by S. M. Butler
He stared steadily back at her. “I’m not most guys.”
Hello, Captain Obvious. “I like variety.”
It was always easier to be the one who walked away. She’d learned that the hard way. She had a feeling that if Luke walked on her this time, she wouldn’t be able to wave it off like it didn’t matter. There was something about him. Something that told her he’d be the kind of man you wanted to keep by your side even if she didn’t do permanent.
“And I’d like a chance to convince you otherwise.”
“We need ground rules.”
He snorted. “I thought you were anti-the-rules.”
“Most of the time.” It was true she’d never met a rule she didn’t need to break, but apparently, Luke was going to be the exception to that particular rule.
He nodded slowly. “I get to date you. For two weeks.”
Yeah. He’d already stated that particular need, so she got to make a demand of her own. “And I get to have hot monkey sex with you.”
Grin curving his mouth, he stepped closer, between her legs. “You’re going to have to define ‘monkey sex’ for me, but I’m happy to oblige. Tell me where to pick you up tomorrow.”
Crap. That was a problem. She chewed on her lower lip while she thought it over. “I’m probably going to be at Laura Jo’s.”
The small pucker in his forehead said it all. Mr. I-Can-Fix-Everything had just smelled a potential issue. “Just give me your address. I promise I’m not going to stalk you.”
“Yeah. Problem. I’m between places.”
Silence.
She snuck a peek at his face, but he clearly had come to the correct conclusion.
“You were camping in your car because you lost your apartment,” he said.
It didn’t sound good when he put it that way. “It’s not a problem. I’ll have the deposit for a new place in another week or two.”
He exhaled roughly, clearly moving on to problem number two. “Tell me all your stuff wasn’t in that car.”
It was just stuff. It sucked to lose it, but she had Vicious and she wasn’t dead. Those were two wins for the Plus column right there. “I put some of it in a friend’s garage, but yeah… I’d like to get my car back.”
He cursed, but she didn’t think it was directed at her. “I’ll pick you up at Laura Jo’s tomorrow at ten.”
They needed to finish getting their ground rules straight. “Is that our first date?”
Part of her really hoped he’d say no, but that piece certainly wasn’t her girly bits or any other hormone-affected part of her body. She had one secret she’d managed to keep. It was funny, really. The rest of her life was pretty much an open book. Living in Strong, California pretty much from birth until her thirty-second birthday two months and six days ago (which meant she could no longer pretend that she was “almost” or “just” thirty), everyone knew everything about her, from her first grade report card (the start of a not-so-illustrious school career) to who she’d dated.
And there had been lots of dates. First dates.
He gave her a look that she couldn’t quite interpret but then nodded. “It’s a date.”
Okay then. Perhaps she should warn him. Somehow she never made it to the second, third, and fourth dates. She was easily bored, too hard to please, and almost always plagued with buyer’s remorse.
The guy who’d looked so good the night before when he’d been buying her drinks at the bar tended to look not so hot the morning after when he was flat on his back and snoring in whatever cheap motel room they’d ended up in. The night before, she’d been convinced that he was The One or at least Someone Who Mattered.
If he slept with her, she could almost convince herself that she mattered. He’d liked her enough to stick with her, which counted for something. She’d made him feel good, and while her mouth was sliding up and down his penis, she’d been the center of his goddamned universe. A goddess and not a loser, a screwup, or a disappointment. That was the power of the orgasm right there.
Unfortunately, right after the orgasm (and sometimes “right after” had really meant right after, leading to painful memories she preferred to forget), her guy had remembered an appointment, a work obligation, any face-saving excuse to slink out of their shared motel room and hit the road. She’d gotten pretty good at guessing which excuse she’d be hearing.
The other disadvantage to living in a small town was that the dating pool was horribly small. While she hit up Sacramento whenever she got too lonely, most of the time she was in Strong—and Strong had precisely one bar and a dearth of eligible men. She wasn’t all that picky—single, decent hygiene, and a place of his own because she never, ever took a guy back to her place.
Conveniently, since she was between places and her car was sitting out in a campground by its solitary self, she wouldn’t be able to break that rule.
See? Another win for the Plus column.
Chapter Three
‡
The hotshot team had returned to the ten-thousand-acre burn. Someone, somewhere, would come up with a clever name because people were always labeling stuff, but for now Luke just thought of it as the Campground Fire. The flames had jumped the hill all right, burning through the campground like a marshmallow on a stick. He was just grateful that he’d been able to find Deelie and get her the hell out of there.
The team had spent the night of the fire on scene, catching catnaps on the ground and in the back of the trucks. Good thing he hadn’t made Deelie wait for him, because she would have been in for a long night. After they’d cut themselves a semblance of a safety zone, they’d spent the night busting spot fires because, even after a fire had passed through, hotspots would break out for the next few days as smoldering trees went up and leftover embers found fuel to work with. As a result, the team had dug ash for the next twelve hours straight. By the time he’d staggered into Ma’s, he’d been out in the field for four straight days and had just had his first shower of the week.
Yeah. He’d singlehandedly blown the romantic stereotype of the firefighter to hell and back. He stank. His eyes were bloodshot. And all he really wanted was a twelve-hour nap on a decent mattress.
Fortunately for him, he wasn’t shacked up in the bunkhouse for the temporaries. Some of the locals like him had their own places, so he wouldn’t be fighting for hot water that way. He had plenty of room for Deelie too.
Focus on the work. A cockstand right now would be embarrassing as hell, but he didn’t seem to be able to stop thinking about her. The way her chin went up right before she insisted on doing something impossible. That grin she got when before she said something outrageous. And the way her body all but melted into his, in the best kind of invitation…
He drove his Pulaski down into the dirt. Dig more. Fantasize less. Today’s line needed to be five feet wide and two inches deep. Given the rocklike consistency of the dirt, digging wasn’t going to be quick.
A Pulaski slammed into the ground beside him, and he shot a glance left. Pick nodded briefly, matching his Pulaski to Luke’s rhythm. “Saw you dancing with Deelie Jacks last night.”
The downside to working a twenty-man crew was that everyone knew his business.
“If you can call it dancing.” Baryshnikov he was not, although Deelie hadn’t complained.
“Didn’t know you were tapping that,” the guy said, oblivious to the sudden surge of anger that had Luke’s fingers tightening on the tool’s handle. The trench was only eighteen inches deep, which was nowhere near deep enough to bury a body. Plus Pick undoubtedly had motorcycle-club friends who were probably of the eye-for-an-eye opinion.
“She’s a friend. I pulled her ass out of our fire. She wanted to buy me a beer.” He shrugged like it was no big deal.
“Uh-huh,” Pick said mildly.
Luke had no idea how the guy could put so much subtext into two syllables. “You might as well say it.”
“You don’t drink.” Pick pounded his Pulaski into the iron-hard dirt.
“It was a gesture.”
A nice one too even if Deelie hadn’t had any way of knowing he was on the wagon. She’d worked around it. He had to smile remembering the cherry-filled Coke. Sweet as shit, that stuff, and kind of funny too. Deelie wasn’t predictable.
Pick paused and leaned on his Pulaski. The guy looked like a zebra, his face ash-striped. Not that Luke himself was winning any prizes in the looks department—he had ash in places ash had no business being. “Deelie gets lonely. Hell, man, we all get lonely sometimes, and I’m not judging her for that. Or maybe she just really, really likes sex.”
“You really want to go there?” Luke muttered.
Apparently, Pick did, because the idiot kept right on talking. “She’s hooked up with half the guys in Strong.”
“Maybe you all suck in bed. Did you ever think of that?”
He was not going to ask if Pick had slept with Deelie.
Pick shrugged. “I’m not worried about my dick’s performance, but she tries on guys like my last girlfriend tried on shoes.”
Hitting his teammate with his Pulaski wouldn’t be nice, but it would be satisfying. Unfortunately, it would leave the hotshots short a man right as fire season was heating up, so Luke restrained himself. He deserved a fucking medal for being such a team player.
Pick cursed as Luke “accidentally” dropped a load of dirt on the guy’s boots. “Deelie’s a legend. Every week has a weekend—and she’s the weekend gal. She’s fun and she’s all about the good times, but her relationships come with a forty-eight-hour shelf life. She’s just not the kind of woman you go home to.”
“People change.” He’d survived more than one firefight in Afghanistan by listening to his gut, and right now his gut said Deelie was exactly right for him. Joining the hotshots had been his fresh start. He’d cashed out of the SEALs, earned a shiny new degree in forestry management on Uncle Sam’s dime, and now he had a new team at his back. When the guys weren’t going all Dr. Phil on his life, they had his back. What he didn’t have was a good woman in his bed or his heart. He planned to fix that.
Deelie Jacks was single, she was available, and they had a history.
She was also sexy as sin, and she was a challenge.
Pick flipped him the bird. “You got a magic penis? Because when she does that compare-and-contrast thing, you’re going to have competition.”
The crew chief wandered over right before Luke could put his government-issued Pulaski to a non-government-sanctioned purpose and beat some sense into Pick. “If you ladies could stop your gossiping and dig faster, we might finish up here sometime this century.”
*
Deelie had spent the night on Laura Jo’s couch. The company was good, but she needed to find her own space stat. It wasn’t that she didn’t like Laura Jo. She absolutely did. Laura Jo had jet-black hair thanks to the magic of Clairol, energy that never stopped, and a mouth without a filter. Her days started and ended with mad, hair-raising ambulance runs to rush local mountain residents down to the hospital in Sacramento or to a waiting medical chopper. She lived life on fast-forward and seemed to enjoy every minute of it.
Deelie wanted to high-five the woman whenever she came into the bar because she didn’t take any bullshit from the guys and she was a nonstop party. What Deelie didn’t want was to freeload off Laura Jo. Sure, the couch in the living room was hers as long as she needed it, but having to ask for the favor made her gut burn. Not having money sucked, but giving up her independence was worse. Fortunately, it was only another week to payday. Then she’d figure something else out. There had to be a spare room somewhere in Strong that she could afford, although she might have to set her sights on a garden shed.
At precisely one o’clock, Luke pulled up, his truck all sparkly clean. He must have washed it, because when she’d parked it at Ma’s, the black paint job had been gray from ash and dirt. He killed the motor and unbuckled, which had her wondering if he actually planned to hike up to the door and walk her back to the truck. After all, it wasn’t as if she could get lost navigating the twenty feet of sidewalk on her own.
“Are you up for a ménage?” She bellowed the words, enjoying the expression on his face. Shocking Luke—or at least keeping him off-balance—was fun and it was free. And it wasn’t that she wouldn’t try something adventurous if Luke wanted, but a ménage à trois had never been on her sexual bucket list. She pointed to the dog panting happily by her feet and watched as he took in Vicious’s pink bow collar. Whenever the dog turned her head, the purple stones hot glued onto the leather made little rainbows on the porch. Some days required sparkle.
“Kinky.” A smile creased his face. “I’d love to spend the day with Vicious.”
“That’s me.” Hopping down from the porch before he could get out and escort her to the passenger-side seat, she grabbed her bag and threw it into the back of the truck. Naturally, Luke’s truck bed was immaculate. In addition to the stainless steel toolbox bolted onto the frame, he had three milk crates full of neatly ordered guy crap. There wasn’t a soda can or chip bag in sight.
“You’re OCD,” she announced.
He paused, his door half-open. Guess he was going to insist on playing the gentleman and open her door for her. She didn’t need that kind of stuff though. She could open her own doors. Close them too.
With a sigh, he settled back in his seat and watched her, clearly waiting for her to buckle up and explain. Well, it was his lucky day. She was feeling chatty, and he provided such lovely material.
“All that stuff in the back,” she said. “It’s so… organized. Do you own a label maker too?”
“I was a librarian in a former life,” he said solemnly.
Right. Because he looked like every hot librarian fantasy she’d ever had. Wow. She should really think about that some more. Not that Luke was skirt-and-high-heels material, but he gave stern face so well, and she could definitely imagine all sorts of naughty possibilities if he busted her for talking in the stacks…
“I didn’t know you were capable of being speechless,” he said dryly as he signaled to turn onto the highway a few minutes later.
“Shhh,” she said. “I’m imagining you as Hot Librarian in a pearl-button cardigan and heels. It’s the best fantasy I’ve had all day, so let me enjoy it.”
“Make sure you give me the red fuck-me heels. What? I’m a guy.” He captured her elbow with his hand before she could make contact with his ribs. “And if you distract me, I might drive us off the road.”
“Good point.” She curled up in her seat and alternated between staring out the window and sneaking peeks at her chauffeur. Luke wasn’t wearing his hotshot uniform today, which was almost disappointing. Nomex was a good look for him, the heavy fabric making his legs look even bigger and stronger. Not that he didn’t fill out the pair of faded blue jeans he wore today, because he certainly did. And—yeah, she leaned over to confirm—he was wearing a beat-up pair of steel-toed work boots. God bless the military, because all the SEALs Deelie had met in Strong loved their boots, and she in turn loved boots on a guy. Just in case she’d missed the “former sailor” message his sexy shoes sent, he wore a Navy T-shirt with a wash-worn inspirational slogan. Less sexy was the probability that he was the kind of guy who chanted motivational affirmations right before he bounded out of bed at four a.m. for a ten-mile run.
He followed her interested gaze. “Lose something?”
“You have the hottest footwear.” Shoot. That had come out as a sigh. Oh well. It was no secret she lusted after his body. Only because it had been months since she’d gotten any, she told herself.
His forehead crinkled, like he actually had no idea what he’d put on his feet this morning or why Strong’s female population would find a pair of steel toes and the man filling them so mesmerizing. Maybe he was the kind of guy who owned two pairs of shoes and rotated between them. Didn’t matter. She was still enjoying her view.
“So I should take red pumps off my shopping list.” He n
odded. “Duly noted.”
She grinned. “Or you can borrow mine.”
She propped her feet up on the dashboard. Her own shoes were as far from steel toes as Siberia was from Florida. The wedge espadrilles sported navy-blue polka dots and pink ribbons that wrapped around her ankles. The sandals were completely impractical for tromping around the woods, but hiking wasn’t part of her plans anyhow. She’d borrowed them from Laura Jo’s closet when she’d realized that her own footwear choices were currently limited to a pair of black rubber flip-flops and a pair of battered sneakers. Laura Jo, on the other hand, had a shoe fetish and wore a size seven, which was a bonus.
Luke’s eyes followed her feet. Apparently, he liked her borrowed shoes too.
While teasing Luke was fun, the rhythmic motion of the truck and the sun pouring in the windshield were sleepy making. She hadn’t slept well on Laura Jo’s couch, which wasn’t her hostess’s problem. She never liked playing sleepover. Her mom had parked her on one friend’s couch after another growing up, and sometimes houses came with other guests or owners who got handsy when the lights went out. She’d learned to sleep with one eye open.
“I’ll wake you up when we get there,” Luke offered when her eyes were at half-mast. He reached over and flicked on the radio, Luke Bryan filling the cab. She had a rule about not sleeping around guys, but Luke seemed to be in a one-man category of his own. Distantly, she heard words coming out of her mouth. Babble. He snorted with amusement, and then, as her eyes drifted closed, his flannel shirt settled over her. Huh. She felt safe.
Safe was good, but she made her own safe.
*
Sleeping Beauty woke up when they started bumping down the access road. The campground was only about an hour outside Strong, which still seemed like way too far for Deelie to be commuting. Christ. She shouldn’t be sleeping in her car period. He’d have to be blind and dumb to not realize that her life had challenges, but he planned to change that. He admired her for wanting to stand on her own two feet, but he could take care of her.
