“After observing the last few days—”
“Two days.” She slammed the paper on the counter. “You’ve been on the job less than a week and you think you know the best way to run this department.”
“It actually is three days if you count Saturday and the car...” He trailed off, deciding against triggering a new bout of temper. He was willing to give her a bit of leeway for the foreseeable future. Calliope had said Frankie had plans for this place, but now probably wasn’t the time to ask about them. “There were only two calls yesterday. That’s two calls during a twenty-four-hour shift, which means you spent most of your day looking for things to do.” Not exactly easy, given this place was already running at maximum efficiency.
“I told you from the start calls are even more unpredictable here. And honestly? I’ll take few calls and running out of things to do over others having to deal with potentially serious situations.”
“I won’t argue with you there.” The best days he’d had as a firefighter had been ones with few to no calls. Not that there had been a lot of those days. Until he’d moved to Butterfly Harbor.
“But you’re still going to change the schedule. What are you doing?” The exasperation in her voice triggered a smile.
“Getting ready for Thanksgiving.” He unloaded the overflowing grocery basket that had been delivered that morning from Duskywing Farm. Onions, carrots, peppers, fresh garlic, about a gazillion tomatoes, which Roman eyed suspiciously. Tomato season was long over, and yet these looked as if they’d been grown and picked at the height of summer. Rather than bundles of herbs, like he’d expected, he found full potted plants of basil, oregano, thyme and rosemary tucked into the corners of the bag. “This is amazing. Here, smell this.” He held a tomato under Frankie’s nose.
“I know what a tomato smells like, thanks.” Her expression shifted to one of frustration. She leaned over and peered into the almost empty bag. “What exactly are you making?”
“Lasagna.” He grinned, enjoying the confusion in her eyes. “I know, sounds odd, but this is tradition in my house. And yes, we also cook a turkey and all the accompaniments, but first and foremost, every holiday begins with lasagna.”
“It’s Wednesday,” she repeated. “We cook on Thursday.”
“Maybe you do. The longer the sauce cooks, the better it is, and seeing as we’ve been having a slow—”
“Don’t say it!” Frankie held up both hands, but it was too late. The dispatch bell blared out of the overhead speakers. Frankie dropped her chin to her chest and sighed. “You said it.”
Roman followed her out of the kitchen just as she picked up the receiver, waiting until the statement finished before she responded. “BH station one responding. ETA fifteen minutes out.”
“Roger, BH station one.”
“I’ve got this,” Frankie told him as she sprinted outside to the SUV.
“Hang on. Aren’t you suiting up?” Roman shoved his feet into the pants puddled over steel-toe work boots and dragged them up by the suspenders. He had his protective jacket and helmet on before Frankie returned. “And fifteen minutes? That’s a long—”
“Chief—”
“The dispatcher said a Tom Thursday’s been stranded at the homestead. What if he’s hurt? Regulations state we go full gear, in the engine.” He grabbed his tank and mask, hefted it with him into the engine. “And what about volunteers?”
“Ah, we don’t really need—” Frankie arched a brow when he glared at her. “Okay.” She let out a sigh and nodded. “You’re the chief. It’s your call. You want volunteers, we’ll get some volunteers. One second.” She pulled out her cell and tapped the screen. “You sure you want—”
“Regulations, Captain,” Roman snapped.
“Right.” She gave him a sharp nod. “Whatever you say, sir.” Seconds later, she was suited up and sliding behind the wheel of the company engine.
“Where are we going?”
“Not far.” She motioned to the laptop situated between them. “You can pull up the map if you want to get an idea.”
“Lights and sirens?”
Frankie grabbed his hand when he reached up for the switch. “Sir, there’s more than regulations to consider in situations. And there’s more than unpredictability. There’s also, let’s say, a code for calls like this.”
Roman leaned into the turn she made on Monarch Lane. “A code?”
“Yes, sir. Like a shorthand for those in the know.”