Triple Dare

by Regina Kyle

  “Ivy, wait...”

  But she’d waited long enough for Cade Hardesty. Sixteen years, to be exact, since grade school, when she’d started to notice things about her brother’s best buddy. Like his full, firm, oh-so-kissable lips and his solid-looking chest with the dusting of hair she saw when he took his shirt off in the summer and God, oh, God, the vee at his hips pointing to nirvana that made her brain freeze.

  Her palms sweaty, she took off his shirt, balled it up and threw it at him, leaving her half-naked in her sports bra. But he sure as hell didn’t care, and neither did she. “Here. I’d offer to wash it, but I’m sure you’ll find some other friend to help you out.”

  Before he could respond, she’d gotten out of the SUV, slammed the door shut and was heading up the stone walkway to the front door. She fumbled for her keys and heard gravel spin out from under his tires as he backed out of the driveway then sped off down the street.

  She almost laughed at the irony of it. She’d just dumped a man who refused to go out with her.

  5

  IF HE LIVED to be a hundred, Cade would never understand women. Especially one feisty, curvy redhead who’d been taking up way too much space in his brain the past few weeks.

  All he’d said was the truth. They were friends. Was it so wrong that he didn’t want to risk their relationship for a night of doing the horizontal mambo? Even if, based on the heat generated by their kisses, it would probably be the stuff sexual legends were made of.

  He shook his head and reached for the extra virgin olive oil. It was his turn to cook for the squad, and he was trying pasta with clam sauce. Maybe focusing on his culinary skills—or lack thereof—would take his mind off how Ivy’s lips felt on his, soft and sensuous, or how goddamn hard he’d gotten when she’d raked her nails down his back.

  He tossed some minced garlic into the pan and stirred it with a wooden spoon, but his thoughts kept spinning back to Ivy and the scene in her driveway. She should be flattered that their friendship meant more to him than a night of meaningless, albeit mind-blowing, sex, not pissed off and refusing to return his calls or texts.

  Unless what she had in mind was more than a meaningless one-night stand...

  “What’s burning?” Cappy barked. “We’re supposed to put out fires, not start them.”

  “Shit.” Cade pulled the pan off the burner and stared at the charred bits of garlic.

  Cappy wrinkled his nose. “Please tell me that wasn’t dinner.”

  “It was.” Cade strode to the sink, turned on the faucet and stuck the pan underneath. “Good news is it’s not too late to start over.”

  “What’s with you lately, son?” Cappy grabbed a bottle of water out of the fridge and sat down at the enormous oak slab table with the station’s logo embossed in the center that took up most of the firehouse kitchen. “Your head hasn’t been in the game since the Battle of the Badges. You’re not still upset we lost, are you?”

  “Nah.”

  “O’Brien still bugging you? I can give him a verbal warning.”

  “Not necessary, Cap.” Cade finished rinsing the pan, stuck it back on the stove and began chopping fresh garlic. “We’re cool.”

  As “cool” as they were going to get, unless O’Brien made another crack about Ivy. Then all bets were off.

  Cappy cracked open his water bottle and took a sip. “If work’s not the problem, it must be something at home. You got woman trouble? Maybe one of those gals at the game?”

  The knife slipped in Cade’s hand, almost slicing off the tip of his index finger. Jesus Christ. Did they have to talk about this now? Or ever?

  “Look, Hardesty,” Cappy continued. Apparently they did have to talk about this. “You’re one of my best men. But you’re no good to me or anyone else in the company stumbling around like something out of The Walking Dead.”

  A stab of guilt pierced Cade in the gut. Cappy was right. Cade was damn lucky the most serious call they’d had in the past week was from a lady whose five-year-old somehow got her head stuck between the toilet and the wall. With the way he’d been acting, he’d have risked his own life and the lives of all his brothers in arms in an actual fire.

  He put down the knife and turned to his captain. “I’m sorry. I’ll pull my head out of my ass, I promise.”

  “See that you do.” Cappy gave him a dismissive nod, indicating the conversation was blessedly over, and Cade turned back to the garlic.

  “Do what?” O’Brien came in from the engine bay, followed by Sykes and Hansen, B Company’s paramedics. “Cook dinner without burning it? Smells like it’s too late for that.”

  “Lay off.” Cappy pushed his chair back and stood, slapping a palm on the table. “Let the man work.”

  They disappeared, leaving Cade to mince and dice in peace. About half an hour later, just as he was pouring the sauce over the pasta, the alarm blared.

  “Figures,” he muttered, shoving an uncovered bowl of salad into the fridge. “I knew we’d never get to eat it hot. It smelled too damn good.”

  He dropped the now-empty pan into the sink, double-checked the burners to make sure they were off and raced to the lockers, where the rest of the crew was already jumping into their turnout gear.

  “What’s the deal?” O’Brien asked as he pulled on his boots.

  “Ten twenty-six,” Cappy answered, clapping his helmet on his head. “Kitchen fire at 195 Leffert’s Pond Road.”

  Cade froze, one leg in his bunkers and one out. “What was that address?”

  “195 Leffert’s Pond Road.” Cappy slammed his locker shut and sprinted toward the engine bay.

  “What’s wrong, man?” Hansen shrugged on his jacket. “You look like you’ve been hit by a bus.”

  “I’m good.” Cade jerked on his pants, pulled up his suspenders and stepped into his boots.

  “You don’t look good,” O’Brien chimed in. “You look like shit.”

  “I said I’m good.” Cade grabbed his coat and helmet. “Let’s roll.”

  He spun on his heel and ran after Cappy, not wanting his fellow firefighters to see what a goddamn liar he was. Because he wasn’t good. He was just about the furthest thing you could be from good.

  195 Leffert’s Pond Road was the old Pagano place. The place Nick had bought for Holly when they’d gotten engaged. The place where Ivy was staying while she was in town.

  If there was a time to pull his head out of his ass, it was now.

  * * *

  IVY DIDN’T KNOW whether to be relieved or mortified when she heard the sirens.

  Relieved because it meant help would get there before the pot of pasta on the stove went up in flames and burned the whole house down. Mortified because she was stuck halfway through the doggy door, her spandex-clad ass hanging out for the whole darned world to see.

  Okay, it was her own stupid fault for locking herself out of the house with dinner cooking. She’d just gone to grab the mail, and the evening had barreled downhill from there. It was like a comedy of errors—the door locking behind her, her cell sitting useless on the kitchen counter, the only neighbor in spitting distance not at home and, finally, her fateful decision to squeeze through the doggy door.

  The acrid smell of smoldering spaghetti filled her nostrils. Fudge bucket. With all the water gone, the pasta was burning to the bottom of the pot, about to burst into flames.

  Good thing Nick had sprung for a fancy alarm system that called 9-1-1 when the smoke detector went off. But where was the fire department?

  The sirens grew closer. Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime of staring at the Clean Up After Yourself, House Elves Don’t Work Here needlepoint hanging over the washer/dryer in the mudroom, the crunch of gravel in the driveway, followed by shouts and door slams, told Ivy the firefighters had arrived.

  She took a deep breath to steady her jangling nerves, but only succeeded in irritating herself thanks to the stinging smell. Coughing, she blinked her watery eyes, opening them in time to see a pair of black-and-yellow
boots on the tile floor directly in front of her.

  “Uh, hey, Ivy.”

  Her gaze traveled up long legs, past a trim waist to a familiar, broad chest, all protected by turnout gear.

  “Going in or out?” Cade quipped with a smirk.

  “Very funny.” Ivy blew a wisp of hair out of her eyes. “How about taking care of the conflagration about to erupt on my stove? That’s your job, right?”

  “O’Brien’s on it.” He kneeled down so they were more at eye level. “Do you think I’d be here calmly making small talk if you were still in danger?”

  “I was not in danger.” Much.

  “Are you kidding?” His eyes flashed. “You’re damn lucky it wasn’t worse—which it would have been if it wasn’t for the state-of-the art security system Nick had installed. As it is, you’ll have to ventilate the kitchen for a few days to get rid of the smell. And you owe your sister and her husband a new saucepan. But that’s the extent of it.”

  He tilted his head to study the half of her that had made it into the house. “Well, that and the fact that you’re stuck in the doggy door.”

  She consoled herself with the thought that he was inside, not on the porch talking to her ass.

  “Yeah, about that...” She held her hands out. “Could you, maybe, pull me out of here or something?”

  He sat on his very fine butt, bracing his feet against the door on either side of her, and grabbed her forearms. As embarrassed as she was, she couldn’t stop the hum of pleasure that buzzed through her at his touch.

  “Ready?” he asked, his gaze boring into hers. “On three.”

  She swallowed hard and nodded.

  “One...two...three.”

  He pulled. She stayed.

  “Hmm.” He released her and wiped his hands on his bunker pants. “You’re really wedged in there.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Tell me something I don’t know, Captain Obvious.”

  Another firefighter, who Ivy recognized from the softball game as the company captain, appeared behind Cade, followed by two more.

  A bigger audience. Fan-freaking-tastic.

  “The rest of the house is all clear,” Cappy announced.

  “Need some help rescuing your girlfriend?” one of the others asked. “Or are you with the blonde this week? I can’t keep your women straight.”

  “Zip it, O’Brien,” Cappy barked. “And get in line.”

  In a matter of seconds, they’d formed a human chain with Cade at the front and the guy Cappy called O’Brien as the anchor.

  “Hold on tight,” Cade said, gripping her arms again. “Like last time. On three.”

  “Shouldn’t we have someone push from—pardon the pun—behind?” O’Brien’s voice reeked of snark.

  “I hate to admit it, but that’s not a bad idea.” Cappy pulled his radio out of his belt and pressed the button. “Sykes. Send a team around back. We’ve got a female trapped in the pet door and need some pushing power.”

  Pushing power? What was she? Fudgie the Whale?

  Oh, wait, she’d almost forgotten. In this town, she’d always be Jabba the Mutt, no matter how long she’d been gone or how much weight she’d lost. Precisely why she’d stayed away for almost thirteen years. And why she was leaving the minute her father was back in top form.

  “Ready out here, Cap,” a voice crackled over the radio.

  “Okay, like Cade said, on three.” Cappy returned to his place in line. “One...”

  She felt a pair of hands on her ass. Could this possibly get any more humiliating?

  “Two...”

  She let out a squeak as the hands shifted, hopefully to find a better pushing position and not to cop a cheap feel.

  “Enjoying yourself?” Cade quirked a brow.

  Oh, yeah. It could get more humiliating.

  “Hardly.” She closed her eyes to escape his teasing smile.

  “Three.”

  Grunts and groans, mixed with an occasional expletive, filled the room. She felt like a chew toy caught between two rottweilers as the firefighters tugged and shoved.

  “That’s it.”

  “She’s coming free.”

  “Almost there.”

  “One more and she’s out.”

  With a pop, Ivy sprang loose, landing like a wet rag in Cade’s lap. She forced her eyes open to see him looking down at her with a shit-eating grin.

  “Nice catch,” she muttered, scrambling off him.

  “They don’t call me Sure Hands Hardesty for nothing.”

  “I’ve never heard anyone call you that.”

  He shrugged. “They should.”

  Ivy didn’t doubt that. And not just because of his prowess in rescue situations. She shuddered, remembering the way those hands had brought her to a fever pitch during their kisses, kneading her ass, framing her face, molding her breasts.

  “Clear away from the door,” Cappy ordered, snapping her out of her trance. “Let the paramedics in.”

  “I’m fine, honest.” She stood gingerly and brushed herself off. “Nothing wounded except my pride.”

  “Department protocol says we need to examine you.”

  “I’ll sign a waiver.” Anything to get them the heck out of there.

  “Would you be more comfortable if I did the exam?” Cade rose, first addressing her then turning to his captain. “I’ve got my EMT certification.”

  She blushed, thinking of those hands roaming over her body again, creating ripples of sweet sensation.

  Hell to the no.

  Before she could voice her objection, Cappy spoke up.

  “Okay by me.” The door cracked open and a man in a paramedic uniform carrying a duffel bag entered. “Sykes, give Hardesty your BLS bag.”

  “Sure, Cap.” The paramedic handed the duffel to Cade, who ushered Ivy onto the built-in storage bench and kneeled on the floor beside her, unzipping the bag and pulling out a blood pressure cuff.

  “Stay with Hardesty while he completes his exam.” Cappy took off his helmet and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

  “Yes, sir.” Sykes nodded.

  Once everyone else had gone, Cade worked quickly and efficiently, poking and prodding Ivy until he was satisfied there was no damage done.

  “Looks like everything’s intact.” He zipped the bag shut and stood.

  “Told you so.” She stuck her tongue out at him.

  Sykes picked up the duffel and slung it over his shoulder. “My patients are usually more grateful. Is she always this fresh? Or is it just your crappy bedside manner?”

  “It’s just him.” Ivy gave Sykes her sweetest smile. “I’m really a pussycat.”

  “More like a tiger,” Cade muttered. “Who’s not afraid to use her claws.”

  “So are you done with me or what?” She stood and faced off with him, hands on her hips. He wanted claws, he’d get claws. “I’m starving.”

  “You might want to give the stove the night off,” Sykes suggested. “Your kitchen kind of stinks to high heaven. Hu Nan Pan delivers. Or I could bring something back for you. My shift’s over in an hour.”

  “I need a minute with Ivy.” Cade’s voice was low but firm.

  “Go ahead.” Sykes stared him down, white-knuckling the strap of the duffel bag. “Take all the time you need.”

  “Alone,” Cade growled, fists clenched.

  Goody, goody. Alpha males engaging in ritualized aggressive behavior to assert dominance. Nice to know she could still remember her freshman intro to human psychology class.

  “Fine.” Sykes loosened his grip on the strap ever so slightly. “I’ll open some windows to air the place out and wait for you in the rig. Ivy, my offer still stands. Call me at the station if you’re craving something other than Chinese.”

  “Thanks. I might just do that.”

  As soon as Sykes was out of earshot, Cade turned his attention—and his anger—on Ivy. “What do you mean ‘you might just do that?’”

  “Why not?” Ivy lifted a should
er in a half-hearted shrug. “I’m single. He’s single. And we’ve both got to eat.”

  “How can you even think about food after what happened here tonight?” Cade crossed his arms. His large frame, made even larger by the bulky turnout gear, seemed to take up all the space and all the oxygen in the tiny mudroom. “Do you realize you could have died?”

  “Melodramatic much?”

  “You don’t even have a fire extinguisher in the kitchen, for Christ’s sake. And when was the last time you cleaned the stove?”

  “It’s not my fault Holly and Nick don’t own a fire extinguisher. I’ll run right out and get one. Cross my heart.”

  “I’m not joking, Ivy. Safety is serious business.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you telling me that as a firefighter or as a friend?”

  “Both.”

  Not the answer she wanted. She would have preferred something like, “I’m telling you as the man who’s always been secretly in love with you.” Or even, “I’m telling you as the man who wants to screw you senseless.”

  No such luck.

  “That’s what I thought.” She squeezed past him into the kitchen, trying hard to ignore the way her breasts tingled when she brushed against him.

  “What did I say wrong now?” he asked, following her.

  “If you don’t know, I’m not going to tell you.” Okay, it was juvenile. But she was way past giving a flying fig. She grabbed the ruined pot, dropped it into the sink and filled it with water.

  “Then how am I supposed to fix it?” He leaned against the counter next to her, so close she could smell the citrusy scent of his aftershave even over the burned pasta.

  “You’re not.” She picked up a sponge and moved back to the stove to put some distance between them. “You can’t. This is about me, not you.”

  The radio on his belt sputtered. “Engine five, rescue one. Code three. Ten twenty-four at the intersection of Jefferson and Grand. Please respond.”

  “Shit. I’ve got to go.”

  “Code three, is that bad? Is it dangerous?” Crap. Why did she go there? She didn’t want him thinking she’d be up all night worrying about him. Even if it was true.