Up In Flames (Flirting with Fire Book 2)

by Jennifer Blackwood

  A banner reading 47TH ANNUAL FOUR FOR FOUR FIREFIGHTER AUCTION in bright red letters stretched overhead. Underneath it said FOUR WEEKS, FOUR FAVORS.

  Good thing Sloane hadn’t opted for complete formal wear tonight. They made their way inside the building, and Erin texted Jake the spot they’d secured toward the back of the room.

  Erin glanced down at her phone and smiled. “He says he’ll be here in a few minutes.”

  “How did Madison get out of this?”

  Erin dropped her purse on the table and glanced around the room. “She is here. She’s doing her photography wizardry.”

  Sloane slumped into her seat and drummed her nails along the white linen table runner. She wasn’t usually this bitter. In fact, she loved going out. Loved girls’ night. But she’d been in a funk lately. One bad shift in particular still haunted her. Compartmentalization came with the nursing territory, but she’d had a patient who’d coded in the middle of the night and hadn’t made it. The girl was six.

  She could still see the little girl’s pale blue eyes lose their light. Could still hear her parents’ wails as they cradled her.

  Sloane swallowed past that thought. This was supposed to be a fun night out.

  Jake slid into the seat beside Erin and kissed her on the forehead. “Sorry I’m late, babe.” Erin melted into his touch, closing her eyes and leaning into him. A pang hit Sloane straight in the chest. She was so incredibly happy for her friend. And so incredibly aware of how much she felt like a third wheel at the moment.

  She pushed that thought away.

  “Hey, Sloane. Good to see you. Thanks for coming,” Jake said.

  “I’d say You’re welcome, but when it comes to Erin, I don’t think I had an actual choice in the matter.”

  He grinned down at her. “She is pretty persuasive when she wants to be.”

  “She used her teacher glare.” She shot her best friend a look, but Erin just shrugged and smiled in response.

  “Ah yes. That works every time. I come bearing gifts, though, so hopefully that makes it better?” He slid two wineglasses in front of them.

  “Now why didn’t you start with that? It’d be much more persuasive.”

  Sloane took a long pull from the glass. A nice rosé that lightly bubbled across her tongue.

  “Where’s your bestie?” Usually him and Reece were attached at the hip.

  “He’s out there somewhere.” He motioned to the packed banquet hall. There had to be at least five hundred people in attendance, and each of the circular tables was filled to capacity.

  “How unfortunate,” Sloane said drily. Probably using that perfectly straight smile of his to get extra donations for the charity.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the forty-seventh annual Four for Four Firefighter Auction.”

  A round of cheers erupted from the audience.

  “See those paddles in the center of the table? Those are your bidding sticks. Once you see a firefighter that tickles your fancy, raise ’em high in the air to claim your prize.” The auctioneer spoke quickly, rattling off something that Sloane didn’t quite catch.

  “Tickle your fancy? What is this, the fifties?” Sloane murmured.

  Erin swatted her arm. “It’s for charity.”

  “If you win, the firefighter of your choice owes you four favors that expire in thirty days. So get that honey-do list ready. Our men are great at washing cars, mowing lawns. They even do laundry.”

  Another bout of cheers erupted.

  Maybe Sloane had reached a herculean level of self-sufficiency over the past year, but she couldn’t think of anything that she’d need someone else to do for her. Unless they wanted to rob a bank for her or save her a spot in line at that southern-food joint across town that always had an hour-long wait.

  “Without further ado, let’s get this party started.”

  And with that, the lights dimmed, and a big spotlight shone on the stage that was in the shape of a catwalk. Something Sloane could only describe as porn-techno music blasted, the deep bass pulsing in her chest.

  This time, even Sloane found herself cheering along. Maybe it was the glass of wine. Maybe the energy was just infectious.

  “First firefighter up is Eli. He’s been at Station Twelve for a year and loves walking his golden retriever and hiking on the weekends.”

  Eli walked out onto the stage in full gear, touting the complete package of broad shoulders, sandy brown hair, blue eyes, and high cheekbones. A table of overly raucous women cheered. Eli’s smile widened, and he looped his thumbs in the waist of his pants, managing to look both shy and tantalizing at the same time. Albeit young. Way too young for what Sloane would consider acceptable ogling age, let alone dating. Someone in the front row tossed a feather boa onto the stage, and Eli picked it up and wrapped it around his neck, the crowd going wild.

  “What is he, twelve?” Erin asked.

  “At least fourteen. I see a chin hair,” Sloane replied.

  “I thought that was glitter from the boa.”

  “At least they had the decency to make him look wholesome,” Sloane whispered in Erin’s ear. Much better than the dick pics some of the guys on her dating apps sent two minutes into a conversation. In what world did guys think, Hey, I said hello; now it’s time to show them the goods before my lacking conversation scares them away.

  “We’ll start the bid at twenty dollars. Do I hear a twenty?” the auctioneer called.

  Not to Sloane’s surprise, several paddles raised in the air.

  “Fifty dollars!” a woman toward the front shouted.

  “Seventy dollars. Do we hear a seventy for the fine young firefighter?”

  Eli moved the boa between his legs like something out of a Magic Mike movie, and the room was a tidal wave of paddles. Well, there went the wholesome vibe he’d had going for him.

  The bid ended at four hundred and went to a little old lady in the front of the room.

  “Holy crap. That’s a hundred dollars per chore,” Sloane said. She could think of a lot better uses for that money. Such as buying dog food for the Humane Society, new decorations for her apartment, or at the very least, a few pairs of new shoes online. She drained the rest of her wine, everything going softer around the edges.

  Erin leaned in and murmured, “Think she’ll make him wear the boa while he does them?”

  “For sure.”

  A new song blared over the system, and the auctioneer started back up again. “Next is Bart from Station Six. He enjoys rock climbing, Cherry Garcia ice cream, and stargazing.”

  This guy was another young one of the muscle-upon-muscle variety. He had on the blue uniform that firefighters wore when they weren’t in full gear, whatever those were called. Bart had man bangs that were far better managed than Sloane’s last attempt at them seven years ago. Veins corded down his forearms, and even from her spot toward the back of the room, she could tell the guy had large hands. Like, whoa. Although she did enjoy looking at large, well, everything, she had a rule about dating guys who looked like they took more time getting ready in the morning than she did.

  Sloane grabbed another glass of wine from a waiter’s tray and took a sip. Okay, maybe she’d underestimated this event. It was pretty fun. Mr. Stargazer went for three hundred bucks and was currently shuffled off the stage. A loud round of applause erupted as the winner—a woman around the same age as Sloane—jumped up and down at her win.

  “So are you going to tell me how this is going to get back at your brother?”

  But before Erin could answer, the auctioneer started the next bid.

  “Next up, we have Reece from Station Eleven. He loves vintage Jeeps and ketchup on his scrambled eggs, and is every bit as sweet as his namesake candy, ladies.”

  A stream of rosé dribbled out of Sloane’s open mouth, down to her candy-cane leggings. She couldn’t have heard the man right, could she have? There was no way Reece, of all people, would offer up something so generous. No, not the man who grumbled over add
ing money to the group tip pile when they went out for drinks. She quickly grabbed a cocktail napkin off the table and did her best to dry the dark spot staining her tights and turned to Erin, whose wide eyes looked like they might dislodge from her head. When Erin had said that Reece was working tonight, she thought he’d been roped into handing out wine to patrons. This was better. So much better.

  He stood there, looking grumpy and rugged compared to the last two fresh-faced firefighters. His beard was a couple of days past scruffy, and his scowl was barely contained. Even if he looked pissed off to be there, his shoulders were pushed back, and he stood to his towering six-foot-three height. He was in full gear, his suspenders stretching across his broad chest. The reflective strip across his helmet gleamed in the light, flashing straight into Sloane’s eyes. She blinked back spots and folded her arms, waiting for this to take a disastrous turn.

  “Do we have twenty dollars to start the bid?” the auctioneer began, but even Sloane could tell that there was a bit of hesitation in his voice. Like he knew this package was defective goods.

  Sloane sat back and waited for Reece to crash and burn. She’d be surprised if he made it past the fifty-dollar mark.

  A paddle shot up. “Twenty!” a woman cried out.

  The auctioneer’s tight expression softened into what Sloane could only assume was relief. “Twenty dollars. Twenty dollars. Do I hear thirty?”

  Reece squinted as his face tracked across the ballroom, but Sloane doubted he could see anything with the stage lights in his eyes. He’d have no clue who bid on him.

  Four more paddles went into the air.

  For real? People wanted grumpy mountain-man firefighter?

  His thumbs were hooked around the straps of his turnouts, and a grin splashed across his face. Some woman was going to have the biggest disappointment of her life when she realized he’d peace out after his favors were done. Most women didn’t even get that much, according to some of her coworkers.

  And then it hit Sloane. Four chores? Four chores where Reece was on the receiving end of someone’s mercy? Oh, she could put Reece to work. In fact, this seemed like a positively excellent idea. This was completely evil and sinister, and if she’d been in a movie, this would be the part where her hair would have twirled straight up like the Grinch when he’d solidified his diabolical plan to ruin Whoville’s Christmas.

  She looked over at Erin and shot her a small grin. But Erin was still staring, slack-jawed, at Reece on the stage.

  “Do I hear forty dollars?” the auctioneer asked.

  Sloane’s paddle shot up.

  “What are you doing?” Erin asked, her brows slanting until a small groove formed on the skin between them.

  “You wanted me to donate my money to a good cause. Well, here I am.”

  Erin shook her head and smiled. “You are so evil, and I love it.”

  “It’s taken years of work to achieve this level of evil genius.” Erin would be too nice to put someone through the gamut. Same with Madison. Sloane never claimed to be a saint. And now she’d go straight from Santa’s naughty list to his rotten as shit list after what she had planned.

  Jake leaned in and said, “Don’t seem too eager. Those ladies in the front row bid big every year.” He pointed at the group of ladies who were around her grandmother’s age.

  She turned to them and grinned. “Don’t you worry. I’m getting my money’s worth.”

  A sea of paddles raised in response.

  “Fifty dollars.”

  Sloane held her paddle high.

  Paddles continued to drop the higher the bid went. Finally the auctioneer rattled off, “One hundred dollars.”

  There were only four people bidding now. Sloane guessed there weren’t that many women on the market for a firefighter who looked like he’d rather chew on a rusted nail than complete four favors.

  Sloane glanced around the room. Two women were enthusiastically waving their bid cards, the women around them tittering and slurping back more wine. Move over, ladies, because this was hers.

  “Two hundred dollars!” Sloane shouted.

  “Two fifty!” a granny yelled from the front row.

  Oh, Grandma. Not today, girlfriend.

  Sloane was ready to go to bat for this. She’d committed, and she’d see it through that Reece Jenkins would owe her a solid. Four, to be exact.

  “Two sixty. Do I hear a two sixty?” the auctioneer asked incredulously. He was clearly shocked that the bidding had gone this high.

  “Three hundred!” Sloane found herself yelling. The tiny voice in the back of her mind was saying, Guuuurl, aren’t you trying to save your money?

  That voice took a hike as soon as the last paddle went down.

  Victory.

  “Going once, twice. Sold to the lady with paddle two eleven. She wins for three hundred dollars.”

  Erin stared at Sloane with wide eyes. If she were a cartoon character, her eyes would bug out of her head. “I can’t believe you just spent three hundred dollars on my brother. Is any man worth that?”

  She raised a brow at Erin. Sure, that was a pretty penny to drop on him. But it was for charity, she reminded herself, and, oh, she’d make it worth it. “Is that any way to talk about your brother? I thought you’d say something like he’s priceless.” She patted Erin’s hand.

  Erin snorted and took another sip of wine. “You do you, Sloane Garcia.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t be too awful to him.” That was a lie, of course. Oh, she’d make him squirm. She didn’t know where this new masochistic streak had come from, but she’d run with it.

  Jake let out a loud guffaw. “I can’t wait to see his face when he finds out who bid on him.”

  “Looks like it’ll be happening sooner than later,” Erin muttered under her breath. “Oh, hi, Reece. Fancy seeing you here.”

  Reece walked up to the group. He still looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, but his features eased as he got closer to the table.

  “Guess I’d better go pay so I can claim my prize.” Sloane pushed away from the table and made her way to the back of the event room, to the cashier table. She made sure to keep her paddle hidden from sight as she passed Reece. Let his mind be at ease for another few minutes.

  “I pity the man who owes you favors,” Reece said.

  “Me too.” She smiled up at him sweetly and brushed past him.

  She wound her way around the bustling ballroom and took her spot in line at the collection table. Thumbing through her wallet, she extracted her credit card and clutched it in her shaking hand. It still hadn’t fully registered that she’d basically lost her mind and spent hundreds of dollars on Reece Jenkins, of all people. If anyone asked, she’d chalk it up to temporary insanity. Less than a minute later, she found herself at the front, an older man working a tablet with a credit-card reader attached.

  Sloane recognized the man as Chief Richards. She’d met him at a local fund-raiser for the food trucks downtown. “I’m here to pay for my firefighter.” She handed the man her paddle, then handed him her credit card.

  RIP, dear money—guess that end table from Pottery Barn will have to wait.

  Seriously, what had she been thinking?

  Chief Richards thumbed through the ledger, and then his brows furrowed. “Reece’s girlfriend?”

  Her head tilted back, and then she let out a loud cackle and smacked her hand against the table. Oh, this guy was funny. The chief’s eyes widened, and did he just scoot back in his chair? Okay, maybe she’d kicked back a little too much wine. “God, no.”

  His brows knit together. “Interesting someone would pay so much for someone they didn’t know.” He said this to himself more than to her. Which was odd, because wasn’t this whole event about spending the most money possible to raise money for charity?

  He ran her card and then handed it back to her along with the tablet. She signed with her finger, finished the transaction, and handed it back to him.

  “Oh, I know him.” Sh
e’d spare the chief the nitty-gritty details. “We’re acquaintances.” Of about twenty years, give or take. But as of recently, she couldn’t even say she knew a thing about him. He’d changed so much from when he was that sweet high school guy who made sure his sister always had a ride home from school and cooked them mac and cheese when their mom was working the food truck.

  “Do me a favor, will you? Please let me know that he has fulfilled all obligations.” Chief Richards handed her his card. “It’s important to know.”

  “I’ll do my best.” Odd. Why was the fire chief so invested in Reece’s abilities to complete a bunch of stupid favors? She’d email the guy, but still.

  After paying him, she hung out within earshot for the next person to pay. The woman, probably in her midforties, was collecting on a firefighter named Morgan. The chief handed her a receipt and thanked her for her contribution. No mention of contacting. No card given. Huh. Sloane must have stumbled on the jackpot, and it was going to have a sweet, juicy reward. Maybe, just maybe, Reece would finally have one big karma pill to swallow.

  Reece paced in the lobby, staring at the red and tan blocks in the carpet design. The event had been over for twenty minutes, and the winners had been instructed to come out and claim their prizes. Like he was a piece of meat to be claimed. Ridiculous. He hated the auction. Would rather spend his time helping others in more useful ways, like he did every few weeks at the soup kitchen. Even if all the proceeds did go to charity, he didn’t like that this time around, the fate of his job was tied to someone he owed a stupid favor to. Or four.

  Who was this number 211? Was it an ex? Who in their right mind would bid so high? He’d done the bare minimum to prep for tonight. He’d showered, run his hands through his hair, and thrown on his turnouts. At most, he’d expected a fifty-dollar pity donation from his sister.

  A throat cleared behind him, tearing him out of his thoughts. “Such a perfect night to auction off firefighters. Wouldn’t you say?”