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

by Samantha Christy

  Joelle’s eyebrows shoot up. “You can drive?”

  “No,” I say sadly. “I think it will be a while before they let me do that. They tell me my judgment of speed and distance isn’t good yet. You should see the exercises they have me doing at therapy, they’re more like games your kids would play. They have me trying to throw a ping-pong ball into a moving bucket.”

  “A cab to our place would be pretty expensive,” she says.

  I roll my eyes. “Apparently, I can afford it.”

  “Yeah, I guess you can.” She nods to the spread of toys on the floor. “You’ve been very generous with the twins. Thank you.”

  “I’d like to do more,” I say.

  She laughs. “Oh, they have enough toys now. Any more and I won’t be able to walk through my house.”

  “That’s not what I mean,” I say. “I’d like to pay for your mom’s expenses at the memory care facility. I know it must be expensive.”

  Joelle looks at me, her mouth hanging open. “That’s … that’s very generous of you, Sara. But insurance pays for most of it.”

  “Most of it. Not all of it,” I say. “I really want to do this. Aunt Maria was so kind to me after my parents died. I hate to think of the way I must have treated her.”

  “You didn’t treat her any way,” she says. “You just ignored her.”

  I close my eyes, feeling horrible about the person I became. “I want to help.”

  “Guilt money?” she asks with a raise of her brow.

  “No. Yes.” I sigh, leaning back into the couch. “I don’t know, Joelle, maybe it is, but I still want to do something. If you won’t let me pay her bills, then I’d like to set up a college fund for the twins.”

  “Let me talk to Dan about it first, okay?”

  “Of course.”

  “How’s your painting coming along?” she asks.

  “Good. I’m painting so much, I ran out of room to store them, so I started giving them away.”

  Joelle looks taken aback. “You’re giving away your paintings?”

  “Don’t look so surprised. It’s not like they’re works of art. I’ve donated a dozen or so to schools and shelters.”

  She studies me. “Wow.”

  “What?” I ask.

  “Early on when you were still sleeping in the hospital, the doctors told me you might be different when you woke up. If you woke up. And I’m not sure I knew what to expect. But I sure as hell wasn’t prepared for this.”

  “This?”

  “You being a kind and selfless person.”

  Ashley crawls up into my lap. I’m so glad they’re getting used to seeing me. I grab a tissue off the table and wipe her runny nose.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say to Joelle as I cuddle with Ashley.

  “It’s okay.”

  “It’s not,” I say. “I shouldn’t get a pass just because I can’t remember the terrible person I became.”

  She looks at my head, my hair arranged to cover my scar, and then she nods to my left leg. “I think maybe you should. Listen, that’s all in the past now. You have your whole life to look forward to. And speaking of that, how is your charming fiancé?”

  The mention of him makes me smile. “He’s been great. Did I tell you we’re taking cooking classes together? He felt bad that I didn’t remember how to cook, so he offered to learn with me.”

  “That’s great, Sara.” She pats the couch. “Is he still sleeping out here?”

  I nod. “I’m not quite ready to take our relationship to that level yet. He has the patience of a saint.”

  “He seems like a really good man.”

  “He is. He wants to take me to London to see his family. He said we would go every few months and that I really liked it.” I pick at the couch. “But I don’t know.”

  “You don’t want to go?” she asks as Ashley crawls from my lap to hers, putting a sleepy head on Joelle’s shoulder.

  I shrug.

  “Sara, it’s a vacation, not a honeymoon, sweetie. Maybe you should. Has your doctor cleared you to travel?”

  “Not officially, but I think he would. I’m down to twice a week at therapy now.”

  “So there’s nothing keeping you here. A week or two away might do you good. I know you’re getting bored being cooped up here day after day. There are only so many paintings you can paint.”

  I look over at Kokomo, wondering what I would do with him if I went to London. Maybe Denver would watch him for me.

  As if my kitten knows I’m thinking about him, he saunters over and steps on my feet. I pick him up and hold him in my lap. Kokomo has no idea that he’s become an extension of Denver. Whenever I hold him, I think of the man who gave him to me. When I lie in bed beside him at night, I wonder what it would be like to lie beside Denver. But then I think of the man on the couch and feel guilty.

  “And Denver? How’s he doing?”

  “He’s good. He makes me schedule my therapy sessions on his days off so he can come with me. And when Ollie’s out of town, he comes over to keep me company, making me play games with him like the therapists do. He’s relentless.”

  Joelle raises a brow. “He only comes over when Oliver’s gone?”

  I don’t think she means to accuse me of anything, but the expression on her face says it all.

  “It’s not like that,” I say.

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “I know, but you were thinking it. Denver just doesn’t like to step on Oliver’s toes.”

  “Does Oliver know he comes to your apartment when he’s gone?”

  “I guess he does. I mean, we had an agreement from the start that Denver was going to be in our lives.”

  “But he’s not in Oliver’s life. Based on what you’re telling me, he’s only in yours.”

  “It’s just … easier that way,” I say.

  “For whom? You or them?”

  I think about her words. I knew it was happening—the three of us spending less time together. In the beginning, Denver, Oliver, and I would do things together. We went to the park. To my old favorite restaurants. To some museums. But there was always so much tension. It’s much easier now. When I’m with Denver, he rarely asks about Oliver. And when I’m with Oliver, he never brings up Denver.

  “Sara, go to London.”

  I run my hand across Kokomo’s soft fur. “I’ll think about it.”

  ~ ~ ~

  I lift up the spoon for Oliver to take a taste of the bearnaise sauce. His eyes roll back in pleasure and he kisses the tips of his fingers before waving them in the air like the Italians do. “Perfecto!” he says in his best Italian accent.

  I laugh. It really has been fun taking cooking lessons with Ollie. He’s always joking around. He’s a different man than he was two months ago. Back then, he was stuffy and reserved and even harsh at times. But now, he’s softer and caring. Maybe he was just worried about me. Whatever it was, he’s over it now and I’m beginning to realize what I must have seen in him when we first met.

  Back at home, we sit at our table, enjoying the fruits of our labor, having easy conversation about Oliver’s latest trip to Europe.

  “I’ve been thinking more and more about your invitation to go see your family,” I say.

  His eyebrows shoot up. “That’s fantastic. I’m happy to work it into my schedule whenever you’re ready.”

  “Thank you for not pushing me,” I say.

  He takes my hand in his. “We’re going to do this at your pace.”

  “Ollie, I’ve been wanting to ask you something,” I say, looking at my engagement ring. “How did you propose?”

  “Uh, well …” He glances down at the table, looking guilty.

  “What is it?” I ask, feeling uneasy.

  “I’m a bit embarrassed to say it wasn’t very spectacular,” he says. “We were both very busy. Always on the go. I, um, just blurted it out in first class on a flight back from Chile. Everyone around us applauded. I’m sorry it wasn’t more romantic.”


  “It sounds plenty romantic,” I say.

  “I’d do it differently now.”

  “You would? Why?”

  “Because you’re not the person you once were. And neither am I. I’ve changed too, Sara. I wish you could see that. Seeing you go through what you did has changed me.” He lifts my hand up and kisses it. “We both made mistakes before.”

  “Mistakes?”

  He plays with the ring on my finger and then studies me like he wants to tell me something.

  He shakes his head. “It’s not important now. What’s important is we’re together. You’re coming back to me. I can feel it more every day. And one of these days, you’ll accept me fully. I’m willing to wait for that day. Because you’re worth waiting for.”

  I look over at the couch, thinking of him sleeping on it night after night without ever complaining.

  I take a deep breath. “Ollie, you don’t have to sleep on the couch anymore.”

  His eyebrows shoot up.

  “I’m not ready for that,” I say. “But if you want to sleep in our bed, it would be okay.”

  He stands up, pulling me into his arms. “It will be more than okay.”

  Oliver’s phone rings. I glance over to see whose calling. The caller ID reads: Benny.

  He curses under his breath before he answers the phone. He kisses me on the head and goes to the bedroom, closing the door behind him. A minute later, he emerges, grabbing his wallet off the front table. “I have to go out for a bit.”

  “Who’s Benny?” I ask. “Is that the same Ben who called you a few weeks ago? Is he your boss or something?”

  “It’s nothing you need to be concerned with, luv.”

  “But you look upset,” I say.

  He shakes his head. “It’s just work stuff. I won’t be long.”

  I realize I don’t really know all that much about what Oliver does. I know he’s an art dealer, but he doesn’t like to talk about himself. And it dawns on me that I know more about the firefighter who saved me than my own fiancé.

  ~ ~ ~

  Later, when Oliver and I are settling into bed, he snuggles close to me, his front to my back. I stiffen for a second before I relax into him. He gently rubs my arm. After a minute, I can feel his erection poking me in the back side.

  Kokomo curls up by my stomach. Then he works his way up to my chest, and then into the crook of my neck. He’s practically smothering me, almost like he’s vying for my attention now that Ollie is in the bed with us.

  It’s dark in the bedroom, and Kokomo is restless. I almost think that if I could see into his eyes, he’d be staring at me. And I’d feel guilty because sometimes when I look into Kokomo’s eyes, it’s like looking into Denver’s. And I’d feel guilty that Ollie’s arm is around me.

  Oliver falls asleep before I do, and I find myself inching away. Then I fall asleep and dream of Denver’s grey eyes. It’s the same pair of grey eyes I dream of every night. It’s like his eyes are looking into my soul, protecting me.

  Suddenly, I awaken and sneak out of bed to my studio, the desire to paint overtaking my need for sleep.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  “No cheating,” Denver says.

  I give him my best scolding look. “You can’t cheat at Dominoes,” I say.

  “You can if you have tiles up your sleeve.”

  I wave my arms in the air, showing him that nothing falls out of my sleeves. “Satisfied now? You should know by now that I’m not a cheater.”

  His eyes catch mine and I realize what I said. We both stare at each other, no doubt thinking of the double entendre of my words.

  “Um … at least I’m not now,” I say, looking away. “I don’t know if I cheated at Dominoes before. But I’d like to think I was an honest person.”

  “Lydia told me the two of you used to date men for sport,” he says out of nowhere.

  I almost spit out my drink of lemonade. I’m surprised by his crassness. I’ve never seen him so forward. It’s almost like he’s jealous of my past. Or maybe my present.

  “You make it sound like I was a slut.”

  He runs a finger along the side of his glass, wiping the condensation. “Were you?”

  “Obviously not if I had a long-term boyfriend,” I say.

  “But three years ago, back when you can last remember, were you then?”

  I look down and play with a few of my domino tiles. “I wouldn’t say I was a slut. Lydia and I liked to go on double dates. But it’s not like I slept with all of them.”

  “But you slept with some of them,” he says, blowing out a sigh.

  “I suppose I did. But as far as I know, I was always responsible about it.”

  “Right. Because you hate kids.”

  “Because I didn’t want to get pregnant at twenty-one,” I bite at him, irritated by his irrational statements. “And I don’t hate kids. I often hang out with Joelle’s twins. I even babysat Ivy’s daughter on Tuesday.”

  He looks surprised. “You did? But Oliver said—”

  “I know what he said. But that’s all part of what I don’t remember. I like kids, Denver.”

  “Do you think—” He looks away. “Do you think you and Oliver will have any?”

  “I … I’m not sure.”

  “Don’t you think you need to talk about that before you rush into anything?”

  “I’m not rushing into anything.”

  He stares at the ring on my left hand and it has me seeing my future. A future with Oliver in it. A future with kids in it—kids that Ollie says he doesn’t want. A future without Denver.

  “Listen,” I say. “Can we talk about something else?”

  He rakes his hand across the table, pulling all the dominoes into the box on his lap. “You’re clearly not into this game. What else should we play? Tetris?”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m tired of Tetris.”

  “I know you are, but it’s one of the best things you can do to help your visuo-spatial processing,” he says. “It also helps with critical thinking and problem solving.”

  I cock my head to the side, impressed that he knows all those things.

  “What?” he says. “You don’t think I’m listening when you go to therapy?”

  It shouldn’t surprise me that Denver knows everything about my therapy. Since day one, he’s been the one who was by my side. He was there so much, he even prevented a mistake that was almost made by a nurse who wanted to give me medicine that would have killed me because it had already been given.

  He saved me. Again.

  Of course he knows everything about my therapy. He knows everything about me. He seems to be the only one who does.

  “I have the highest Tetris score at the rehab center,” I say proudly. “You may not want to play me. It might make you feel like less of a man.”

  He laughs. “Fine. No Tetris. Then what?”

  I get up and retrieve the deck of cards he gave me. I put them on the table.

  “Go Fish?” he asks.

  “I know it’s a stupid kid’s game, but it kind of grew on me.”

  I deal the cards with my left hand, knowing it’s what my therapists would have me do.

  “Wait,” Denver says. “Something’s missing. We need music.”

  I grab the remote to my stereo, turning on the CD player. As the Beach Boys come through my speakers, he smiles.

  “Is this okay?” I ask.

  “You read my thoughts.”

  “You don’t mind the Beach Boys?”

  “They kind of grew on me,” he says with a wink.

  We play a few hands before he asks me, “Do you ever write in your journal?”

  In my mind, I turn the pages of my journal. The journal I write in every day. The journal that has become like another therapist. It listens but doesn’t judge. It doesn’t judge when I write about having feelings for two men. Very different feelings, but valid feelings nonetheless. It doesn’t raise its eyebrows at me when I write of my jealousy of Nora. When I
pen my thoughts of the one and only kiss Denver and I shared. It doesn’t scold me when I scribe my dreams of the future. Dreams that are based on a schoolgirl crush that I shouldn’t have. And it doesn’t chide me when I talk of the guilt I feel when I lie in bed next to my fiancé.

  I nod. “Every day.”

  “And how’s the painting going? Are you still churning them out like there’s no tomorrow?”

  “What can I say? I get inspired. I can’t help it. It’s an obsession.”

  “What have you painted lately?” he asks.

  I shrug. “Lots of things. Cats. Stacks of pennies. Hospital rooms. Eyes.”

  “Eyes?” he asks, intrigued.

  “Yeah. It’s pretty good, actually. I think it’s my best one so far.”

  “Can I see it?”

  Denver follows me into my studio and I pull out the picture I painted last week. I put it on a vacant easel and watch him study it. It’s two pairs of eyes looking at each other in a small mirror.

  “Sara,” he says, turning to me. “That’s us.”

  I look into his eyes—his grey eyes—and then glance back at the painting, realizing he’s right. The two pairs of eyes I painted are grey and brown.

  “What a coincidence,” I say.

  “It’s not a coincidence,” he says. “This was us the night of your accident. I was in the back seat of the car and the only way I could get you to calm down was to look at you in the mirror on the visor.”

  “Really?” I look back and forth between Denver and the painting. “I dream about this every night.”

  “So do I,” he says, running his hand along the edge of the canvas.

  “You do?”

  He nods.

  “Can I have it?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “No. That’s one painting I’m not letting go of.”

  Then he holds my stare, just like in the painting. I try hard. I try to remember the accident and the night we met. I try to remember everything. I miss knowing about that part of my life. I miss me.

  Moisture fills my eyes. Denver puts a hand on my arm. “What is it?”

  “I wish I could remember,” I say through my tears.

  “I know you do.”