Harris loved toy fire trucks to no end as a child, even when other kids gave them up for video games and baseball. He got stuck on them and wanted to be a firefighter ever since. But at his Station every guy is wired like that, so why a standing ovation in the break room when he shows up for work after his two days off shift? He isn't late. It isn't his birthday or his turn to cook. Sadly, a promotion isn't in the cards either.

"Guys, quit screwing with me." He stifles a yawn, because dreams woke him too early.

The applause only intensifies as he makes a beeline for the coffee machine and grabs his mug. It's red and glossy like the toy fire engines, of course. The first sip of the workingman's nectar infuses him with inspiration. "Glad I'm finally getting what I deserve every minute of every day," he says.

Claps die down, until the only one still applauding is Colin. There are few things a fully clothed man can do that are more awkward than being a clap-straggler. "Chief asked for you to come by his office right away," Colin grumbles to cover up his embarrassment.

It's shaping up to be one hell of a morning. Coffee burns Harris' lips as he stomps down the hall past the officers' cubbies to Villarreal's office. "Good morning, Chief."

"Morning."

"And... Lieutenant Jung?"

Jung barely acknowledges his greeting. His five-feet-nine frame stretches to the max to impress one of the two civvies in the room. The woman's heels give her an unfair advantage over Jung, which endears her to Harris before he even shifts his gaze upward from the stilettos. Then he... Well, he doesn't gasp exactly, it's more like his intake of air is a little sharp. "Ma'am, good morning."

What he itches to say is, 'hi there, stranger!' and grin like a moron.

This morning, the girl wears clothes over her thong—if she wears a thong today—and color has returned to her face. But the visitor is the girl from the burning hotel room, the one who spoke of angels and called for her mom. His fake girlfriend.

"Harris Sarkisian, Miss Leung." Chief Villarreal doesn't bother to introduce the girl's companion.

Unlike Miss Leung in her suede leggings, breathy red top and heels that Harris has already come to appreciate... Unlike her splendor, the omitted guy rocks a Hawaiian shirt, cargo shorts, and a ball cap stuffed backward over a mop of curly hair. He's tattooed and tanned. Australian maybe?

This potentially Australian guy zips about Villarreal's office to film Miss Leung from every conceivable angle. He bumps into furniture every second, grins disarmingly and pushes it out of his way. The nervous tick in the corner of Chief Villarreal's right eye doesn't slow him down one bit. It must be nice to be free-spirited like that!

Miss Leung advances on Harris with a smile. Her lipstick glows red, but it doesn't look garish. Add the waft of her perfume, add the glitter of gems in her ears and at her wrists... it's rich in more ways than one. No jewelry circles her neck. Harris, who loves bling on women, is okay with that, since that neck is too beautiful for any distractions. The girl's hair is exactly the way Harris remembers it: a mass of red, shot through with natural raven-wing strands.

In short, Miss Leung is exactly how Harris unwittingly described her to his dad 48 hours ago: hard to beat.

"Ablaze," she says. "Please, call me Ablaze."

Two days after their strange meeting, her voice still holds power to stir calm, clean feelings in Harris's chest.

"Thank God!" he flirts on autopilot, enjoying the sensation of being lifted above the world with its sorrows. "I was cringing inside at the prospect of addressing you as Miss Leung. It sounds like my second-grade teacher."

She laughs, louder than the joke deserves and her eyes sparkle, cherry-red. They must have been brown before some trick with the contacts imparted this troubling color. Harris' calm drains away. The trip-wire in the bathroom, the manic edge in her laughter and her on-the-nose nickname....

My life is a mess, is yours?

But he's only just met her. Surely, he's projecting; he's going bonkers! He turns to Villarreal and dry-swallows. "Sir? Can we talk?"

"We will," Villarreal replies, "after I explain why I asked you to come over."

"Yes, Sir."

"Miss Leung's supremely grateful for the rescue." Villarreal nods toward Harris.

He summons his most charming smile, despite his insides turning over with anxiety. "That's my job."

Ablaze sashays over. In heels, her eyes are at Harris' chin's level... She lifts them to peer into his. Not sure if it's a challenge, he straightens, and locks his gaze with hers. Why would this strange woman—

The Australian films with gusto. Their togetherness. The tilt of her head. The red twinkle in her eyes.

Aha. That's why. Blush heats Harris' cheeks. Hopefully, he can talk the guy into cutting the embarrassing bit, whatever they're shooting this for. Even if it's intended for an audience of a dozen people, he doesn't want it floating on the net. With his luck, it would look like he's drawn to her magnetically. Women always comment on his bedroom eyes... and he doesn't need any misunderstandings.

"I'm reeling from my brush with the fiery death." Ablaze waves her hands in the air to approximate the extent of her reeling.

"Miss Leung is an influencer and she's passionate about fire safety," Chief Villarreal cuts in. "She generously volunteered to profile the scholarship fundraiser next weekend and help us reach our goal."

"That's the least I can do for the Milwaukee Fire Department!" Ablaze enthuses at the camera. "Imagine facing blazing fires every hour of every day!"

"Twenty-four on, forty-eight off." If people waste their time on her podcasts, they might as well get accurate info. "It's not always the fires when we are on duty. We do vehicular rescue, drownings, high altitude— ah."

The way she's leaning toward him, hanging onto his words, you'd think he's laying out the new Book of Revelations for her sole benefit.

"I want to learn all about it!" She beams at the camera, not Harris. For some absurd reason, it bugs him.

"Lt. Jung gives mean tours of the station to kindergarteners. I'm sure you and Mister..." Harris glances askance at the guy in the Hawaiian shirt.

"Sam," the guy supplies with a finger wave, without taking his eye from the viewfinder. Some people despise last names.

"Fantastic! Sam and you can join the next one. Lt. Jung will teach you all he knows."

"I'll be delighted to guide you, Ma'am." Lt. Jung, of course, paws the ground to save the day and babysit the social media darling. It's as obvious as his faith that his trim figure and shiny skull compensate for the age gap and being the height-disadvantaged guy in the room.

A wave of nausea comes over Harris as he imagines Ablaze and Jung together, in the same uniform closet where his mother and Jung... But what's done is done. He handed this one to Jung.

Ablaze plays with the bracelet on her slim wrist, setting the gold links aglow in the sunlight. "Do you offer tours, Harris Sarkisian? Or is it above your pay grade?"

His heart lips into his throat. "I give the best ones, grade five and up."

"Then I can't wait to be riveted." Ablaze flutters her thick eyelashes at the invisible viewers. "Stay on, you guys, if you want to see me climb into a big red truck. And you do, dontcha?"

The pouty youthfulness of the last stratagem is so artificial, Harris wants to tell her to grow the kawaii up. She's a baby next to Jung, but she's twenty if she's a day! An adult, for God's sake. "Shouldn't we keep it PG-13 for your core demographics?"

"Whatever you can handle, Harris Sarkisian." Little Harris, her laughing eyes imply. Teeny-weeny in more ways than one...

Why did her voice calm him before? It's actually infuriating, and he's broiling with the desire to clamp her mouth.

"It's settled then. Sarkisian, you're off calls for the time being." Chief Villarreal barks. "Walter, if you'd be so kind and take Miss Leung and... ah... Sean to the breakroom? I want a quick word with Sarkisian."

"My pleasure. I believe there's pulled pork left. Erdmann is our barbeque wizard." Jung opens the door for the VIPs. "After you, Ablaze, Sam...." His invitation brooks no objections without sounding rude. Maybe such smoothness comes after years of kicking the doors in, calling out for survivors in burning buildings.

Harris tries to emulate his boss when shutting the door behind the trio. Firm, polite, professional. Then he turns to the Fire Chief. "Sir?"

Villarreal perches at the edge of his mahogany desk, rubbing his chin. "That's a doozy."

His gaze scans the door of the office, as if he's trying to read his name stenciled on the other side of the glass panel. "I want you to get onto Leung's good side, Sarkisian. Win her trust."

"May I ask... why me?"

"Because she likes you. Or she did, before you opened your big mouth. Can you rein in all that piss and bluster?"

"That wouldn't be a problem, Sir."

Villarreal harrumphs as if Harris hasn't dispelled his doubts. "There was another hotel fire while you were off shift. This one with a fatality. The investigator found traces of the identical flammable liquid on both scenes. Also, the arsonist left another mini-trap, just like the one you've run into."

"A signature?"

"Likely." Villarreal finally glances at Harris. "So, we have a psycho in town, potentially linked to organized crime. We'll let the police handle this connection, of course, but we need to keep our heads on a swivel."

"Sir, do you think this Ablaze set the fires?"

"Mmhg. Some hundreds of thousands people hung onto Leung's every word for fifty hours preceding the Avantgarde's fire during some sort of... an extra-long streaming session."

"A streaming marathon?"

Villarreal snaps his fingers in the air. "Yes, this. Miss Leung streamed on her own and finished seventy-four minutes before one of the staff smelled smoke and pulled the fire alarm. During this time window, she took prescription meds to help her unwind. She doesn't remember when she fell asleep."

Harris pinches his lips. "Unwind? She's almost OD'd that afternoon." And she saw fire angels.

Villarreal shrugs. "I know, I know. She told the hospital that she had messed up the dose. As for the second fire..."

"She was still at the hospital, right?" Harris suppresses an urge to scratch his head. "But her cameraman, Sam—"

"He has an air-tight alibi for both fires."

"It doesn't add up, Sir, yet... Sir, I can't shake the feeling she's at the heart of it."

"You have good instincts, Sarkisian."

Warmth spreads through his chest at this praise, pleasant as tickles, but Chief Villarreal doesn't coast on positive validation. "There's one more thing you need to be aware of. Miss Leung is an heiress to an international hotel conglomerate."

She's not just rich, but ultra-rich? Well, why not? Heiresses don't saunter in gowns nowadays and her outfit is well-put together. "Do they own the Avantgarde?"

"Not overtly, but in the corporate world of today these things are not as clear-cut as they used to be."

Harris doesn't know what it means, not really, but it sounds good, so he nods sagely. Those who come from money, they live a different life. Though it doesn't guarantee that it's not screwed up. "Is she in trouble with the shareholders? Her family?"

"That's exactly the kind of information I want you to uncover. But discreetly, Harris, discreetly! She's a rich, pretty, foreign national who broadcasts her life to strangers—a stalker magnet. So, we want to step carefully for the good of our city."

Emboldened by the Chief's earlier praise, Harris says, "She almost came awake on the balcony and mumbled something about an angel. But... Could it have been a name, like Angelo?"

"I'll pass it on to the police. Anything else?"

"Not that I can think of, Sir. But if hotel fires started just as a hotel chain heiress came to visit, it doesn't seem like a coincidence."

"Correct, and the police are aware of this as well. So, go... Show Leung around the station, let her interview you, accompany her to the fundraiser... whatever she's interested in. And keep your eyes peeled for anything out of place. Or anyone."

"On it, Sir!"

Harris looks at the Chief for dismissal. It doesn't come. A second passes. Two. The Chief's etched lips twist in dismay. "Sarkisian?"

"Yes, Sir?"

"Don't sleep with her, even if you're running out of fresh booty in Milwaukee."

A slap in the face would have been more gentle. Naturally, his superior knows about his dating spree. Station 17 has lots of water coolers... "I don't think it's my fastidiousness you have to worry about, Sir." Harris slants his eyes at the door behind which Jung has disappeared.

Villarreal scoffs, which is his way of saying Lt. Jung is an exemplary officer who would never bang a wayward heiress. Harris should be ashamed of himself for suggesting it. When they all finally see the error of their ways, see that SOB for what he is, Harris will be there, packing popcorn.

Imagining the smell of that popcorn and sweet, sweet justice, Harris smiles and grabs the door handle. "Sir? One more thing..."

Villarreal nods, while patting the table for his glasses. "Shoot."

"You've mentioned she was a foreign national? Where from?"

"Somewhere in Asia. Taiwan, I think..." comes an absent reply. "No. Not Taiwan. Singapore."

"Wow!" Harris sucks his teeth. "I... I've never met someone from Singapore before. That's why it's interesting to me, Sir."

"Uh-huh." Villarreal has just installed the glasses on his nose and ruffles through the pages of a thick report. He doesn't say 'dismissed', doesn't even look up when Harris slips out of the door. With luck, the Fire Chief wasn't listening to his dorky over-explanation and is still trusting that Harris is the man to flush the arsonist out.

A few steps down the hall from Villarreal's office, Harris slumps against the wall. To flush the arsonist out, he vowed to treat Ablaze like a virgin needed to save the entire world... and with his dad, he's pretending to woo her to preserve his sanity. So, how's that going, firefighter Sarkisian?