Hot for Fireman

by Jennifer Bernard

  “I was hoping to get another drink. But this place seems to have turned into Animal Planet.”

  “Let me go. I have to get that dog out of here.”

  “I’ll take care of the dog. But there’s a crowd out front that’s about to go postal. I gotta tell them something.”

  She tried to tug herself free, but he tightened his grip. “I already told them they can’t bring their dogs in here. They’re supposed to bring a picture of their dog. It’s all in the ad. If they misunderstood it’s their fault, not mine.”

  “Let me see the ad.”

  She snatched a flyer off a nearby table. Ryan squinted at the tiny print at the bottom of the ad. “It says ‘bong a puncture of logs.’ ”

  “I hate you.”

  “Hey, I’m trying to rescue you for the second time in one day.” Ryan snagged the beagle, which had decided to chase circles around a sinking balloon.

  A woman holding a glass of wine tottered after the beagle. “Oh my sweetie-kins, leave the handsome man alone.” She winked at Ryan as he handed the dog’s leash to her. He turned back to Katie before the woman could start a very badly timed flirtation.

  “So why did all these people bring their dogs?”

  “I don’t know. That’s their problem. Look, I have enough to deal with here. Do you know how many pictures of the same cute little puppy I’ve seen tonight? Don’t people have any integrity anymore? My bartender just texted me that he’s on his way to Burning Man, which is like months from now, and my bouncer is in the hospital. Oh, and I have a former Latin teacher telling people that ‘canines’ are ‘interdictum’ or something.”

  As she talked, his gaze wandered down her body. She’d changed her clothes, from jeans to a short, flirty skirt that showed off her legs. His eyes scanned her slender ankles, ran along the curve of her calf to the last glimpse of flesh under the hem, then back down again. Then back up, as if riding a half-pipe.

  She took advantage of his distraction and yanked her arm free. “Do you mind?”

  Another dog, a St. Bernard big enough to sit on, ran past. With his other hand, Ryan grabbed its collar. He bent down and squinted at the name on the dog tag. He stood up and shouted in his fire scene voice, “Would the owner of Vishnu please meet your dog outside? If no one’s claimed him in the next five minutes, there’s always the pound.”

  No one answered.

  “Come on,” he told Katie. He pulled her to the front door, where he explained the concept behind Doggies’ Night to the assembled crowd. The presence of the intimidating Vishnu made the announcement go over a bit more easily.

  “If you have a picture of a dog with you, come on in and you can have a drink. If you have an actual dog with you, you’re going to have to take it home. Or tie it up outside.”

  He held up his hand to stop the roar of protest.

  “To make up for this embarrassing misunderstanding, for which Katie here sincerely apologizes, she’s offering a rain check to every one of you.”

  The crowd’s angry edge melted into a few scattered cheers.

  She glared up at him and hissed. “It was right there in the ad, bring a picture.”

  Ryan ignored her. “She says she’s really sorry and hopes to see you back here sometime this week. After that, no one will remember there ever was a Doggies’ Night.”

  Katie visibly ground her teeth. “Fine.”

  Ryan pulled out his phone. “To sweeten the deal, if you guys want, I’ll take a picture of your dog for you. But you still have to leave your dogs outside.”

  The large black man started to argue. Katie pushed forward and went onto tiptoe. Even though she still had to tilt her head way back to meet his gaze, her fierceness had quite an impact. “Look, mister, I’m sorry to inconvenience you, but the health department would shut us down. As you should have known if you gave it two seconds’ thought . . .”

  Ryan cut her off. “Take your dog home, man, come back, and I’ll buy you a drink myself. Make that two. That’s two for the price of zero. Can’t argue with that.”

  Slowly the crowd dispersed. Katie pulled the door shut and leaned against it. She let out a deep breath. “Mr. Jamieson, you all right?”

  On the bouncer’s stool, a gaunt man with wire-rimmed glasses, who Ryan hadn’t noticed until now, put his hand over his heart. “Oh, I imagine I’ll recover. A glass of Merlot might aid the process.” He added something in what sounded like French.

  Katie rattled off something that sounded equally French but much sexier. She finished with, “Help yourself. Go tell Archie.”

  Mr. Jamieson limped gratefully toward the bar. She turned to Ryan. “Um . . . thanks. I had things under control, but still, thanks.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “I guess you don’t need me, then.” He turned to go. “And here I was going to offer to tend bar for the night. Or play bouncer. But nah, I see you have it covered.” He opened the door and stepped onto the now quiet sidewalk. Would she let him go? Did she want him to go away? Maybe she was still mad about him spilling blood in her bar. Maybe she figured he was trouble. Maybe she didn’t like him. Maybe she was immune to the smile that made every other girl melt.

  Ryan wasn’t used to this kind of self-doubt, at least when it came to women.

  “I suppose I could use a hand,” she said grudgingly.

  He turned, blasting her with a smile, pleased when she blinked.

  “But no punching anyone. No more rain checks. And none of that.”

  “What?”

  “That smiling. I don’t like it.”

  As if to prove it, she frowned. Ryan’s smile broadened. The world righted itself. Definitely, no doubt about it, he was getting to her.

  Chapter Four

  Katie knew it was a mistake as soon as the words left her mouth. A whole night working side by side with a man with such devastating good looks, the kind of looks that belonged on a movie screen where they could remain a fantasy, would lead to nothing but trouble. She knew guys like that—they were Bridget’s type, not hers. They were players, flirters, daters. She didn’t speak their language. As soon as Bridget showed up, he’d flock to her like a homing pigeon.

  “I want to get one thing straight,” she told Ryan as she led the way through the throng to the bar. “This is one night only. And it’s because I’m desperate. It doesn’t mean I’m going to start drooling at your feet.”

  His startled look made her wince. Her bluntness had always been her downfall.

  “What I mean is, obviously you’re very . . . um . . . good-looking. I mean, let’s get that right out in the open. What are you, an actor or something?”

  “No.” He looked revolted, a reaction she found dangerously endearing.

  “Model?”

  “No!”

  “Well, whatever, I just want you to know that your smile and your eyes and your . . .”

  “What?”

  Killer ass. “Uh . . . the rest of you. Anyway, it won’t work on me.”

  He seemed to have stopped listening. They’d reached the bar, and he was frowning at Archie, who held a bottle of wine in each hand. One bottle was positioned perfectly over a glass, the other poured straight onto the floor.

  “Archie! What are you doing?”

  He jolted around so neither bottle pointed anywhere near a glass. “Katie, my dear, we must do Doggies’ Night more often. I say we make it a monthly event. I’ve met the most marv—”

  Ryan deftly removed the bottles from Archie’s grasp.

  “You’ve returned.” The older man stuck out his hand.

  Ryan, hands full of bottles, bowed his head. “Couldn’t stay away. I’m hired for one night only. But if you catch me smiling or anything nasty like that, kick me. Why don’t you go join your compadres over there in the booth? We got this, Katie and me.”

  Katie and me. The phrase made her shiver. Crap. Was it already happening? She grabbed one of the bottles of wine.

  “Who ordered wine?” She directed a glare the length of the bar.


  “I did.” A timid-looking man raised his hand. “If that’s okay.”

  “Right. The standard poodle with the purple collar.”

  She filled the glass Archie had been aiming for, then busied herself fielding orders from the rest of the customers. Ryan did the same at the other end of the bar. Now that she had someone actually helping her, as opposed to conducting long conversations with every single customer while pouring Cabernet onto the floor, she relaxed and began to enjoy the evening. The Hair of the Dog felt like a happening place, for the first time since she’d taken it on.

  People were actually having fun. At the Dog. Her father would be so proud. Total strangers were striking up conversations with one another. Many showed off their pictures of their dogs. The Drinking Crew was having the time of their lives watching all the action. For once, there were women present, a rare sight at the Dog. The sound of female laughter—light trills, flirtatious giggles—added a nice touch to the evening.

  If only she had a laugh like that. Bridget called her laugh a “pig snort.” As an insecure teenager she’d practiced a different laugh, but given up in despair.

  As she poured ice cubes into a row of glasses for an order of vodka tonics, she noticed something else about the laughter. It all came from the other end of the bar. She looked in Ryan’s direction. Sure enough, a cluster of women pressed against the bar. They kept tossing back their hair and laughing at everything Ryan said.

  And he was barely smiling at all. She’d seen his real smile in all its knee-weakening power. This qualified as a half smile, with one corner of his mouth tilted up in the sexiest possible way. His blue eyes drooped halfway shut as he poured a beer from the tap.

  A clattering noise brought her back to herself. Damn it, she was pouring ice cubes onto the floor. She tossed the scooper back in the ice chest and bent down to pick up the fallen cubes.

  “Where’s my vodka tonic?” someone yelled. Sounded like that obnoxious guy with the pretentious-looking matched whippets, the one who had demanded four drinks for the price of one.

  “It’s coming!” she hollered, shoving the ice cubes into a pile. There were too many to pick up with two hands, so she scooped them into her shirt and stood up.

  She hit a hard wall of flesh. Ryan. He must have come over to help when the whippet guy started yelling. He smelled good, like clean laundry and sweet grass. Too good. She took a step back. His blue eyes skimmed her from head to toe, with a long, lingering stop at the bare belly revealed by the shirt being used as a bag of ice. Heat flushed across her body. She was surprised the ice cubes didn’t melt.

  “Ice,” she said, as if that explained everything.

  “Need a hand?” He reached toward her and she took another step back. No way would she survive feeling his hands that close to her.

  “I’m fine. If you could just, pour those vodka tonics, I’ll—” Her butt hit the ice chest. Maybe if she fell in, she’d return to her normal, unrattled self. She turned and dumped the ice cubes into the sink.

  Great. Now her top, made of some clingy synthetic fabric, stuck to her body. Why had she chosen white? She never wore white. But somehow white top and black skirt had seemed a good combination of manager and server. Wet, the white fabric was practically see-through.

  When she turned back, Ryan still hadn’t budged. She held her hands over her tummy to block the view. He gazed at her for a long moment.

  “You should probably go change your shirt,” he finally said. “You’ve got a bar full of drunk, horny guys.”

  “I don’t have another shirt here.”

  He put his hands behind his neck and grabbed the back of his shirt, a long-sleeved thermal. Oh God, he was going to take off his shirt.

  “No!”

  “I’ve got a T-shirt on underneath.”

  “I don’t care. Stop that, right now.”

  But he didn’t stop. He pulled off his overshirt and, as she had anticipated, the T-shirt rode up along with it, revealing ridges of muscle lurking under tanned skin. A sigh left her mouth. She couldn’t pull her eyes away from that hard belly, those golden-brown hairs catching the light, the line of his torso broadening out on the way up to his shoulders. She’d never seen anyone so fit. He must work out all the time, and yet she’d seen his hands. Callused and capable, they didn’t look like hands that spent their days in a gym doing reps.

  He pulled the bottom of his T-shirt back over his jeans. Not that it made a difference. How would she ever get him out of her mind now? He dangled the thermal in front of her. “Shirt. Put it on. It’s Doggies’ Night, not Wet T-shirt Night.”

  “Fine.” She took his shirt and pulled it on, grateful to be able to hide her face for a second. The scent of Ryan surrounded her. Clean, warm, like rolling in laundry that had just been taken down from an outdoor clothesline. She took a deep breath, cursing herself for her foolishness. This man was so far out of her league, they didn’t even play the same sport. Get a grip.

  When she popped her head out of the neck of his shirt, she’d gotten control of herself. Hopefully the naked lust had been tucked away, the pointless desire hidden.

  “Thank you,” she said, with all the dignity she could muster, considering the shirt fell to her knees and the sleeves dangled nearly to the floor.

  “Here.” Before she could stop him, he lifted one of her arms and rolled the sleeve halfway up her forearm. At his closeness, heat gathered in her lower belly. Little prickles danced across her nerve endings all the way to her fingernails. His expression, part absorbed, part practical, as he tended to her made her want to throw herself at his feet and beg him to make love to her.

  Make love to her? Why was she thinking these things?

  She hadn’t had sex since she and Doug broke up. She hadn’t wanted to upset him. Maybe she was sex-starved. If so, she’d never noticed it before.

  She shook her head violently, surprising Ryan.

  “Did I hurt you?”

  “No. Sorry. I just thought of something. Bills. Insurance. That stuff.”

  Maybe if she thought about Fidelity Trust, she’d get ahold of herself.

  “Gotcha. Well, let’s get back to work. Maybe after tonight you can pay some of those bills.”

  One last adjustment of her sleeves, and he picked up the bottle of vodka and got to work filling glasses. Katie ordered her knees to straighten, commanded her feet to step forward, and joined him at the bar. Lots of drinks to be poured, lots of dog photos to be checked.

  But first, to find a way to get through the rest of the night. She picked up a clean glass and put it at the end of the line Ryan was filling. Vodka, straight, no ice. That would help. She drained it in one long swallow.

  Okay, so there was one benefit to running a bar.

  The sight of Katie wearing his shirt did something unexpected to Ryan’s insides. She looked so little in it, yet so alive, like a squawking baby bird in a giant shoebox. Of course she would despise that comparison, he knew that much about her already. She would hate anything that made her sound cute or girly or flirty. But despite her best efforts, there was something kind of adorable about her.

  All night long, even while a parade of beautiful women fought for his attention, his eyes kept straying to the other end of the bar where Katie would be either moving a mile a minute like a hummingbird, or frowning intently at a photo and interrogating a customer.

  All her sexiness seemed to happen without her approval. She didn’t dress to emphasize her high breasts or her subtle curves. Another woman with that exact same body would be dressed in belly shirts or halter tops, or something that showed lots of cleavage. Not Katie.

  And really, a woman that small shouldn’t be putting away the vodka like that. After her third shot, he decided he’d better keep a careful eye on her before she accidentally destroyed the bar. When she upended the bucket of stale Chex Mix, he slid next to her and righted it just in time. When she looked everywhere for the corkscrew she’d left on top of the espresso machine, he knew right wh
ere she’d put it. He handed it over without comment, shrugging off her suspicious look. When she tried ten times without success to get the bottle cap off a longneck Corona, he gently took it from her hands and took care of it himself.

  “I don’t need a babysister,” she hissed at him. ”Babysittser. Sitter.”

  “I sure do,” purred a blonde who had shifted seats when Ryan had begun focusing on Katie’s end of the bar.

  “Well, he’s taken.” Katie slammed both hands on the bar and leaned forward to stare down the blonde. “All night long.”

  “Another night, then. I’m flexible.” The blonde gave that last word all kinds of double meanings.

  “He’s not available. He’s the new bartender at the Hair of the Dog.”

  He was? Ryan did a double take.

  “Guess I know where to find you, then. And vice versa.” She flipped a card at him. Ryan caught it and tucked it in his pocket.

  “I appreciate that. Thanks for coming in. Spread the word,” Ryan told her.

  “Oh, I’ll do that.” She gave him a slow wink and slid sensuously off the bar stool. Ryan watched her go; how could he help it? She’d been teasing and flirting with him all evening.

  It occurred to him that he needed something to do while he waited to get back on the force.

  “I’m not sure if you were serious, but I could use a job, at least for a few weeks.” He looked down at Katie and caught a look of hurt on her face. Had he upset her by taking the blonde’s number? Why would she care? She didn’t even seem to like him much, going by her unfriendly attitude.

  “Good. You’re hired.” She busied herself with collecting empty shot glasses off the bar.

  “Sorry about that.” He indicated the departing blonde with a shrug of one shoulder.

  “Sorry? Why? You shouldn’t be sorry. Why sorry?” She was looking around for something. He moved her glass of vodka out of sight.

  “I don’t know. She was coming on to me all evening, and I just . . .” Why was he explaining himself?

  “You should call her. Really. I think she liiikes you.” Katie mimicked the blonde’s sexy sashay, moving her hips from side to side and tossing him a come-hither look over her shoulder. He instantly went hard as a fire axe.