Burning the Past (Southern Heat Book 3)

by Jamie Garrett

  “I’m inviting you to dinner,” Sloane announced. “And you have to come because I’m making your favorite.”

  “Lasagna?” she asked with the hint of a smile. “And garlic bread?”

  Sloane laughed. “And freshly grated Parmesan cheese. You’ll come?”

  Amy thought about it. She hadn’t left Promise House in nearly a week. She knew that Sloane and Meg often spoke, because they were good friends, too. Sloane had a natural light that seemed to attract others to her. She also wouldn’t allow Amy to wallow in self-pity for long. Meg wouldn’t, either. She was sure Meg would have been keeping exact track of how many days Amy had kept herself locked away in her room. If she didn’t accept the invitation tonight, Sloane would gently badger her for days on end until she did.

  “I’ll come,” she said quietly.

  “Great. Just a heads up. Mason invited one of his friends from the firehouse over as well. His name’s Dean. Dean Gibson.”

  Amy felt her heart skip a beat. Not panic this time but anxiety. She wanted to retreat mentally, but forced herself to process the information. Another person was going to be there. She felt comfortable with Sloane and Mason, but she didn’t do very well around strangers yet. She looked up at Sloane, her brow furrowed.

  “You’ve seen Dean before, Amy. In fact, he was here the night the fire started. He’s the one that carried Meg down the ladder from her attic room. Remember? Over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, her pajama-clad ass visible for all to see?”

  Sloane was trying to make her laugh, to feel more comfortable. She nodded and offered a false smile, telling herself that it would be okay. It was just dinner with friends! “I remember.”

  “He’s a nice guy,” Sloane said, serious now. “I’m not trying to set you up. Believe me, I know better. But he’s experienced a death in the family recently, and he’s been bummed, so Mason thought a change of pace would be good. A home-cooked meal and some good company might cheer him up.”

  She frowned in sympathy. “Someone close to him?”

  Sloane nodded. “His mom. She had cancer and passed away just before Thanksgiving. It wasn’t totally unexpected, but you know . . .”

  She did. No matter how you braced yourself against possible troubles in life, you could never really be fully prepared.

  Sloane and her fiancé, Mason Rawlings, were in her small group of trusted friends, besides Meg and her boyfriend, Liam Cohen. Both Mason and Liam worked out of Engine Company 81 here in Monroe.

  Sloane was a good friend, one who understood her fears. She understood because she had nearly ended up in that shipping container with her.

  “You’ll still come, won’t you?”

  Amy forced herself to nod. “I’ll be there. Can I bring anything?”

  “Just your smile,” Sloane said. “I need to run to the store. Want to come with me?”

  Amy shook her head. “Not today, Sloane. Thank you, but . . .”

  “No worries,” Sloane assured her. “It’s enough that you agreed to come over for dinner. I’ll come pick you up at five o’clock and I’ll have you home before eight, okay?”

  Amy nodded, appreciative of the fact that Sloane understood her. While she was trying to be more outgoing, to venture more often beyond the walls of Promise House, the fire had set her progress back. She was just beginning to get her feet back under her, but she could only handle a couple of hours at a time beyond the safety of her room.

  Sloane said her goodbyes and Amy closed the bedroom door, leaning her forehead against it. “You have to get better,” she muttered. “You have to. You can’t live like this!”

  But saying it and doing it were two different things.

  Dinner at Sloane’s was much more relaxed than Amy had anticipated. It wasn’t that she was afraid of people or talking to people—not exactly—but she wanted to be the one who controlled the encounters. Because it was still so difficult to be out in public, it had been easier to just avoid social situations at all. She couldn’t do that forever. Amy didn’t like the person she’d become. A timid mouse. A person who startled and jumped at every pop of wood in the old Victorian house. Or when a car backfired. Or, sometimes, when a door downstairs slammed shut.

  She hated always being scared. But could anyone blame her? Could she blame herself? It was hard to be patient. Even when she knew she was safe, she found herself looking over her shoulder. She’d developed a habit of hovering in shadows or doorways while she searched the street, even in front of Promise House, where neighbors often waved and offered friendly greetings.

  She didn’t want to be suspicious of every person, every minute. It was completely exhausting, and yet she couldn’t force herself to stop. Would she ever be as carefree and relaxed as she’d been before “the incident”? Before her life had been turned upside down? She didn’t ever want to feel such terror again.

  But as much as she needed to recover, she’d trapped herself in a bubble of her own making. She’d allowed fear to control her. Amy knew it, but she still couldn’t break through. The past haunted her. Every waking second.

  Dean Gibson was a nice guy. They’d been officially introduced just after she arrived at Sloane’s. As promised, Sloane had dinner on the table shortly after that. Sitting around the table in Sloane and Mason’s apartment, her friend retold the story of the night Dean had pulled Meg out of her attic window, draped over his shoulder.

  Everyone laughed, even Amy, but she couldn’t deny the terror she had felt that night, too. She stabbed at a slice of cucumber on her plate and lifted it to her mouth, her fork trembling only slightly. Satisfied with that small accomplishment, she’d glanced around the table.

  Dean was a good-looking man, a little shorter than Mason but broad shouldered with well-formed biceps and chest. The way his T-shirt hugged his chest was a very nice view. He had a nice ass, too, she had noticed earlier, filling his jeans just so as he had helped Mason clear the table after dinner.

  To her dismay, she’d felt a niggling of sexual attraction toward him. It came out of nowhere, shocking her with its intensity.

  She’d sworn that after . . . after her last experience that no way—no way in hell—would she ever trust a man again. That wasn’t exactly the life she had planned for herself, but Amy wasn’t taking any more risks. Of course, she’d kept herself so secluded over the past months that she hadn’t exactly encountered anyone to put her oath to the test.

  Until now. Sure, Dean was good-looking. But so had—no. She wouldn’t even think his name. She’d never considered herself a superficial person; one who was only attracted to people because of their looks. She had been fooled once. Her naïveté had cost her big time.

  So it wasn’t so much Dean’s looks but his personality that pulled her into his orbit. The way he focused his full attention on Sloane or Mason when they spoke. The way he smiled shyly at her. No arrogance, no sense of conceit, of self-importance, nor even an indication that he had any sense of his captivating good looks.

  He seemed genuine, even more so when the meal was finished and he automatically began to reach for plates to help take into the kitchen. Sloane had told him to sit down, to relax, but he had laughed softly and claimed it was an occupational hazard, a habit he picked up living at the fire station during shifts.

  Mason had agreed, and so it was that the two men cleaned up the table and carried plates and glasses into the kitchen.

  The moment Dean’s back was turned, Amy turned her full attention on him, admiring the set of his shoulders, his easy laughter as he and Mason talked softly between themselves in the kitchen.

  She didn’t know him very well. Hell, beyond the fact he’d rescued one of her best friends—one of her only friends—from the fire, she barely knew a thing about him. That didn’t seem to stop her from liking him. Not enough to do anything about it of course, but merely acknowledging the fact. She smiled.

  Maybe, just maybe, she was finally on the mend.

  The moment the two disappeared into the kitchen
, Sloane turned to Amy with a grin. “He’s nice, isn’t he?”

  Amy heard the hopeful tone in Sloane’s voice. While she had said that she wasn’t trying to set them up, it sounded like her friend wouldn’t mind at all if something happened anyway. She nodded. “Yes, he is,” she said. Amy surprised herself with how much she meant it. “And he’s certainly not hard on the eyes, either.”

  Sloane laughed and gave Amy a hug. “He likes you, Amy. Mason told me. Now don’t freak, but I have a feeling you’ll be hearing from Dean again.”

  Oh, boy. She wasn’t ready for a relationship. But then again, no one was making any declarations, were they? She glanced into the kitchen where Mason and Dean talked softly. Would Dean ask her out?

  She hoped that maybe he would, and dreaded it, all at the same time.

  3

  Dean

  Dean had just left his shift at Engine Co. 81 off Main Street in downtown Monroe. He’d lived here his entire life, and had no desire to be anywhere else. He liked the area, the people, and most of all, his job. As he walked toward his white Ford Ranger, parked in one of several slots behind the firehouse, he smiled, anticipating his upcoming visit to Promise House. He was heading over there right now, to officially ask Amy Valenso out on a date.

  Dinner last night at Sloane and Mason’s had been nice. Of course, he always enjoyed Sloane’s cooking, but Amy’s presence had kicked things up a notch or two. She’d been reserved, quiet, but that hadn’t stopped him from noticing her. Actually, he’d secretly liked her for a long time. Ever since that night he had seen her standing on the sidewalk in front of Promise House wearing flannel pajamas, clutching a blanket around her shoulders. Not the best of circumstances to meet someone, but he had seen her and couldn’t get her out of his mind.

  It was times like this that he wondered about fate: the intertwined destinies of people. Strangers one minute, lovers the next. Sloane and Mason. Meg and Liam.

  He and Amy? He scoffed. No sense jumping the gun.

  He wasn’t even sure she’d accept. Sloane had encouraged him to get to know Amy better, but she’d only told him a little about her history. He knew Amy was from somewhere out west, but how she had ended up in a shipping container on the outskirts of Monroe’s industrial district, he didn’t know. Something so bad had happened to her that she was hesitant to even venture outside the walls of Promise House. That was okay. He could always go to visit her, if she wanted him to.

  She might not even want him to visit. Maybe she didn’t want or need any new friends. But he had seen the way that she cast surreptitious glances at him the night before at Sloane and Mason’s apartment. She seemed interested, even if she hadn’t vocalized that interest.

  By the time he pulled up along the curb in front of Promise House, he was beginning to have second thoughts. Not about wanting to see Amy. He did. He’d been perfectly content living a bachelor’s life. Most of the time, anyway. Still, there was something about Amy Valenso that tugged at him. Yes, she’d been hurt, but underneath she was as strong as hell. On the rare occasions she smiled in his presence, it lit up her entire face.

  He sat in the pickup, listening to the quiet tick of the engine as it cooled off. He was feeling a little unsteady lately himself, but for an entirely different reason.

  He had lost his mother just before Thanksgiving. Her battle had been long and hard. He sighed and shook his head. He missed her. He understood what hurt and grief could do to a person.

  Dean looked at the three-story Victorian that Meg had converted into a shelter. All repaired, freshly painted, back in service. He had hesitated long enough. He might as well find out if Amy would accept his invitation. He got out of his car, closed the door, and walked up the driveway and onto the walkway that led to the front door. Rang the bell. After several moments, he heard footsteps approaching and then the door opened. Meg stood at the threshold, a dish towel in one hand.

  “Dean!” she smiled. “How nice to see you.”

  “Hey, Meg,” he said. “How you been?”

  “Much better since we got this place all put back together. How about you? You doing alright?”

  “I’m doing okay.” He had received well-wishes from everyone he ran into the past couple of months. His mother had been well known in the community, and much loved.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I . . . I’d like to talk to Amy, if she’s here,” he said. Meg’s eyes widened briefly in surprise, but then she nodded.

  “Yes, she’s here. She’s down in the basement doing some organizing.” She gestured over her shoulder. “You can take the stairs from the kitchen.”

  He nodded, following her through the foyer, down the short hallway past the dining room on the right, and into the kitchen on the left. As he walked, he glanced around. “Everything looks really great in here. Better than the last time I saw it, that’s for sure.”

  She nodded and gestured toward the door leading downstairs to the basement. “Good luck,” she said.

  Dean didn’t have to wonder how she knew his intentions. Sloane. He didn’t mind. He was glad Amy had the support she needed.

  He made his way carefully down the steep stairs into the basement, into an open space on the left equipped with a laundry area. Down a short hall toward two bedrooms on the right and a bathroom and one small room at the end on the left. He heard shuffling in the first room to the right. He frowned. Wasn’t that the room where the former tenant had been found dead— murdered? Why was Amy in there?

  He stepped to the doorway, mentally preparing himself to be rebuffed, and paused. He should at least give her a chance to answer before deciding for himself she was going to tell him to leave. He peeked around the doorway. The room was a shambles. Well, not a shambles, but overflowing with . . . stuff. Like hoarder stuff. There was room to move, just, but he couldn’t see much of the carpeting.

  Amy sat on the bare mattress against the far corner wall, surrounded by knickknacks, newspapers, several piles of clothes, and other detritus. Head bowed, hands clasped in her lap, her shoulders shaking slightly.

  What—he heard a sniffle and then realized. Oh, God. Women and tears. He was definitely out of his depth. He wasn’t sure whether he should turn around before she sensed his presence but then decided to step forward. What the hell. He gave one light knock on the door jamb.

  “Amy?”

  She startled and jerked upright, turning toward the doorway, eyes wide with fright. When she recognized him, she relaxed. Her face streaked with tears, eyes glistening with them when she tried to smile. Pity rushed through him. He was a sucker for tears, every time. He stepped into the room. Without being invited, he adjusted a stack of newspapers on the mattress and sat down on the bed next to her. Not touching, but close.

  “You okay?” he asked. Stupid question.

  She lifted her hands to her face and wiped away her tears. She sniffled once more and nodded. Offered another wan smile.

  “Hello, Dean.”

  She glanced down to the floor, as if hesitant to look at him. Was she embarrassed to be caught crying, or disinterested? “What’s the matter?” He glanced about the room, not wanting to stare at her. It looked like she was trying to sort through some of the things that the former tenant had left behind after his untimely death. Why had Meg given her this task or even allowed Amy to do it? Or had she volunteered?

  Amy didn’t say anything for several moments. Would she? Finally, she unclasped her hands and gestured lamely around the room as she spoke, her voice hoarse. “Is this all we leave behind in life? A bunch of stuff that doesn’t mean anything to anybody else?”

  She turned to him. She might not have expected an answer, but he gave her one. He had endured the same bittersweet pain as he’d sorted through his mother’s things, feeling guilty for not keeping everything. “Not always.”

  She was so close. So close he got a whiff of lavender-scented shampoo. Another tear trickled out of the corner of her eye and he resisted the urge to wipe it away
with his thumb.

  He couldn’t help but focus on her lips, so lush and full, inviting. He felt a jolt of surprise. Chemistry? He’d never believed in sexual chemistry or the concept of it. Yet he couldn’t deny his instantaneous attraction. It wasn’t just her lovely profile, nor the way her nose turned up ever-so-slightly at the end. It wasn’t the fact that he felt sorry for her. No, it was more than that. She was certainly attractive, no doubt about that. Like most guys, he appreciated a beautiful woman. But perfect tits and a nice ass only went so far. He had dated a few women that he would classify as beautiful before, but he never got fully invested in them. He enjoyed their bodies, which they were willing to offer, but he’d never felt anything more than casual affection.

  Amy was different. He couldn’t put his finger on it. Because she was clearly suffering from some kind of PTSD? He didn’t think so. It was simply her. At the moment, he wanted nothing more than to reach his arms around her, allow her to lean her head against his shoulder. He wanted to offer her a sense of protection and security. Where that came from he had no idea, and he wasn’t about to try to dissect it now.

  She heaved with a shaky breath and he felt her warm exhalation against his cheek. Dean felt his dick start to harden and he forced his arousal away. This so wasn’t the time. The reaction took him by surprise. No woman had ever made him hard just simply by being nearby.

  He shifted his position, pretending to simply rearrange himself on the bed, but at that moment he also glanced at her and watched as her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. He blinked, startled at the wayward direction of his thoughts. This had never happened before. Never. What was it about Amy Valenso that had him on the verge of shooting his wad?

  He cleared his throat, shifted again, and made himself tear his eyes from her as he forced his gaze around the room. The black plastic bags, the stacks of magazines, and the piles of clothing strewn about the room succeeded in dampening his sexual fantasy.