Sex and the Single Fireman: A Bachelor Firemen Novel

by Jennifer Bernard

  In the restaurant on the ground floor, Brad, the blond, multitattooed maître d’, greeted her with his trademark devilish smile. “Must be Thanksgiving again. Our little holiday tradition.” He kissed her on the cheek, took her elbow, and steered her toward the booths along the wall. “Mind a hot tip?”

  “Depends,” said Sabina warily. He had a knack for getting into trouble, and she’d been along for the ride a couple of times.

  “A big, juicy hunk of prime-ass male came in here tonight. All alone. Completely single. I asked. I’m putting you in the booth next to him.”

  “You sure he’s not on your side of the ledger?”

  “My gaydar is as reliable as a windsock. Not even a little gay. Almost makes me wish I was a woman. Almost.”

  A funny suspicion crept into Sabina’s mind. “Hang on. Is he really tall and . . . big?”

  Brad smirked. “I didn’t check that closely, more’s the pity.”

  “I mean, you know, huge and dark-haired and kind of mean-looking.”

  “Alpha all the way, babe. Hot stuff. Better jump him or I’m banning you from the Starlight for life.”

  “Seriously, Brad, I think I know him already and this is a very, very, very bad idea. He doesn’t want anything to do with me, and besides, I owe him an apology and I’m really not in the mood.”

  Brad stopped suddenly and turned her so she faced the booth on her right. There sat the now familiar, large form of the man from the Jeep. A wicked smile spread across his face as he rose to his feet. It seemed an endless process, tall as he was. When he’d unfurled himself to his full height, well over six feet, he took her breath away. “An apology. Imagine that. This ought to be good.”

  The man sure knew how to take command. With one huge but knowing hand, he guided Sabina into the booth across from him. She cast a murderous look at Brad, who ignored it, briskly placed a menu in front of her, and disappeared.

  Across the table, the giant took a sip of his drink.

  “What are you drinking?” she murmured. “Revenge on the rocks?”

  “Excuse me? Whatever you said, it didn’t sound like an apology.”

  Sabina closed her menu with a thump and rested her elbows on the table. Time to take charge of this ridiculous situation. “All right. I suppose I was a tad bit impolite earlier.”

  “Hmm. Does that constitute an apology out here?”

  Sabina ground her teeth. “I’m sorry I played the radio too loud. I’m sorry I turned it up when you wanted me to turn it down. I’m sorry I gave you all my spare change.”

  The man gave a sudden laugh. A deep groove appeared on his left cheek and he looked, well, outrageously sexy. Again, that treacherous shiver snuck into Sabina’s belly.

  He took a long swallow of his drink. “Thank you. I suppose three hundred and sixty-eight dollars isn’t too high a price to pay to talk to my son.”

  Did he have to rub it in like that? “You know it’s against the law to talk on cell phones while you’re driving.”

  “Yes, the nice officer explained that to me, as he wrote out ticket number two.”

  She couldn’t help it; she snorted. “Well, that’s one more than I got. You win.”

  He laughed again, a deep, rumbling sound. That laugh did fascinating things to his face.

  She glanced down at her menu, hoping to banish the tug of attraction. Not that she had any intention of ordering. One drink and she’d leave. “So I screwed up your conversation with your son.”

  “Yep. It went a little like this. ‘What did Grandma say? She’s taking you to France?’ ‘She’s. Buying. Me. New. Pants. Geez, Papa, are you deaf?’ ”

  Sabina suppressed a smile. It wasn’t funny, really. She’d been very rude, every step of the way. “I really am sorry. I blame Thanksgiving, but I know it’s no excuse.”

  One black eyebrow rose, but before he could say any more, Brad returned with Sabina’s usual, a gin fizz. Then he disappeared in record time, mumbling something about sending the waitress to take their order.

  The man picked up his glass. The light from the red globe lantern on the table made the amber liquid glow. “To Reno’s finest.”

  Sabina clinked her glass against his. “May they forget we ever existed.”

  They both sipped from their drinks. The fizzy taste of the gin danced through her system, and she felt herself relax for the first time this weird Thanksgiving.

  She lifted her glass again. “To Kylie Minogue.”

  He tilted his head in a “touché” gesture. “To Kylie.” Another clink. Another sip.

  Even more relaxed by now, Sabina regarded the man with a certain amount of satisfaction. The guy wasn’t so bad, now that she’d seen him smile. She’d found him sexy before, but that groove in his cheek gave his appeal a whole new dimension.

  “Hey. I don’t even know your name,” she said suddenly, surprised. Somehow it felt as if they’d traveled way past introductions.

  “Ha. I don’t know yours either.” He lifted his glass. They clinked again.

  Sabina sipped her pink gin. “Of course, they’re on file with the Reno PD.”

  “And I’d almost managed to drown the memory.”

  Laughing, she swallowed more gin fizz. The man had something about him, an edge, a spark. The tangy drink made Sabina glow with well-being and issue another apology. “Sorry for accusing you of yelling at your family. That was uncalled for.”

  “Well, I did yell. But I’m from New York. We’re used to yelling just so people can hear us over the din.”

  “New York?”

  “Brooklyn, born and bred. I’m only moving to California for my son. He’s into baseball. He’s flying out after spending Thanksgiving with his grandparents.”

  That news made her nervous. But it was a big state, after all. One of the biggest. She eyed him over the rim of her drink. He wore a white open-collar shirt that did nothing to hide his physicality. Every line of his body, every speck of five o’clock shadow, screamed testosterone. If she was smart, she’d get out of here before she did something stupid.

  But somehow her body didn’t budge.

  “You can call me Jones,” Sabina told him.

  “Jones? That’s your name?”

  “Close enough.”

  One black eyebrow went swooping up. “I see. Fine, then. You can call me Rock.”

  She choked on her drink, sending a spray of gin fizz into her napkin. Rock. It wasn’t possible.

  He wore a wounded look. “You find that funny?”

  “Well.” She dabbed at her eyes, which were tearing up from the gin stinging her sinuses. Great way to impress the guy. Even better than causing him to get two tickets. “It’s just that you’re . . . well, you’re a big guy. Very . . . manly. Rock is . . . Well, I guess it suits you.”

  “My family would appreciate that. Of course, they’d go with Rocco, the Italian version.”

  Rocco. That seemed even more hilarious. She fought back her helpless laugh and raised her glass in another toast. “To Rocco and Jones. Sounds like a law firm you don’t want to mess with.”

  “Or a TV show from the eighties about two renegade detectives.”

  “You lost me there.” Mention of TV shows always made her nervous. “I never watch TV.”

  She put her glass down, the pink liquid sloshing resentfully, as if she’d hurt its feelings. “Well. Apology accepted, I assume?” She rose halfway to her feet.

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m not sure we’re done yet.”

  She stared at him. His eyes glowed black and daring in the soft light from the globe lantern. The look in them made her dizzy, as if he were a magnet and she was a helpless safety pin being drawn closer, closer . . . Unwelcome thoughts filtered into her mind. What would this man, so huge, so outrageously virile, be like in bed? No, Sabina, you’re not going there. Bad, bad idea. What’s gotten into you?

  The waitress appeared with a bread basket and a menu pad. “Ready to order?�
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  The man kept his gaze on Sabina. “Ms. Jones, would you please do me the honor of joining me for dinner?”

  She swallowed. Walk away, walk away.

  “Just to be clear, this is a request, not an order.” He gave her a slow smile, the groove deepening in his cheek.

  Good Lord Almighty, he was one sexy man. She sank back onto the vinyl seat.

  Chapter Three

  Rick Roman, occasionally known as “Rock,” cursed himself for a fool. Jones—the name suited her, in a weird sort of way—was the kind of woman he had no business tangling with. Even through his fury at the interrupted phone call with Luke, he’d noticed how the Nevada sun picked out strands of bright gold in her toffee-brown hair. Now, close enough to touch, it looked so soft, like spun sugar, as it tumbled past her shoulders down her narrow back. But most of all, those eyes, shimmering somewhere between turquoise and teal . . .

  He gave himself a mental kick in the shins. Dinner with the beautiful if obviously incognito “Jones” wasn’t going to lead to the bedroom. He didn’t do that sort of thing. He’d been living the life of a single father slash virtual monk for the past decade, after all. But when she’d started to leave the booth, he’d had the feeling she was about to take all the light with her. He couldn’t bear to see her go.

  But now what? He hadn’t spent much time having dinner with gorgeous women lately. “I’m having the steak, medium rare. Two?”

  She nodded and smiled at the waitress. That smile had struck him like a blow to the chest when she’d aimed it from her El Camino. It did something similar now. “Make mine bloody.”

  Roman grinned at her. “That’s what I like to hear. If you’d said grilled catfish or veggie burrito I would have given you a ticket myself. My worst fear about California is the food.”

  “Not the earthquakes? Carjackings? Cult murders?”

  “Nope. It’s the guacamole salad.”

  She laughed, and the dim little world of their booth seemed to glow. Even when she’d been goading him from her car, he’d been intrigued despite his irritation. The look in her eyes, feisty but a little haunted, made him want to catch her like a firefly and find out all about her.

  He leaned forward, creating an intimate space between the two of them. “So what do you do, Jones? Do you live here in Reno?”

  Her expression went wary. She lifted her glass as if it were a shield.

  “Never mind. I have a better question. What’s wrong with Thanksgiving? You said you blamed Thanksgiving.”

  At first he thought she wasn’t going to answer. Molten candlelight pooled between them, contrasting with the dimness outside the booth. Beyond it came the quiet hum of flirtatious voices and clinking silverware. It all created a sort of intimate magic. Maybe she felt it too, because finally she tilted her head, smiled with a sort of crooked defiance, and said, “I’m missing one important element of Thanksgiving. A family.”

  “No family at all?” This was hard for him to imagine, having lived within subway distance of his family all his life.

  “I had one, of course. But I haven’t spoken to my mother in a while.”

  “How long is ‘a while’?”

  “Oh . . . not long. Thirteen years.”

  He calculated quickly. She appeared to be around thirty. She must have been a teenager then. “Falling out?”

  She took a long swallow of her drink and lifted one shoulder. Light bounced off the pink liquid in her glass to glimmer in her eyes.

  “Must be rough. Especially on Thanksgiving. If I’d known . . .”

  Jones made an impatient gesture. “Doesn’t matter. I’m a big girl. Enough about me and my family. What about you? Is there a Mrs. Rock?”

  “There was. Luke’s mother. She died about ten years ago,” Roman answered. After all this time, the answer came easily, so easily Jones didn’t even react. “How about you?”

  “Same. I mean, no one.”

  Their eyes met, and suddenly the air between them tensed with possibility. He found himself leaning closer to her, trying to pin down the shades of aquamarine and sky blue and even a dash of gold in her eyes that combined to such brilliant effect. Close like this, he breathed in her scent—warm, feminine flesh with a hint of jasmine.

  It went straight to his groin. He wondered if he was drunk, but it usually took more than half a Scotch to accomplish that.

  “What are you doing?”

  He realized he was staring. Blinking, he sat back. “Sorry. Your eyes are . . . uh . . . spectacular.”

  “Oh.” She lowered her eyelashes over them, which gave him a moment to get a grip on himself. “Thanks. But I can’t take any credit. It’s all in the genes. Gift from my mother. You know, before she stopped talking to me.”

  So she wasn’t vain. Which seemed odd for such a gorgeous woman, with those high, elegant cheekbones and that perfectly oval face. She had a taut energy about her, as if she was poised for action at any given moment. He hoped that action wasn’t to flee. He really, really didn’t want her to leave.

  The waitress appeared with their steaks, breaking the mood. They both turned their attention to their slabs of meat. For once, Roman barely noticed that it was overcooked and that they’d tried to disguise an inferior cut of beef with manufactured sauce. He was too aware of Jones’s vibrant, graceful presence across the table. Too aware of the expressions that played across her face. Pleasure at her first mouthful of meat. Thoughtfulness as she chewed. Speculation as she glanced his way.

  It was that speculative look that really got to him. Was she thinking the same thing he was? Two unattached adults with high-octane chemistry. One night in Reno. Could they? Should they? Would she?

  No. This was nuts. He didn’t do that kind of thing. She probably didn’t either. Though maybe she did. Hard to say, when he’d only set eyes on her a couple of hours ago—and not in the best of circumstances.

  But still, two single people, alone on Thanksgiving, far from home, undeniably attracted to each other . . .

  Intellectually, Sabina knew her steak was a little overcooked. But most of her brain was taken up with another issue. Inconvenient sexual tension. Not long ago this man had been yelling at her to turn down her music. Now she was fantasizing about him sweeping her into his massive arms and whisking her off to his hotel room.

  And she hadn’t told anyone about her mother in . . . well, she never had, not since she’d made her escape. Dinner was almost over now. And the thought of leaving the booth, of no longer being able to feast her eyes on his black-eyed magnificence, didn’t appeal to her one bit. She scrambled for a safe topic.

  “So your son likes baseball?”

  “Oh yeah. He’s a star pitcher back in Brooklyn, but he wants to play year round. We were hoping to move at the beginning of the school year but we had to wait for my replacement to start.”

  “How old is he?”

  “He just turned thirteen.”

  Silence fell between them. Not a normal silence, but the kind in which naughty thoughts careened like monkeys in a cage. She could mention Carly, who also loved baseball. It would provide a way to continue a nonthreatening line of conversation. They could talk about batting averages and crazy sports parents and the kids’ favorite players and . . .

  She cleared her throat. “Are you here for just one night?”

  The question came out in an unexpectedly husky tone that sent his gaze flying to meet hers. Her belly tightened with a sudden spike of arousal. He was too damn attractive, this man. No one could blame her if she let down her hair, figuratively speaking, for one night.

  “Yes.” He fiddled with his silverware. “You?”

  She nodded. Her eyes dropped to the big hand wrapped around his fork. He had workingman’s hands, complete with calluses and a white scar over the middle knuckle. Little black hairs curled at his wrists. How one man could pack so much potent masculinity into one body boggled her mind.

  “Jones. Listen.” His voice dropped down to an even deeper register, one s
he felt in the pit of her stomach. “I never do this sort of thing.”

  Her throat tightened in excitement. She could have pretended she didn’t know what he was talking about. But instead she said in a low voice, as hot lust speared through her, “I don’t either.”

  “I shouldn’t even be thinking about it. But I am. We’re two single adults alone on Thanksgiving. And I’m very attracted to you. Extremely so. It’s throwing me for a loop, honestly.” He smiled ruefully. Between the groove in his cheek and the desire in his eyes, Sabina felt herself melt.

  “I am too,” she said faintly.

  “You’re . . . attracted or . . . thinking about it?”

  “Both. But I shouldn’t either. I mean, I don’t.” Great, now she was babbling. “Usually.”

  “Usually.” His head lifted, eyes flaring. “Does that mean . . . ?”

  Impulsively, she reached over the table and ran her finger across the scar on his knuckle. “How’d you get that?”

  He went completely still. Time seemed to stop while he looked at her hand on his, then back up slowly, deliberately, his eyes glittering. “Playing with fire.”

  Like a match tossed onto lighter fluid, those three little words ignited all that simmering lust into action. Sabina grabbed her purse. Rock threw some bills on the table, not seeming too concerned about which ones or how many. He took Sabina’s hand and guided her through the restaurant while she glanced pityingly at the other patrons who weren’t them, who weren’t heading toward the mind-blowing sex she absolutely knew was coming. She felt thrillingly alive, on fire, half crazed.

  She caught a brief glimpse of Brad’s delighted wink on the way past. And then they were racing hand in hand up the stairs to his suite.

  Inside, Rock put his hands on her shoulders and looked searchingly into her eyes until she thought she’d melt.

  “You sure about this? I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  “I’m sure.” To prove it, she boldly put her hands on his chest as she’d been dying to do since she first saw him in the booth—no, in the Jeep, to be completely honest. He felt just as rock solid as she’d imagined—ridges and valleys carved from living stone.