How to Tame a Wild Fireman

by Jennifer Bernard

  That familiar lump formed, the one that kept him from talking about Liam. He nodded.

  “Well, anyway, I don’t know when he’s coming back, so you can rearrange things however you like.”

  “Shouldn’t we try to find him, Mom? What if he’s in trouble?”

  She fiddled with her bracelets. “He sends us a message now and then. He’s all right. But please don’t talk about him around Cal. It’ll just make him furious.”

  So Liam wasn’t completely out of touch. That was good to know. But Patrick still didn’t like the idea of him wandering around by himself.

  Candy patted him on the cheek. “Make yourself at home, honey. Oh, except for the barn. Your father has turned it into his private clubhouse, no guests allowed.”

  The rules were coming fast and furious. No Liam talk, no going in the barn. Patrick gave a wry smile. “I’m here to do a job, that’s all, Mom. Think of me as a fireman for hire.”

  “Well, I’ll try, but you’ll at least be eating dinner with us, right?”

  Because the last one had gone so well. “I plan to work until I drop. And I have plans tonight.”

  “You do?”

  He didn’t. But he planned to have plans.

  “Mind if I ask with whom?”

  He gazed levelly back at her until she nervously tucked a lock of auburn hair behind her ear. “I have to check on a friend.”

  He deliberately left out Lara’s name. From now on he wasn’t going to put her in any line of fire from his family. As soon as his mother left, he checked his watch. Still only ten in the morning. Too early to bother her. She’d probably be sleeping it off until at least noon.

  He changed into work clothes—worn jeans, a T-shirt, sturdy boots—and headed to the toolshed. Later he’d see about fixing the ’dozer—a workhorse D-6 Caterpillar—but frankly, the fire line around the property wasn’t his first priority. Protecting the house and other structures came first. Which worked out well, since it was hard manual labor and he needed to work off some energy. He found a machete that looked relatively sharp, a weed-whacker, and a chainsaw. He took the chainsaw outside and yanked on the starter. Nothing. Eyeballing the chain, he saw black gunk built up between the teeth. It set his own teeth on edge. All good firefighters knew you had to keep your equipment in top condition. What was his father thinking, neglecting his tools like this?

  Tomorrow he’d take the chainsaw into town. But today, damn it, he wanted to get some work done. He grabbed the gas-powered weed-whacker, but got the same result as with the chainsaw. He hefted the machete. Somehow the thought of slicing through his father’s overgrown shrubs was quite satisfying. Forget the power tools, he’d use the machete.

  But first he swung by the stables, which sat just beyond the barn. Remembering his mother’s warning, he gave the big red barn a wide berth. The three remaining horses greeted him with soft whinnies. He spent a moment with each, letting them learn his scent. As soon as he walked into Goldie’s stall, which smelled of hay and manure, Goldie trotted up to him and butted her head against his hip.

  “Hiya, Goldie,” he murmured, running his hands down her snowy neck. “Miss me?”

  She made a sound that he chose to interpret as yes.

  “Want to clear some brush? You can eat it, I’ll hack at it.” He unchained her from her tether and led her outside. In the sunshine, she gave a little caper that made his heart melt.

  “You sure are a cutie, aren’t you? Well, come on, then. I hope you’re hungry.”

  With Goldie following close behind, he took the machete to the back of the house, where the bushes and grass were the most overgrown. He swung the machete, loving the way it glided smoothly through the air, biting into the thorny vegetation. After a few more cuts a small space had been cleared, and a heap of dry, tangled branches lay on the ground. Goldie did her part, chomping away as if she hadn’t eaten in days. With more time, Goldie and several of her friends could probably make a serious dent in this brush.

  For the next two hours he swung and chopped and dragged the debris into piles. It felt good, even with the hot sun burning down on him. Sweat poured off him in waves. He didn’t mind that either. He’d always loved a good sweat, whether during a fire, a bareback gallop, or some crazy-ass triathlon. Or something even more interesting . . .

  When he finally took a break, it was close to one in the afternoon. Lara would probably be awake by now.

  He pulled out his cell phone and dialed the Haven’s number. A sultry voice answered. “Haven. Answers for all your sexual and spiritual needs.”

  He had a brief vision of Lara’s dark whiskey eyes penetrating to the bottom of his soul, and wondered if that greeting might actually be accurate. “I’m calling for Lara Nelson. Is she there?”

  “One moment.”

  The sultry voice was replaced by a scratchy one. “Hello?”

  “Lara, it’s Patrick. How are you doing?”

  She groaned. “Ask me later. I may have a more optimistic answer then.”

  He wouldn’t get a better opportunity than that. “Fine. Pick you up at six? You can tell me all about it.”

  A startled silence, then a hesitant, “Sure.”

  “Cool.”

  He was about to hang up when she spoke again, this time with a mortified note in her voice. “But Patrick, just so you know, I remember everything. In case you want to change your mind.”

  A thrill shot through him. So she remembered. The kiss. The chemistry, the way their bodies felt together, the things she’d said, the things he’d said.

  “Nope. I’ll see you at six.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “And my crystal ball says,” said Annabella, “that was the fire hottie.”

  Lara groaned and searched through her medical bag for some aspirin. “Hottie is not part of the approved Haven vocabulary.”

  “I’m Brazilian. Haven is not my first language. What is that, a painkiller? I can do better than that.” Annabelle floated over to the kitchen counter, where she tossed ingredients into a blender.

  Lara surreptitiously downed her aspirin. Nothing wrong with a Haven smoothie, but she’d take all the help she could get. She wasn’t used to drinking. And to have Patrick witness the whole thing, or at least the most embarrassing moments . . .

  But try as she might, she couldn’t summon much of a feeling of humiliation. He’d been there for her when she needed it; any more alcohol and things could have gotten out of hand. Not only that, he’d told her she was sexy and he kissed her. Well, she’d kissed him, but he definitely kissed her back, in a way that still made her head spin when she thought about it.

  She’d been doing almost nothing else since she woke up.

  “Here, try this.” Annabella handed her a glass full of a yellowish-green concoction the color of baby vomit, if that baby had been gorging on mustard and spinach.

  “That doesn’t look like something I should put in my body.”

  “Don’t be a child. It has turmeric, ginger, and kale. You’ll survive. Drink up.”

  Lara drank, trying to block out the taste, the smell, the color and texture of the drink. To be fair, she couldn’t imagine anything tasting very good at the moment.

  “Not bad,” she told Annabella when she’d finished. “Thanks.” She put the glass in the sink and leaned against the counter, propping her head on her elbow. Going back to bed sounded like a good idea, but bed was so far away.

  “Are you really going out with the fireman?”

  “I don’t know if it counts as ‘going out.’ ” He hadn’t phrased it that way.

  “Be careful with him.” Annabella looked mysterious as she rinsed out the blender. She was dressed in full Goddess regalia, a long white skirt with a fitted Indian top that bared her stomach.

  “What do you mean?”

  Annabella lit a stick of incense and waved it around Lara’s head. Lara sneezed. “This will help clear your heavy hangover energy. That kind of man, he’s very full of testosterone. He has an a
mbivalent connection to his feminine energy.”

  Lara waved fragrant smoke away from her face. “His feminine energy? Are we back to speaking Haven? I’m not afraid of testosterone, Annabella.” Actually, she liked it. A lot, if last night was any indication.

  “That’s not what I’m saying. The testosterone makes him very attractive, but it isn’t what makes him dangerous. It’s the other part of him. The part that took care of the llama. That part could steal your heart while you aren’t even looking.”

  Lara stared at the other woman, arrested. As much as she liked to laugh at the silly sayings and jargon of the Goddesses, she knew how perceptive they could be. And Annabella was absolutely right. If Patrick hadn’t rescued the llama, and then worried about her afterward, she wouldn’t find him half so appealing. Or if he hadn’t watched out for her last night. Or if he hadn’t always loved his little brother . . .

  Annabella was right. Patrick was dangerous.

  “Oh no,” she said out loud.

  “Oh, yes.”

  “You think I shouldn’t see him?”

  “Of course I don’t think that. He’s probably a magnificent bed partner.”

  Lara buried her face in her hands, a million moments of oversharing from her childhood flashing through her mind. “Please don’t,” she murmured.

  “Lara, meu filha, when will you stop seeing sex as something to be embarrassed about?”

  “I’m not embarrassed, and sex isn’t on the agenda. I’m just not used to thinking about him in that way.” Okay, that wasn’t exactly the truth. She’d been thinking that way pretty much since she’d seen him rescue Goldie.

  Annabella raised one slim, skeptical eyebrow. “I suggest you begin, then. He wants you, and you want him.”

  Lara touched her burning cheeks, sure her face was about to catch fire. “How do you know these things?”

  “It’s my business.” Annabella shrugged. “But if you like, we can change the topic. Have you given any more thought to our situation here?”

  A pang of guilt made Lara bite her lip. She hadn’t told the Goddesses about her efforts to find a buyer for the Haven. Other than that, she’d been busy with the fire and hadn’t come up with any other brilliant plans.

  “Let’s talk about it later, okay, Annabella?”

  She gave the older woman a kiss on the cheek and wandered off to the meditation garden, where pink stone benches surrounded a shimmering copper gong, and herbs were planted in the shape of a karmic wheel. As a kid she’d always found the mingled scents of lavender, rosemary, and thyme incredibly soothing. Maybe the same magic would still hold.

  Lara sat on a bench, plopped a straw hat on her head, and inhaled the deliciously fragrant air.

  The way she saw it, she had three choices when it came to Patrick. She could blame it all on the free drinks and the fact that she wasn’t used to alcohol. She could claim she’d been temporarily possessed by a supernatural being—maybe a Goddess—at the Love ’Em and Leave ’Em, and therefore wasn’t responsible for her behavior.

  Or—most frightening and intriguing of all—she could admit that she found Patrick terribly attractive and give in to her desire to satisfy her curiosity.

  But she’d have to make it crystal clear that this was only a sort of scientific experiment. She knew what sex was like. Underwhelming, in her experience. What happened when you included toe-curling, spine-tingling attraction? The scientist in her wanted to know. And assuming Patrick wasn’t averse to the experiment, why shouldn’t she find out?

  They both knew it wouldn’t lead anywhere. Neither of them lived in Loveless, and whatever Patrick was doing here, he probably wouldn’t stay for long. Plus, they had too much history. A Callahan, for Pete’s sake. His family despised her. She didn’t think much of them either, except for Megan. And Liam, of course. And Candy Callahan might have her moments. And now Patrick was turning out to be not exactly what she’d thought.

  A bee hummed in a lazy circle around her head.

  Who was she kidding? Only the third option held any appeal at all. Annabella’s warning filtered through her mind. But she didn’t need to worry. Patrick Callahan IV wouldn’t steal her heart. She wouldn’t allow anything like that to happen.

  When Patrick roared up the drive in his gray, tanklike Dodge truck, Lara skipped out the front door before the Goddesses could descend on him. She’d allowed Dynah to help her dress, since they were about the same size. A hip-hugging, gold-threaded skirt with a slit up to her thigh moved sensuously with each step. A corset-style top with a demure eyelet pattern left no room for a bra.

  “I feel so aware of my body,” she’d told Dynah.

  “Exactly the point. And you won’t be the only one, I guar-on-tee. Here, take these.”

  Dynah had handed over high-heeled silvery sandals. As a doctor, Lara knew all the ways that heels could cause damage. But she took them without protest. Sometimes a girl had to do what a girl had to do. That included leaving her hair long but fluffing it out with some hair product, and adding a spritz of perfume that she hoped would mask the persistent Haven scent of sandalwood.

  She wasn’t going for hippie. She was going for hypnotic.

  By the time she ran out to meet Patrick, she felt more feminine than she had in a very long time. Perhaps ever. His reaction made all the fussing worthwhile.

  Halfway around his truck, he stopped in his tracks and shoved his hands in his pockets. His bright blue eyes traveled up and down her body as he gave a slow whistle.

  “You look incredible,” he finally said.

  “What, you didn’t know I had it in me?”

  “I didn’t say that. Don’t put words in my mouth.”

  The word “mouth” made her look at his, which brought her back to the previous night when that mouth had claimed hers with such fierce, primitive command. She swallowed hard. Maybe Patrick was too dangerous for her. She was so inexperienced compared to him, no matter how many Goddesses had helped raise her.

  Then she saw his expression, the nearly slack-jawed lust and awe, and she squared her shoulders. Of course she could do this. This was Patrick. She’d known him since the age of twelve. What was she so afraid of?

  She moved forward, the high heels giving her stride an extra sway, which Patrick registered immediately, judging by the clenching of his jaw and narrowing of his eyes.

  Hey, this was kind of fun.

  He scrambled to open the door for her, which she allowed him to do, though it seemed a little retro to her. She climbed onto the seat, arranging the slit in her skirt so she didn’t flash him.

  Then again, maybe a little flashing wasn’t out of the question. As he hurried around to the driver’s side, she adjusted the panels of her skirt so the skin of her thigh showed. Not a lot, just enough to put that expression on his face, that determined, don’t-distract-me, let-me-steal-another-peek look.

  Of course, he was well worth looking at himself. He wore a pair of dark blue jeans and a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to show his forearms. He smelled like he’d just stepped out of a shower, and she noticed that his hair was still damp behind his ears. The back of his neck was a dark tan. She wanted to run her finger across it.

  “Have you been out in the sun?”

  “All day. I’m clearing brush from the property.”

  “Oh.” Suddenly it all made sense. “That’s why you came back?”

  “Partly.” He gave her a sidelong look but didn’t elaborate. She frowned, still perplexed by the whole thing.

  “I thought you and your parents were on the outs.”

  “We are. But I’m not going to let Megan and Liam’s inheritance burn down, not if I can help it.”

  She saw his hands clench on the wheel as he steered his truck down the road toward town. “Megan and Liam’s? Not yours?”

  “He cut me off after the accident. Big Dog doesn’t change his mind about stuff like that. About anything.”

  “So . . . what you’re saying is you left your life in S
an Gabriel to come back and save something that doesn’t belong to you.”

  He shot her an odd look. With the setting sun turning the hills behind him pink, his eyes looked extraordinarily, almost unnaturally blue. “You didn’t think I had it in me?”

  She flushed. “I didn’t say that.”

  “Yeah, you did. I remember it exactly. You were wearing a pretty peachy sort of top and a denim skirt and you had this look in your eyes that said I was no better than a slug.”

  “I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I didn’t mean it that way, I—”

  “It’s okay. You were pissed, and you had a right to be. I’m not saying you were wrong.”

  She shook her head in confusion. This man had a way of surprising her every time she turned around. “Then what are you saying?”

  He tilted his head, as if listening to someone whispering in his ear. She noticed the lines fanning from the corners of his eyes and the brackets next to his mouth. They changed his looks, made him into someone more mature, more intimidating.

  “I want another chance,” he finally said. “I want to prove I’m not the things you said. Not only those things.”

  “Patrick, you don’t have to prove anything to me. What does it matter what I think?”

  Again he looked at her sideways. “I’m not sure,” he said simply. “All I know is, I’m not leaving Loveless until you look at me with something else besides scorn.”

  An embarrassed snort escaped her. “I don’t think scorn was on the agenda last night.”

  “Yeah, about that . . .”

  But they were pulling up outside the Loveless Bistro, known for its backyard terrace and intimate atmosphere. This time Lara opened the passenger door before Patrick could reach it. She stepped out and closed the door behind her. A queer, disappointed feeling made her hug her arms around her middle. Patrick didn’t want the pleasure of her company. He wanted to prove something. Win something. Typical Patrick.

  When he appeared, offering his hand, she slowly shook her head. “So you’re going to wine me and dine me and prove what a nice guy you are?”