent two to three nights a week in this room and never had trouble sleeping here. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stuck her feet into the fuzzy slippers she kept here. Shaped like ladybugs, red with black spots, they inspired endless teasing from the guys. She called them her firebug slippers and claimed they prevented fires from breaking out at night during her shifts.
    In her ribbed tank top and cotton shorts, she padded out to the hall. A light at the end of the hallway guided her in the direction of the bathroom. Someone must be in there. Too much of Ace’s sweet iced tea, no doubt. They’d all guzzled it down with their fried chicken and collard greens, along with frequent toasts to Southern mothers who sent their homesick sons their family recipes.
    Yawning, she leaned against the cool plaster wall of the hallway, waiting her turn in the bathroom. Finally the toilet flushed, water ran in the sink, and the door opened. The light was immediately entirely blocked by a towering figure emerging from the bathroom. It could only be Chief Roman.
    Immediately Sabina snapped to attention. “Good evening, sir.”
    She could barely see his face, silhouetted as he was against the light from the bathroom, but it seemed as though his mouth twitched in a smile.
    “ Buona sera .”
    “ Buona sera ,” she repeated.
    He gave a visible start. “You speak Italian?”
    “Not at all.” Crap. Her knack for accents always came back to bite her at the wrong moments.
    “Are you sure?”
    “Absolutely. Are you finished in there?”
    “Yes. Sorry.” He came forward, holding the bathroom door open for her. As she passed him, she surreptitiously scanned him from head to toe, hoping to God he didn’t notice how she devoured every detail of his nighttime wear. His loose drawstring pants hung low on his hips, revealing the taut, pale-skinned valley between his hipbones. His stomach muscles marched in double formation up his long, long torso. Her tongue tingled. How she’d love to put it just there, at the point of his hipbone, and go for a wild roller-coaster ride up his spectacular musculature.
    She dragged her eyes away before he caught on to her completely inappropriate lust.
    He looked embarrassed. “I’m not used to the heat here yet. I always seem to want to take something off.”
    That didn’t help her temperature one bit. Thanks a lot, mister .
    “Don’t worry about it,” she mumbled, imagining him taking off his one remaining piece of clothing—his pants.
    Once inside the brightly lit bathroom, she turned to smile her thanks and caught him doing exactly what she’d been doing one moment earlier. Checking her out. His gaze seemed to be trapped by the stretch of bare skin between her shorts and her top.
    Then he snapped his eyes up to meet hers. His jaw was black with stubble. A crease on one cheek showed how he must have been sleeping.
    “Good night, Sabina.” He nodded formally, as if they were at a ball. She almost curtsied back.
    “Good night, Chief—”
    “Roman’s fine.”
    “Roman.”
    He left, closing the door behind him. She slumped onto the toilet, the sound of his voice saying her first name echoing in her mind.

 
    Chapter Seven
    T he next morning, as the early relief guys were