Charming the Firefighter by Beth Andrews Read Free Book Online

her thoughts still pleasantly blurred by that last glass of wine, had been sort of calming. Peaceful.
    Until Gracie arrived.
    By then, Penelope had struggled to a sitting position and had only been catching her breath, getting her bearings. But Gracie had insisted on helping Penelope get inside—though Penelope took great pride in standing on her own two feet, on making her own way.
    Now her little savior wouldn’t leave her alone. And Penelope, never any good at asking for what she wanted, had no idea how to get rid of her.
    “I really am fine. I appreciate you checking on me,” she added in case she’d come across as ungrateful. Or worse, rude. “I’m sure you have better things to do today than worry about me.”
    Worry. Annoy.
Why quibble?
    “Not really. Besides, you shouldn’t be left alone. You might have a concussion. Or internal injuries.”
    “I don’t.”
    “But you could,” Gracie said, studying her with a gaze that was way too direct, way too adult for someone so young. It was unnerving. “And you wouldn’t even know until you fell unconscious or started coughing up blood or something.”
    “That’s a disturb—”
    “Are you hungry?” Gracie asked. “I could make you something to eat.”
    “I’m—”
    “That’s probably stupid, huh? I mean, you just had a near-death experience—”
    “I wouldn’t say I was anywhere near—”
    “The last thing you want is a snack, right? Then again, you might want to celebrate being alive and I noticed you have brownies—”
    “Really, I don’t—”
    “—and what better way to celebrate still being among the living than with some chocolate?”
    Penelope wanted to cover her ears and beg Gracie to be quiet, just for a moment, but the determined and talkative girl walked over to the pan next to the stove.
    Humming the same Fray song Penelope had danced to earlier, Gracie brought the brownies to the island, then once again invaded Penelope’s privacy by searching through several kitchen drawers.
    Penelope slumped. She surrendered. A woman had only so much fight in her, and she’d used up her stores with her son.
    Her home was being overrun by a five-foot-two-inch wisp of a girl in cuffed jean shorts and a floaty white peasant top. A thick floral headband held back Gracie’s light brown hair, the riotous curls reaching her waist.
    Penelope couldn’t imagine the time and effort needed to take care of that much hair. Her father believed long hair was nothing more than vanity. Her mother—whose own hair was still kept in the same short, layered style she’d worn since her college graduation in 1970—thought it was too much work.
    Touching the ends of her chin-length hair, Penelope set her elbow on the counter. Even after she’d been on her own, independent in every possible way, she’d never let her hair grow past her shoulders.
    Almost as if she was trying to gain her parents’ approval.
    Still.
    She dropped her hand and straightened. Absurd. Years ago she’d realized she no longer needed to prove anything to her parents. She didn’t care what they thought of her if they were proud of her.
    If they loved her.
    She could grow her hair as long as she pleased. Could color it and wear makeup and dress in any manner she so chose.
    Except thirty-eight counted as middle-aged. Long hair would now be inappropriate.
    Wonderful. She was old, haggard, divorced and unappreciated by her only child. Gracie was right. She really did need a brownie.
    With a soft aha, Gracie faced her, waving a small spatula in the air. “Molly says chocolate is the perfect food, good for any and all occasions. Celebrations...commiserations...breakups and makeups...”
    Using the spatula, Gracie cut into the dessert, whacking away at the chocolate all willy-nilly so that a few brownies were huge, a few were tiny and none were all-four-sides-are-perfectly-equal squares, as brownies should be.
    Curling her fingers into her palms, it was all Penelope could do not to grab the