The Men On Fire: A Complete Romance Series (3-Book Box Set)

by Samantha Christy

  “No.”

  “She used to say that daisies would make everything better.” I smile as I remember. “Actually, she would say ‘Daisies gonna make everything better.’ I didn’t have the heart to correct her grammar.”

  Suddenly, my breath catches and my heart soars. I look at the flowers. I look at the picture of my first daughter. I think about her drawing on the wall at the shop. I look down at my new baby. And I know. I just know.

  “Oh my God,” I say to Bass. “She was right.”

  “Who was?” he asks, looking confused. “Dahlia?”

  I nod, swallowing more tears. “Yes. She was right. Daisy’s gonna make everything better.” I look down at our miracle baby as I finally give her a proper greeting.

  “Hello, Daisy.”

  Epilogue

  Sebastian

  I lie here watching my beautiful bride sleep. It’s one of my favorite things to do. She’s completely at peace. I remember the days when she wasn’t. Even after Daisy was born, Ivy would still have nightmares about her dying. For the first year of our daughter’s life, my wife would go into Daisy’s room and check on her—actually put a hand to her nose to make sure she was breathing.

  I never said a word about it. It was Ivy’s way of working through her demons.

  Every time Daisy hit a major milestone, Ivy lightened up a little more. When she rolled over, I instantly saw Ivy’s stress level go down. When she sat up, Ivy looked five years younger. And when Daisy took her first steps, which was the very same week she called Ivy ‘Mommy’ for the first time, I think that was when I saw it with my own eyes, the final stages of healing.

  Healing, however, doesn’t mean forgetting. Ivy will never forget her first two children. She talks to us about them often. Daisy refers to them as ‘Mommy’s heaven babies.’

  Dahlia’s artwork still remains on the wall at the flower shop. Her scrapbook still has a place of pride on Ivy’s dresser. Photos of her are interspersed throughout our house along with family pictures of the three of us.

  I look at one such photo on Ivy’s nightstand, thinking of just how much Daisy looks like Dahlia. Like Ivy. I once asked Ivy’s mom for a baby picture of her. I was stunned when I saw it. Ivy, Daisy, and Dahlia could have passed for triplets had they been the same age at the same time.

  “Are you watching me sleep again?” Ivy says, rolling onto her side.

  “Old habits are hard to break, sweetheart.”

  I tuck my arm behind her when she puts her head on my chest.

  Her hand accidentally brushes against my morning erection. She looks up at me with raised brows. “Well, good morning.”

  I laugh. “Just how good are we talking?”

  She eyes the clock. “Daisy won’t be up for thirty minutes or so. I’m thinking that could make for a pretty good morning.”

  “Thirty minutes?” I say, as I wink at her. “I think we could make two good mornings in that time.”

  I watch as she shimmies out of her panties and then climbs on top of me. I pull her shirt up and over her head to reveal her glorious breasts. I take them in my hands. “Have I told you lately how much I love these?”

  “Only about a thousand times.”

  I pinch her left nipple, the more sensitive one, and she moans as she squirms on top of me.

  “One of these days, I’m going to get you to come just by playing with these.”

  She puts her hands on either side of me and leans over until she’s almost kissing me. “But not today,” she whispers into my mouth. “Today I want to feel you inside me.”

  “Anything you say, Mrs. Briggs.”

  I lean up on my elbows so she doesn’t have to stoop over so far. I kiss her as my erection dances between us. I need to feel her with my hands, so I sit us up, her still straddling me as I work my boxer briefs off underneath her.

  I reach around her and caress her silky-smooth behind as she undulates on top of me until I’m hard as steel. Then she lifts herself up and sinks down onto me. She looks into my eyes as I fill her up completely. She braces herself on the headboard and works up and down in slow, controlled motions.

  I love it when she’s on top. When I can see every nuance of her face as she makes love to me. For three years now, every time we make love, we watch each other. That is, unless she’s on all fours, which admittedly, we’ve done a lot more of lately.

  I palm her breasts, kneading them, molding them to my hands before I attack her nipples again. That’s all it takes to make her throw her head back and scream.

  I cup my hand over her mouth the best I can so she doesn’t wake up Daisy. But it’s hard to make any purposeful movements when I’m in the throes of orgasm myself.

  Her climax lasts longer than mine and I have the pleasure of watching every exquisite moment of it.

  She collapses onto my chest with a satisfied sigh.

  That’s when I feel it.

  “Every time,” she says, giggling into my shoulder.

  I feel another jab. This time, I jab back. Then I push Ivy off my lap and onto the bed next to me. I lean down and talk to her belly.

  “Listen in there, whatever your name is—you better start learning now that Mommy and I need alone time. Lots and lots of alone time. How else do you think we’ll be able to give you and Daisy three or four more siblings?”

  “Three or four?” Ivy says with wide eyes.

  I run my finger down the side of her nose. “All the girls will have freckles. Just like you and Daisy.”

  She rubs her hands across her belly. “How about we just get through this one first?”

  “Fine,” I say, handing Ivy her shirt before I pull on my boxer briefs. It’s the FDNY shirt she’s always worn ever since we met in Hawaii. I’ve offered her a new one, but she’ll have nothing to do with it. I reach into my nightstand and pull out the long list of possible baby names we started right after the ultrasound. And damn, who knew there were so many friggin’ flowers? “So can we finally give her a name, please?”

  “You know I don’t want to jinx it,” she says.

  “Sweetheart, you have nothing to worry about.” I put my hand on her seven-month belly and feel another kick from our baby girl.

  This pregnancy is different from any of Ivy’s others. Different because we’re in love and married. Different because we know the baby won’t have ARPKD. Different because we have a healthy, happy, three-year-old daughter whose existence reminds Ivy every day that there are good things in the world, not just bad.

  And we’ve enjoyed every second of it. We’ve made so many plans. Bought so many things. Laughed so many times. But the one thing we haven’t done is choose a name.

  I give Ivy the list. “Come on, let’s pick one. Right now. Just close your eyes and point to a name, and that will be the one.”

  She hesitates, but finally closes her eyes. Then I grab her hand and stop her.

  “Wait. Don’t pick Petunia,” I say. “Or Lavender. Or Marigold. Crap, give me the list back.”

  I grab a pencil from the drawer and start crossing off names.

  “Are we ever going to agree on a name?” she asks.

  I throw the list on the floor and cage her to the bed. “You know what? I don’t really care what her name is. Name her Petunia if you want. It won’t stop me from loving her as much as I love you and Daisy.”

  “You love all of us so well, babe,” she says with glassy eyes. “How did we ever get so lucky?”

  Lucky. It’s not a word that was even in her vocabulary for a good eight years of her life. But I know how she feels. I feel like I hit the jackpot with her. With them.

  I reach over and grab my guitar from beside the bed. I play a soft tune for Ivy and the baby. Ivy says the baby stops moving every time I play, like she’s listening to the music. I play the first song I ever composed for Ivy. I’ve composed about a hundred since then, but the first one remains her favorite.

  When I’m done, she lays her head on my shoulder.

  I lean down and
place a kiss on the top of her head. “I’m the one who’s lucky, Ivy Briggs.”

  She runs a hand across my jaw. “I love you, Sebastian.”

  I close my eyes and revel in her declaration. It’s a miracle every time she says it. And I love how she says my name. She hardly ever calls me Bass anymore. And I’m okay with that. This woman could call me anything and I’d still come to her. She owns me. She rules me. Well, she and the pint-sized mini-Ivy in the next room.

  As if Daisy hears me thinking of her, she comes bursting through the door and up onto the bed. She has a drawing with her. Like Dahlia did, Daisy loves to learn about flowers and draw pictures of them.

  “Hey, pumpkin,” I say, lifting her high above me on the bed as she squeals in delight.

  “Hi, Daddy. I made you and Mommy a picture.” She turns to Ivy. “Can we hang it on the wall at the shop? Please, Mommy, can we?”

  “Of course we can,” Ivy says. She reaches her hand out for the drawing, but Daisy tries to play keep-away with it and Ivy ends up with a paper cut on her finger.

  “Oh, shoot,” Ivy says, putting her finger in her mouth to suck on it.

  “I’m sorry, Mommy,” Daisy says, giving her a hug.

  “It’s not your fault, baby. It’s just a little paper cut.” Ivy shows Daisy her finger. “See, it’s not even bleeding.”

  Daisy holds out the drawing to her. “Here, Mommy. You can have this. Flowers gonna make it better. Flowers make everything better. Especially lilies. I like the stick thingies in the middle.”

  Ivy looks up at me, covering her mouth in surprise. Then she asks Daisy, “Baby, what did you just say?”

  “The stick thingies,” Daisy says, pointing at her picture. “Right there.”

  “No, what did you say before that?”

  Daisy shrugs and goes back to mumbling about her drawing.

  I scoot next to Ivy. “You heard her,” I say, knowing we’re thinking the very same thing. “She said flowers make everything better. Especially lilies.”

  Her eyes tear up and she grabs my hand. “Lily’s gonna make everything better?” she asks.

  Ivy looks at me. I look at her. We both look down at her belly.

  And then we smile.

  The end

  Sparking Sara

  Part One

  Denver

  Chapter One

  “You’re a good man to have around, Andrews,” Captain Ingram says as we’re exiting the building, the last remnants of smoke wafting out the doorway with us before it dissipates into the clear sky.

  “Yeah, as long as motor vehicles aren’t involved, he’s your guy,” someone grunts out behind us.

  The captain turns around, trying to figure out which one of his team said it. “You spouting off your smart mouth again, Nolan?”

  Geoff Nolan tries to look all innocent. “Me? No, Cap, I wouldn’t do that.”

  Geoff and the other guys walk around us back to the rig, shaking their heads at me as they go by. None of them are happy about me being here. I’m only filling in for one shift while someone attends a funeral, but for them, I guess that’s one shift too many.

  “Don’t let them get to you, son,” Captain Ingram says. “You did great today.”

  I shrug. “Thanks. But he’s right. I’m crap when it comes to MVAs.”

  He puts a fatherly hand on my shoulder. “I’ve heard the talk. And I’m sorry as hell about your parents. But I’ve also seen you in action.” He nods back to the building we just vacated. “You can have my back in a fire anytime. You did have my back. I’d be in the ICU with a tube shoved down my throat by now if you hadn’t thought quickly the way you did.”

  “Thanks, Captain. Maybe you could keep me in mind if something opens up on Engine 89.”

  “Uh … sure.”

  I can hear his hesitation. He tries to hide it, but it’s there. It’s always there. Nobody will come right out and say it—well, except for that asshole Geoff Nolan—but everyone thinks it. Everyone knows I’m skittish when it comes to car accidents. For two months now, I’ve tried not to be. I’ve tried to put the thought of my parents—cold, trapped, and dying in a frozen car that got wrapped around a tree at the bottom of an embankment—out of my mind. I try not to think about them slowly freezing to death with blood from their injuries icing to their skin. I try not to think about the fact that they could have been saved if someone had been there to help them.

  It’s the reason I wanted to become a firefighter. But it’s also the reason I’m not a very good one.

  Car accidents. They plague my dreams. They are the root of my nightmares. I don’t even like to ride in cars. Living in New York City is perfect for someone like me, because having a car is not a necessity. Riding in a rig is different. Nobody misses the big red fire truck coming down the street.

  Back at the firehouse, I grab a magazine and spend the rest of my shift by myself in the bunk designated for detailed firefighters—the floaters who fill in for the regular guys who are on leave.

  My phone rings. It’s my sister, Aspen.

  “Hey, Pen. What’s up?”

  “Did I catch you at work?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where are you today?”

  “Engine 89, just over the bridge.”

  “How do you like it?” she asks.

  “Oh, you know, same old, same old.”

  She sighs into the phone. Aspen never wanted me to become a firefighter—for obvious reasons. But if nothing else, I live to prove my sister wrong. Hell if she’s going to tell me what I can and can’t do. I spent the better part of the last few years with too many people doing that. It’s time I write my own story. Live my own life. Control my own future.

  Aspen’s best friend, Bass, works for FDNY too, over at Engine 319. He’s a hero in her eyes. Especially after what he did for his wife. And even though my sister and I are as close as two siblings can be—we are twins, after all—I’m not sure I will ever measure up to the Sebastian Briggs.

  “I wanted to let you know Sawyer and I are coming to town next week.”

  I laugh. “I kind of figured that, considering the Royals are playing a series with the Nighthawks.”

  Aspen’s husband, Sawyer Mills, is the shortstop for the Royals. He used to play here in New York for the Hawks, which is why they still own a townhouse here. The townhouse I now live in since it sits empty most of the year.

  “I just wanted you to—”

  The alarm sounds, and I pull the phone away from my ear to listen to dispatch. It’s an MVA. Just fucking great.

  I hop off the bunk. “Pen, I have to go.”

  “I heard. MVA. Just … just go save a life, Den. You’ve got this.”

  I hang up without responding. I put my phone in my pocket and run down to the rig. I’m pulling on my turnout gear, and I catch Geoff Nolan staring at me through the open doors of the truck as he suits up on the other side. He’s shaking his head like he knows I’m going to be useless.

  I pull myself up into the truck and sit down, looking anywhere but at him.

  “Maybe we’ll get lucky and it’ll just be a fender bender,” he says. He looks away. “Damn, I miss Jenson.”

  I don’t say anything. It sucks being the guy nobody wants to go on calls with. It’s a long, silent ride to the scene of the accident.

  “Fuck,” I hear from the front seat.

  “What is it, Lieutenant?” Geoff asks.

  “Goddamn car’s about to fall off the fucking bridge.”

  “Shit,” Geoff says, giving me a look. A look like he’s pissed.

  “I’m fine,” I say. “Don’t worry.”

  “That’s the problem,” he says. “We shouldn’t have to worry about you, Andrews. This will be hard enough as it is without having to babysit your ass.”

  The rig comes to a stop. Lt. Franks quickly assesses the situation after we get out. “Single MVA.” He points to Nolan and me. “You two, see if you can get to the passengers. Jones and I will get the chains and blocks
and shore it up. Do not attempt a rescue until we have the vehicle secured.”

  “Lieutenant, are you sure you want Andrews on this one?” Nolan asks. “Maybe he could direct traffic or something.”

  “Cut the shit,” he says. “We all have jobs to do and Denver is no exception.”

  The ambulance pulls up behind us. Lt. Franks tells the paramedics to stand down because it’s too dangerous to try to access the victims.

  I look at the mangled car and try to remember to breathe. One of the rear tires is still spinning, like the accelerator is being pressed. The other rear tire is completely missing and there are various car parts scattered across the road. Shattered glass litters the concrete, and it looks like the trunk of the car got ripped off and is standing on end.

  “Oh, my God,” a lady says, running up behind us. “I saw the whole thing. It’s like the car bounced off one side of the bridge and then crashed into the other. It happened out of nowhere.”

  “Probably blew a tire,” Nolan says. “Ma’am, I need you to stand back.”

  I hear a scream from the passenger seat. My adrenaline spikes, but I’m also relieved. Screaming means life. Someone is alive.

  There is no way to get along the side of the car as it’s hanging off the edge through the suspension rods of the bridge. And even if we could, our weight might cause the car to plummet into the water fifty feet below.

  My mind keeps wanting to put my parents in the front seat of the car. What really happened when they were trapped? Were they conscious? Could they talk to each other? Did they know they were going to die? Did one of them have to watch the other die first?

  I hear another scream from the car. I lean over and put my hands on my knees, trying to keep myself from getting sick all over the roadway.

  “Fucking rookie,” I hear someone murmur behind me. Probably Nolan.

  I stand up straight and take a deep breath. This isn’t the first MVA I’ve had to deal with over the past few months. I’ve been on the scene of dozens. I just don’t understand why it isn’t getting any easier. Maybe all the talk about me is warranted. Maybe I’ll never be able to handle it. No wonder nobody wants to give me a permanent position.