All Aflame (The Reverse Harem Diaries Book 6)

by Mia Moon

  All Aflame

  Mia Moon

  Copyright © 2018 by Mia Moon

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Let’s stay in touch

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Epilogue

  SAVED BY THE SEALS EXCERPT

  Where to Find Mia

  Let’s stay in touch

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  Chapter One

  He was tall, and his broad shoulders tested the durability of his shirt. No way that thin, tight tee was legal. His skin, the color of warm honey, soaked up the yellows and pinks of dawn. Morning light tipped his brown hair with gold and lit his eyes, making him seem like a regal lion.

  Rawr.

  I wondered about the color of those sparkling eyes. Some days I imagined they were blue. Other days I fantasized that they were as warm and tawny as the rest of him.

  I looked for him every morning. I wasn’t a stalker, but I only had one running route. Like a zoo animal, I made the daily rounds of my cage perimeter. I’d leave my home on Williams Avenue, turn left on Del Norte, right on Laurel, left on Bellevue, right on Dale. And there he’d be, at the fire station. Well, usually.

  I swear I didn’t go out of my way to catch glimpses—at least not at first.

  Six in the morning is prime time for jogging when you live in the quietest suburb known to the Midwest. It's before even the most robust of the elderly is beginning to stir for morning coffee.

  It’s also the best time to be outdoors, especially in the spring and summer. Cool air lingers, even in July, before things fire up to an unholy level of hot. What’s less pleasant are those summer mornings when it’s sticky and still. When the bottoms of my shoes feel like they’re melting to the pavement. Those days, I sweat like my personal goal is to boil down into soup. Rumor has it, sweating is only sexy when guys do it. Even then, they’d better be doing something super manly like working out or chopping down trees or whatever.

  Golden Guy, as I’d mentally named him, usually wasn’t doing anything major. When he was there, he always had a rag in hand, wiping down the fire truck. It must’ve needed a lot of attention at that hour because he buffed that rig so much that it blinded me when the sun hit its surface.

  I adored the show. His arm muscles straining, the hem of that tight shirt riding up to reveal a tan, taut tailbone. The golden hue of his hair, and the bronze of his skin. Yummy.

  The first week I saw him, we didn’t acknowledge each other. Buffing the pump panel on the side of the truck took all his focus.

  The second week, he glanced up as he polished the bumper.

  The third week, we nodded as he scrubbed the hood.

  The fourth week, we exchanged quick hellos. At least I guess that’s what he said—he might’ve been inhaling or whistling. He did look right into my eyes, though, and they were how I’d imagined: a captivating honey brown. I might’ve been mistaken, but it felt like sparks flew in that moment of eye contact. He even dropped the rag and grinned adorably when he bent over to pick it up. I was breathless for a quarter mile after I passed him.

  At this rate, we might shake hands by 2025. The thought of moving so slow was kind of hilarious for me, a love and sex columnist. But I wasn’t looking for a man—I only wrote about them. I wasn’t aiming for anything but peace when I moved from St. Louis to the leafy suburb, trying to get away from everything.

  Still, Golden Guy made my mornings sunnier.

  I knew there had to be more—firefighters didn’t work alone, right? I guessed Golden Guy was off work when I didn’t see anyone outside. I wondered what the other firefighters were doing inside the building. And why didn't they feel the same need he did to polish that truck to a glittering shine? I could've used the entertainment.

  Then, like magic, a few more appeared. One each day. Sometimes it was a dark-haired, mysterious-eyed stud. Other days it was a blond, miles tall and built like a brick wall. I only ever saw one of them at a time, and I was becoming convinced they were all the same guy in various wigs. There were two or three more (supposedly), who I didn’t catch glimpses of as often.

  Regardless of my theories about the wig-wearing one-man firefighting wonder, one thing was certain. The dudes—or dude—at that particular station were smokin’ hot.

  I’d become a master of cheesy fire-related puns in my mind. Light my fire, firefighters in heat, fire in the hole, that sort of thing. Can I slide down your pole? That was a recent masterpiece, and I’d laughed out loud once I’d gotten out of earshot of the station.

  I didn’t consider my ogling creepy. Creepy would have been slowing down, or stopping altogether, and gaping openly. I wasn’t the stop-and-stare type. If anything, the thought of them catching me drooling over them gave me an extra speed boost on my way past.

  The fire dudes were nothing but a pleasant diversion. Like a cool breeze in summer, a free sample of butter pecan ice cream at the grocery store, or a Hallmark Christmas movie. Sure, I was prone to obsessing about them, but it was easy to do. My almost-nonexistent contact with them provided the largest social interaction of my day. Often the only social interaction of the day, unless my parents called from Florida or my neighbor stopped by.

  Of course, there were the relentless emails from my editor, assigning me articles to copy edit and demanding to know when my column would be in.

  Yeah, I’m in a dying industry: newspapers. My paper was more humane than most, mostly because they hadn’t fired me. See, I’d been a reporter up until last year. Liked it well enough and loved living downtown. I was doing okay until I covered an EF-5 tornado that killed twenty people in a shelter. I’d seen the aftermath with my own eyes, had reported the hell out of the story, then promptly fell apart.

  PTSD, my doctor said.

  I couldn’t afford to quit my job. Instead of canning me, the paper graciously accommodated my needs. My editor, Terry, pulled strings so I could work from home copy editing the features section. There was a catch, of course. In exchange for that flexibility, I was assigned to write a weekly column about love, dating, and relationships—one that the other reporters had declined to write because they were bashful and timid.

  “It’ll draw in new readers who want edgy content,” Terry the Editor told me, trying to sell me on the project.

  I accepted with doubts. Many doubts. But I didn’t have much choice, and had to reluctantly accept. It’s not like I could live without a paycheck, and I didn’t want to stay in the city, in my old job.

  So I moved into my parents’ empty home in the suburbs and proceeded to hunker down with my work and…more work. I even took on a couple of easy freelance assignments writing puff pieces for websites. Anything to avoid my emotions and demons.

  The editing assignment was manageable. The column…well, let’s just say it took me a while to get into the groove.

  Okay, the groove was still elusive.

  Th
e hours were long, and I ran on so little sleep and so much caffeine that I didn't notice the euthanizing of my social life until it was long dead.

  After ogling the hot firefighter of the day, work was always the first thing on my mind. I was still laughing at today's brilliance—is that your hose or are you happy to see me was today’s quip—whenI returned home through the back door.

  I slid the screen shut behind me, leaving the glass door open so the fresh air could slip in while I grabbed breakfast. The kitchen was bigger than I’d ever need. My parents had it renovated a few years back, before they decided to live in Florida full-time. Everything was stainless steel and granite countertops. Way too fancy for my bowl of oatmeal and faded Donald Duck glass of orange juice.

  My laptop was still on the table, where I’d left it only five hours earlier. I moved the wireless mouse, waking the screen and bringing up my email. I had six new ones from this morning on top of the three I’d left unread yesterday. I needed to answer them all before ten.

  It was going to be a long day, but that was nothing new. Every day bled into the next, and the next, for me.

  A loud knock on the back door frame broke my work trance. My heart skipped a beat as I looked over, prepared for almost anything—the mailman, a burglar, a hot firefighter—but it was my neighbor Birdie. All five foot nothing of her, bless her soul, with her ruby red hair and shiny red lips. Her teeth gleamed bright white in her big smile as she waved, acting like I couldn’t hear her through the thin screen.

  “You can come in,” I called out, not moving from my spot. “It’s only the screen door. It’s open.”

  Her full lips contorted into an ‘o’ as she processed that and slid the door open. She glided through in her little slip-on shoes with steps as light as a ballerina, too perky for her own good. She was a few years older than me and had moved into the neighborhood when I was away at college. It seemed like I’d known her forever, though. The older sister I never had—sometimes annoying, but lovable anyway.

  All my co-workers were still in the city and allergic to the suburbs. Birdie had become my closest friend in recent months. Still, her cheeriness was always a shock to my senses first thing in the morning.

  “Bree!” She opened up her arms for a hug, and I obliged. The lack of social interaction meant touch felt foreign, even though Birdie hugged me every chance she got. “I hope it isn’t too early to stop by.” She always said that, no matter the time of day.

  “No, not at all. What’s going on?”

  “Well, I'm just checking on you.” I didn’t know how, or why, but for someone who was as rooted in the Midwest as a stalk of corn, Birdie's drawl was so thick you’d think she hailed from Georgia. I always teased her about sounding like Scarlett from Gone with the Wind.

  Birdie’s eyes were a little too bright, indicating she wasn’t only paying a quick social call.

  “Just checking on me?” I quirked an eyebrow.

  “Well…and I wanted to see if you’re coming to my barbecue tonight.”

  I’d forgotten about it. Okay, I hadn’t forgotten. A few days earlier, I’d deflected the invitation by telling her I wasn’t sure.

  I went over to the microwave to grab my oatmeal. “Can’t,” I said, scalding my fingers on the sides of the bowl. "Yeowch!" I drew in a sharp breath and dropped the bowl on the counter, ceramic clattering against granite as I shoved my fingers into my mouth, sucking.

  “You’re going to lose a hand that way!” Birdie bopped the sink faucet, running cold water and snatching my wrist. She hauled me over to shove my hand under the spray. “Why can’t you come? Hot date?”

  I snorted. “Hardly. I have to work.” Pathetic. Even I knew that.

  “Can’t you set it aside for a bit? Come on, Bree, it isn’t like it’s a real job…”

  “Thanks, Birdie.” I rolled my eyes.

  “I don’t mean it like that! But you set your own hours, don’t you?”

  “Sure.” It wasn’t exactly like that, but she was right. I could walk away for a little bit. Long enough to eat dinner. But the thought of getting out and inserting myself into a throng of people I didn’t know…gah.

  She killed the faucet, releasing my hand. “It’ll be good for you. You need to get out more. At least meet people. You don’t want your condition getting worse.”

  “Oh, now I have a condition.” I grabbed a crumpled-up towel and dried my hand, inspecting my fingertips—they were pink, but not blistered.

  “You’re the one who said so. You told me I should get on you if you’ve been inside too much. I’ve only seen you go out to jog this week.”

  Dammit, I did say that to her not long after I moved in. Back when I realized I was becoming agoraphobic. First, I stopped going to the city. Then, I stopped going north of the highway. Now, my world was the within square mile perimeter of my run route. I liked it that way, though. At least, I thought I did. Besides, everything I needed was nearby. I still went grocery shopping, to the post office and to get my hair cut—those things were all within my safe zone.

  Okay, so the grocery store’s new delivery service was making it easier to not even have to do that chore. But whatever.

  I sighed in response.

  “We live right next to each other, and I never see you,” Birdie said, wheedling me with her friendly guilt trip.

  “You could go jogging with me,” I suggested, smirking because I knew how she’d respond.

  As expected, she gave me a dry look and said, “I have a three-year-old. I do all the running I could ever need after him.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  Birdie had her life together—husband, kid, the whole works. She wasn’t so debilitated by panic attacks that she shut herself inside, basking in the quiet glow of her computer. No, she believed if I perked up and got over myself, I could get on the same path. Otherwise, as she so lovingly put it: I’d end up as some lonely, embittered old maid with only a cat and a parrot to keep me company.

  At least I hadn’t yet procured the pets to prove her theory, though I’d fought the temptation once or twice.

  Maybe she was right. In recent weeks, I’d been thinking about seeking professional help. I just hadn’t worked up the courage to call someone.

  My issues were mounting. If I let them continue, I’d soon be isolating myself to only one room of the house—which, come to think of it, I almost already did. Even I could see that snowball rolling down the mountain, gaining enough speed and weight to pin me to the sofa for good. A vision of being interviewed on a daytime talk show about how many years it had been since I’d left the house waltzed through my head, causing me to shudder.

  I guess that’s what made me say, “All right, I get it. I’ll come over for a little bit. Maybe. And it’s only for the free food.”

  “Yay! Make sure you bring a dish—don’t be a freeloader.” She grinned, giving me a playful jab in my ribs. “It’ll force you to go to the store.”

  “Ever heard of grocery delivery?” I stuck my tongue out, and she laughed.

  Birdie knew damn well I wasn’t capable of cooking. “You’ve gotta learn how to cook, Bree. You’ll never catch a man otherwise.” She’d told me that at least a dozen times—as if she knew her way around anything more complicated than a box of Stovetop before she got married.

  She also knew I wouldn’t argue. I’d show up with my store-bought chocolate chip cookies and hope to find a sneaky way to hide them amidst all the made-from-scratch pecan pies, green bean casseroles, and roasted corn cobs. Then, Birdie would snatch them up and take them to the kitchen to arrange on a fancy plate. That’s what happened not too long ago, when she had a small dinner party.

  Maybe I’d be a good neighbor and do the assembling part this time, in the hopes of passing the cookies off as something genuine.

  “All right, fine. You got it.” The stress of unanswered emails loomed over me as I glanced at the door. “Now, I don’t mean to rush you out, but I've got tons of work to do…”

  “I nee
d to get back to Jimmy anyway. I’ll see you in a bit, hon. Party starts at six but come over whenever. You know the front door will be open.”

  “Thanks,” I said, mentally urging her out the door. “I’ll see you later. Promise.”

  She waved, wiggling her fingers in the air. “Bye bye bye!” her singsong voice trilled at me even after she'd closed the screen behind her.

  An overbearing existential dread settled in along with the silence of her absence. I already had too work to do. Now I had to factor in time to shower, get ready, and drive to the store for food I could feasibly pass off as mine…

  Or there was grocery delivery.

  I also had to avoid even thinking about having a panic attack. Sometimes the fear of an attack was worse than the attacks themselves.

  Think about meaningless things, I told myself. Which cookies to buy; when I’d arrive; how long I had to stay (about 33 minutes by my estimation); what I’d wear.

  I jabbed at my computer keys. Hell.

  The thought of outfits caused my chest to tighten, panic rising. My closet consisted of nothing appropriate for a festive atmosphere. Working from home meant my dresser was full of sweatpants and tank tops, many of them food-stained. My mom had unkindly referred to my style choices in recent years as ‘garbage’. Even in the privacy of my own brain, I couldn’t disagree.

  I had a few outfits that were suitable for an interview, but nothing in-between. When I left the city, I’d given away bags of clothes, like I was shedding my skin in the hopes of forgetting about everything I’d seen and experienced.

  Making matters worse: I’d always been something of a tomboy. Even when I was fully functional, I was never the Barbie type. The current, frilly styles didn’t make me want to shop till I dropped. If only there were a place in the neighborhood that sold classy, simple clothing.