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

by Samantha Christy

  “We’d better head out,” Denver says hesitantly. I can tell he doesn’t want to leave. I think he shares some kind of kinship with the kids here because they’re all orphans.

  I share a kinship with them because they were the ones left behind.

  A few miles away is the new apartment we’re renovating on Fifth Avenue, and by we—I mean we. Well, we’ve had some help with the new cabinets and the plumbing, but Denver has taken this on as a project and it’s been fun to see something come together that we’ve both had a hand in.

  Over the last few weeks, the apartment has been transformed from an old, dilapidated dump into a modern three-bedroom oasis. Denver insisted on finding a fixer-upper, that way he could contribute more towards the cost of the place and put in some sweat equity.

  I’m so excited to be able to move in next month. It’ll be a whole new start for me. For us.

  He walks around the room that is to be my studio. “I can’t wait to see what you create in here,” he says.

  We take a look at the third bedroom across the hall. “You can keep your guitar in here,” I say. “And maybe we could find a desk and a couple of comfy chairs. Or, if you want, we could get some exercise equipment and make it a home gym.”

  He studies the room. “I don’t know. The building has a state-of-the-art gym. I’m not sure we should waste the room on something we already have.”

  “Whatever you want, Uncle Den.”

  He runs a thoughtful hand along one of the newly painted walls.

  “Denver?” I ask, wondering where he went off to for a second.

  He swats my behind and I squeal as he chases me into the master bedroom. “I can’t wait to have you in here,” he says.

  “I can’t wait to have you in every room,” I say, pulling him against me until his lips capture mine.

  I feel his growing erection and it has my insides stirring. I moan my appreciation into his mouth.

  “Woman, you’re insatiable,” he says. “Don’t we have someplace to be?”

  I shrug, running a finger under the waistband of his pants. “Maybe we could just stay here and christen the new place.”

  He steps out of my reach. “Not a chance. I’m getting you to that showing if it’s the last thing I do.”

  I let out a long sigh. “Fine. Let’s go get you some new trousers, then.”

  Thirty minutes later, after Denver is looking dashing in a fresh pair of pants, a cab drops us off at the gallery.

  “I told you I’d get us here in time,” Denver says. “And look, we have fifteen minutes to spare. It’s not even open yet.”

  I look up at the entrance, my stomach twisting in knots.

  “Sweetheart, it’s going to be fine. Trust me.”

  He opens the door for me, and as I walk through, I pray that he’s right.

  But then, I realize my prayer is not going to be answered as my eyes fall upon the last man I ever wanted to see again.

  Oliver Compton.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  “What’s this asshole doing here?” Denver asks Davis.

  “Well, look what the cat dragged in with my sloppy seconds,” Oliver says, slurring his words.

  “He’s drunk,” Davis says. Then he touches the tip of his nose. “And maybe high. He just arrived a minute before you did. I was in the process of asking him to leave.”

  Denver looks angrier than I’ve ever seen him. A vein throbs at his temple. His jaw tightens. I put a hand on his arm, hoping it will keep him from doing anything impulsive.

  “Get the fuck out,” Denver says. “You will not ruin this for her. Haven’t you ruined her life enough already?”

  Oliver laughs maniacally. “Ruined her life? She called the fucking cops on me.”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask.

  “Don’t act like you don’t know,” Oliver says. “My neighbor said they showed up with a warrant for my arrest earlier today.”

  “Oliver, I haven’t even given you a thought since I left London two months ago. You aren’t worth my time. I didn’t call the police. But I’m happy someone did, because you’re disgusting.”

  Denver steps back and opens the door. “Now, leave.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he says.

  “Well, now I will call the police,” I say. “It sounds like they’d be very interested in knowing where you are.”

  Oliver pulls a can of spray paint out of his pocket and holds it up to one of my paintings. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  “Go ahead and spray it,” I say, getting out my phone.

  Denver puts his hand over mine, preventing me from dialing. “No,” he says. “I won’t let him deface your work.”

  “They aren’t important,” I say. “I can always make more paintings.”

  “God, man,” Oliver says in disgust. “See what you’ve done to her? She’s gone soft.”

  “What the hell do you want, Compton?” Denver asks.

  “What have I always wanted?”

  Denver looks at me and then stands in front of me protectively.

  Oliver laughs. “You still think I want her? The cold fish who’s scared of a little cock?”

  Davis laughs behind us, mimicking Oliver’s words. “Little cock.”

  “Oh, shut up, you fucking faggot!” Oliver shouts. Then he motions to my leg. “She’s damaged goods now. Who wants a woman who can’t even walk properly?”

  Denver balls his hands into fists and he takes a step forward. I grab him and hold him back. The last thing we need is Denver risking another head injury over Oliver’s hateful words.

  “You want revenge,” Denver says. “Revenge for something she didn’t even do. You did this all to yourself. This is your fault.”

  We hear a noise coming from the back. “What the fuck is that?” Oliver asks.

  “It’s a showing, Oliver,” Davis says. “They are getting champagne and hors d'oeuvres ready.” He looks at his watch. “People will start arriving any minute. I suggest you leave before you get thrown out.”

  Oliver laughs. “Who’s going to throw me out? The faggot or the firefighter?”

  Everyone else in the room knows Denver could easily take Oliver down without much of a fight. But Oliver is clearly under the influence. People like that make bad decisions. And I’m pretty sure nobody here wants to end up in a worse situation than we’re already in.

  Oliver is still holding the can of paint with his finger on the nozzle.

  “Put down the paint, Compton,” Denver says. “Aren’t you in enough trouble already? You’ve been asked to leave. Do you really want to add trespassing and vandalism to your list of charges?”

  “What does it matter?” he asks. “I’ll never work in this country again. And once they arrest me, I won’t be able to go back to London.”

  Oliver shakes the can of paint and before we can even react, he defaces one of my paintings with a bright-red X.

  Denver is still standing in front of me, protecting me as if Oliver were wielding a gun instead of a can of spray paint.

  “No!” Davis cries as Oliver shakes the can and points it at another painting.

  What happens next, happens so fast I barely have time to comprehend it. One of the caterers comes out from the back, pulling Oliver’s attention away from us and the paintings. Oliver spins around and then Denver takes off, sprinting across the room until he tackles Oliver to the floor. As quickly as he takes him down, he shoves the paint can away with his foot and puts a knee into Oliver’s back, pressing him against the floor.

  Denver looks over at me. “Call the police, sweetheart.”

  Red and blue lights flash outside the door. “It’s okay,” Davis says. “I took care of it.”

  Two police officers put Oliver in handcuffs, reading him his rights before they remove him from the gallery. “We’ll need all of you to come to the station and give a statement,” one of the officers says after Denver explains what happened.

  “We will,” he says
. “But it will have to wait a few hours.”

  My surprised eyes find his. “You don’t really think we’re going through with the showing now, do you?”

  “Hell yes,” he says. “That scumbag already stole months of your life. We’re not letting him take anything else from you.” He looks over at Davis. “Are we?”

  “Listen to your man,” Davis says, walking over to remove the defaced painting from the wall. “We are having this showing, honey.” He looks at me with guilt-filled eyes. “I was the one who called the police earlier today, resulting in the warrant for his arrest. I was devastated over hearing what he did to you. And yesterday, when a client came in with a Benny Klutner painting—one I know for a fact was sold overseas last summer—I knew something was fishy. So I called Benny and he told me everything. He might have been higher than a kite when he did, but I still convinced him to press charges.”

  He looks at the ruined painting of mine in his hands. “I’m so sorry. I never meant for this to happen. I’m just glad Oliver was so focused on the two of you that he didn’t see me texting a friend to send the police to the gallery.”

  I wrap my arms around him. “Thank you, Davis. Now you’re a hero. Maybe now I can put it behind me and forget that part of my past.” Then I look at Denver and laugh. “Wow. I never thought I’d hear myself say that.”

  Denver takes the ruined painting from Davis. He looks at it sadly. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

  I shrug. “It’s okay. It wasn’t my favorite, anyway.”

  He pulls me close. “All of your paintings are my favorites.”

  People start to pour in the front doors, asking questions about what just happened, why the cops were here and why they had to wait outside. I look at all the faces as they walk past us. Lydia is here with her husband and new baby. Joelle brought her husband as well. Ivy and Bass stroll in, followed by a few familiar firefighters. Then Baylor walks through the door with who I presume are her sisters whom she told me about.

  Many others walk in as well, filling up all the empty space in the gallery. Strangers who aren’t just here to support me. And finally, a smile breaks out on my face.

  Denver squeezes my hand. “I told you you’d be a hit.”

  Before I go mix and mingle with the crowd, there is something I have to do. “Denver, I want to show you something.” I pull him over to the far corner of the gallery where the showpiece is highlighted. It’s the painting I did in private.

  As we approach it, Denver’s jaw drops. He studies the painting of a little boy covered with soot, the glow of a fire all around him, reaching his arms out to a firefighter.

  I was so inspired that first day we met Joey in the hospital that I immediately began this painting, hiding it from Denver until tonight.

  He thoughtfully traces the edges of the little boy’s face with his fingers. Then he turns to me. “I don’t want to be Uncle Den anymore,” he says.

  I’m not sure what words I thought would come out of his mouth when he saw the painting, but it wasn’t those. “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “I’ve been thinking about this for weeks now, Sara.”

  “Thinking about what? What do you mean you don’t want to be Uncle Den?”

  “I was thinking I’d prefer another title.”

  My furrowed brow questions him.

  He takes in a deep breath and blows it out. “I was thinking of Daddy.”

  My eyes go wide in surprise. “You want to adopt him?”

  He takes my hands in his. “I want us to adopt him.”

  “Us?”

  “Hear me out, Sara. I know this is sudden and we’re still young and inexperienced when it comes to kids. I’ve been afraid to bring this up to you, but I feel so strongly that it’s the right thing. I’ve looked into it and we can become foster parents to Joey so he can live with us until the adoption goes through. It’s a lot to ask and maybe you don’t even want this, but I’m asking, anyway.”

  I stand here, stunned, unable to move or speak. Unable to hear anything going on around us. Unable to think of anything else but what he’s telling me.

  “Why were you afraid to bring this up?” I ask.

  “Because you said you wanted to have lots of kids. Your own kids.”

  “That’s not what I meant. Denver, if we adopted him, Joey would be my own kid. I always knew I would adopt someday. I wanted to give other kids what my parents gave me.” I look up at the painting. “I guess I just didn’t think it would happen so soon.”

  “Do you love him?” he asks.

  I think of Joey’s little cherub face and his soft blue eyes. His fine blond hair with a cowlick over his right eye. I think of how he crawled into my lap a few hours ago. And suddenly, this feels right, like everything I ever wanted is happening right here, right now.

  I look up at him and smile.

  “Wait,” Denver says, sensing I was about to give him my answer. He runs a finger down my jaw. “Sweetheart, you might want to get your phone out.”

  “What? Why?”

  He pulls a small box from his pants pocket. “Because I’m hoping this is something you’ll want to remember.”

  Tears escape my eyes as someone comes up behind me, grabbing my phone before Denver gets down on a knee.

  “I was going to wait until the end of the night to do this,” he says. “But then you showed me this painting and I knew I had to do it right now. You, me, and Joey—we were meant to find each other and become a family.” Tears pool in his eyes, one dropping down onto my hand as he takes it into his and places a kiss on it. “I want to be with you forever, Sara Francis. I want to be with Joey forever, along with all of our other kids. I can’t wait to watch you grow our baby in your belly. I can’t wait to see what other child will come into our lives in some unexpected way to complete our family. I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you. The way I love him. I didn’t even know I could feel like this. I didn’t know there could be so much love to give.”

  He lets go of my hand and opens the box. I have to wipe my tears to see clearly. But the truth is, I don’t care if it’s a ten-carat diamond or a plastic dime-store ring—it means more to me than anything ever has. More than any painting. More than any trip. More than any Fifth Avenue apartment.

  “Marry me, Sara. Make a family with me. Make a life with me. Play cards with me. Dance to the Beach Boys with me. Grow old with me.”

  It’s only now that I realize the entire gallery is silent. All eyes are on us and everyone is waiting for my answer.

  I look down at Denver, swallowing the lump in my throat so I can tell him what I need him to hear. “You saved me tonight, Denver. You’ve saved me so many times I can’t even count. You’re my real-life knight in shining armor. You’re everything everyone told me I didn’t want. And from the moment I woke up, I knew it was you. I knew in my heart, even before I knew your name, that you were the man for me. I love the way you love me. I love the way you love Joey. Of course I’ll marry you.”

  Denver slips the ring on my finger and then stands up and twirls me around to the cheers of everyone in the room.

  “This just became an engagement party, people,” Davis announces.

  Denver walks over and gets something off the gallery desk. He smiles at me as he places a red dot by the painting—the dot that indicates it’s been sold. “We’re keeping this one,” he declares as he looks at it with pride.

  He pulls me into his arms and I look up at him. “I’d marry you tonight, Denver Andrews.”

  “Good, because first thing Monday morning, we’re going to the courthouse to get our marriage license.”

  “We are?”

  He nods. “We’ll make a better case for being Joey’s foster parents, and ultimately adopting him, if we’re married.”

  Tears wet my eyes again at the reality of what just happened. “I’m going to be a mom?”

  “You are. Better yet, you’re going to be my wife.”

  I smile. “Sara Andrews. I like the sound
of that.”

  “Andrews?” he says. “I figured you’d want to keep your name because of your art.”

  I look around at the gallery of paintings. The paintings that were all inspired by him. The paintings that are nothing like the old ones I used to make. I pick up the can of spray paint that still lies on the floor where it fell earlier. I walk over to the banner with my name on it that’s hanging on the wall. I mark a red X through my last name and under it, write Denver’s.

  “These aren’t paintings by Sara Francis,” I say. “These are Sara Andrews originals.”

  “How did I get so lucky?” he asks.

  “I’ve been asking myself that every day.”

  Lydia hands me my phone. “I think I got all of it,” she says, smiling.

  “Thank you,” I tell her, knowing I’ll watch the video later. Because Denver was right—it’s something I’ll always want to remember.

  Ivy joins us, showing me a picture on her phone. “This really does say it all,” she says.

  Denver looks over my shoulder at the photo of him on bended knee, looking up at me. There is so much emotion on his face. He squeezes me from behind. “Look at the way I love you,” he says.

  I crane my neck and gaze back at him. I can’t believe he’s mine. My man. My partner. My fiancé. My savior. My life.

  Denver takes me into his arms and nods to the photo on Ivy’s phone. “You may be about to become Sara Andrews, but I’m going to need you to paint one last Sara Francis memory.”

  Epilogue

  Denver

  I look in the rearview mirror and see Joey helping his sisters with their snacks. It’s a long road trip, driving from New York to Missouri, but it’s one we’ve wanted to take for a while now. Sara and I both have fond memories of going on road trips with our parents when we were younger. It’s taken us a while to plan this one—seven years to be exact. We didn’t want to make the trip with an infant, but we wanted to go during baseball season since Joey is such a huge fan of his Uncle Sawyer. The timing just never worked out. Until now.