He put down the knife and turned to his captain. “I’m sorry. I’ll pull my head out of my ass, I promise.”
“See that you do.” Cappy gave him a dismissive nod, indicating the conversation was blessedly over, and Cade turned back to the garlic.
“Do what?” O’Brien came in from the engine bay, followed by Sykes and Hansen, B Company’s paramedics. “Cook dinner without burning it? Smells like it’s too late for that.”
“Lay off.” Cappy pushed his chair back and stood, slapping a palm on the table. “Let the man work.”
They disappeared, leaving Cade to mince and dice in peace. About half an hour later, just as he was pouring the sauce over the pasta, the alarm blared.
“Figures,” he muttered, shoving an uncovered bowl of salad into the fridge. “I knew we’d never get to eat it hot. It smelled too damn good.”
He dropped the now-empty pan into the sink, double-checked the burners to make sure they were off and raced to the lockers, where the rest of the crew was already jumping into their turnout gear.
“What’s the deal?” O’Brien asked as he pulled on his boots.
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