Playing with Fire

by Lexi Ryan

  Liz clears her throat. “She’s gonna come out here and try to convince me that you two get together and hang out half naked in a completely platonic way, isn’t she?”

  Probably, but I’ve been instructed not to speak, so I just shrug.

  “How long has this been going on?”

  I lift my palms then point my thumb toward the bedroom. If Nix doesn’t want me to talk, I’m happy to let her answer the questions.

  When Nix reappears, she’s put on a pair of shorts. She scowls at me. “Go get dressed,” she says.

  “You’re wearing my shirt.”

  She flinches, and Liz laughs. “Nix, it’s not a big deal.”

  But clearly to her it is. Definitely a private person.

  A red, beaten-up Escort pulls into the drive, and a teenager with a mop of black hair climbs out with a pizza box.

  “There’s the pizza,” I say, leaving the girls to go pay for the food.

  When I head back in, they’re gone, but I can hear them talking in a room off the foyer that I assume is an office. Oh, to be a fly on the wall in that conversation. But I give them a minute and get the pizza set out on the table.

  When I go to the office to get them, Nix is holding Liz, and Liz is sniffling against her chest. The sight makes something in my chest shift, and my crush on this sweet, caring, slightly mysterious, and very private doctor inches up another notch.

  * * *

  Nix

  So that didn’t go as planned.

  Max Hallowell shoves his hands in his pockets and gives me a tentative smile. Tonight was nothing like I expected. One, I never would have guessed he was interested. Two, I had no idea I was such an easy lay.

  Come for the friendly favor, stay for the sex.

  I try to return his smile, but I’m too nervous. I’m too afraid he’ll say what happened tonight was a mistake. Even if that’s true—and, if I’m being honest, it totally is—it might kill me to hear him say the words.

  His gaze drifts to the top of the stairs, where Liz is tucked in for the night. If she hadn’t shown up, would he want to stay over? Would he have taken me back to my bed? Whispered more of those sinfully naughty words in my ear?

  A shiver of pleasure runs through me, but I do my best to tamp it down. That line of thought is useless and doesn’t change anything. Liz is upstairs, sleeping off her heartache, and Max is headed for the door. Could-have-beens are irrelevant, a waste of energy.

  “Walk me out?” he asks.

  I lick my lips and nod. Here it comes. It’s not you; it’s me. Or: I hope we can still be friends. Or maybe it’ll be: We just got carried away . . . twice.

  I shut the door behind us so I can avoid his eyes, and remind myself that I don’t want this to be any more than a one-time thing. Even if Max’s history with my friend Hanna didn’t complicate everything, there’s the fact that I’m an emotional train wreck with a full freight of baggage, and I’m in no way a candidate for a long-term romantic relationship.

  “So, tonight was . . .” He steps forward and the porch light reaches his eyes. Blue and a little smoky. With those eyes and that carefully sculpted body, could anyone blame me for being a floozy tonight? Add in how screwed in the head I was from what I did or didn’t see in the mirror, and I should get some sort of prize for not meeting him at the door naked and begging him to fuck my brains out. Better brainless than crazy.

  He takes one of my hands in his and squeezes. “You’re not the kind of woman who plays games. Am I right?”

  “I don’t have the energy for games.” Here it comes.

  His lips quirk in a half-smile. “That’s refreshing.” His other hand goes to my face, cupping it softly, making me feel small and delicate and protected.

  I want to close my eyes. I want to lean into his touch. But those things would make me vulnerable, so I do neither. “Thanks for your help with Liz. She’s going through a hard time.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Listen, about tonight . . .” The rest of the sentence stalls out on my tongue as his eyes drift to my lips. My stomach does an acrobatic flip-flop, and before I can say more, he lowers his head and sweeps his lips over mine. The kiss starts sweet and innocent, but one stroke of his thumb along my jaw and a slide of his tongue between my lips and that sweetness simmers into something more intoxicating. I arch my back to give his mouth a better angle on mine, and my hands find his hair. This man can kiss, and since this will mostly likely be the last time I get to experience it, I sink in deep and soak in the pleasure.

  When he pulls his mouth away, he touches his forehead to mine. He slides his hand to wrap around the back of my neck. “Sorry to cut you off,” he murmurs. “I needed to kiss you again quickly in case you were going to tell me I couldn’t. You were saying?”

  What was I saying? The words I planned to say have fled, and now my mind is cluttered with all the ones I shouldn’t speak.

  Kiss me again.

  Stay the night.

  And the absolute scariest: Thank you for giving me the best night of my life. Because what we just had shouldn’t be the best night of anyone’s life. To admit it was mine is to admit how pathetic I am.

  Pulling away, he groans softly, as if he’s reluctant to stop touching me. It’s that kind of response that makes me want to say all the things I shouldn’t.

  “I’d like to call you,” he says. “Maybe take you out somewhere nicer than your garage floor—not that I didn’t have a perfectly good time during our visit there.” His grin starts crooked and widens, transforming his face from devastatingly handsome to cute. I’m immune to devastatingly handsome. The first guy I loved was devastatingly handsome, and I’ve learned to protect myself from that. It’s the cuteness that lowers my defenses.

  “Maybe. That might be nice.” Shit. Wrong answer. I should be definitively ending this. I blame my friends. I was ready to forgo romance forever, but they keep falling in love with great guys and making me second-guess my decision to become one of those cat ladies.

  “Maybe, huh?” He sighs. “I thought you didn’t play games.”

  “I don’t.” I swallow. “But your kiss made it too hard to say no.”

  He cocks his head, as if trying to figure me out. “So if I kissed you again . . .?”

  I laugh despite myself. “Good night, Max.”

  “Good night, Doc.”

  Doc. Oh, hell, that’s cute. He’s cute. He makes me feel . . .

  Yeah, need to pull the brakes on that little thought train right now.

  When he reaches his car, he turns and skims his gaze over me one more time, his focus lingering on my thighs in my cutoffs. “We’ll talk soon.”

  All sex appeal and yum, he climbs into his car and drives away, and I stand there in my little puddle of lust until his taillights fade into the distance.

  It’s only when he’s gone and I’m alone in the soft glow of my porch light that I feel it—that sensation of being watched.

  “Hello?” I call out into the night. The hair on my arms stands on end, and all the warm gushiness Max stirred in my belly goes cold. “Who’s there?”

  And I know it’s not real. I know it’s only memory rearing its head and reminding me why I can’t have the things Max just made me want. I know my head’s screwed up right now and my senses are playing tricks on me, but suddenly . . .

  Suddenly, I smell smoke.

  Three

  Nix

  Three months later . . .

  Temptation has found me and moved himself and his fine ass into the house next door.

  Marmalade weaves through my legs as I stare open-mouthed at the man unloading the moving van.

  Well, shit.

  From the second I saw the trucks pulling in this morning, I was apprehensive. It’s not that I want the house next to me to sit vacant. But change always worries me. Since I moved to New Hope and my life got so damn good, I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  My mild apprehension at wondering about my new neighb
or turned to something else altogether when I saw the dark head poke out from the front of the house.

  Three months ago, Maximilian Hallowell sexed me up so expertly I saw stars. Three months and a half-dozen declined invitations later, and he’s moving into the house next door.

  Fuckshitdamn.

  Max directs one of his friends into his garage, then turns to look at me. His gaze starts at my feet and inches up slowly, and when he brings his eyes to mine, my stomach goes into full-out skydive free-fall—down down down down—never seeming to hit my feet.

  Fuckfuckshitshitdamndamn.

  Keeping his eyes on me, he opens the back of the truck. The metal clangs as it rolls up into the roof, and when I start back into my house, he actually winks at me. Winks.

  I trip over my cat.

  He sees it—of course he does—and grins. Never mind that we slept together three months ago. Never mind that every time I look at him I think of the way he slowly lowered his head to kiss me that first time. Never mind that I can’t climb into my bed without remembering what he did to me there, turning me from insomniac to hot and bothered insomniac.

  “Hey, neighbor,” he calls.

  “You’re the one who bought the house?” It comes out much bitchier than I intended. He’s free to buy any house he wants. He belongs in New Hope more than I do.

  He nods and heads over to stand with me on my porch. Close, but not as close as he was last time we stood here together. “It’s a great neighborhood,” he says. “It’s near my mom’s, and Claire loves the backyard.”

  “You don’t owe me an explanation.” But my tone implied I wanted one, didn’t it? I take a breath and force my shoulders to relax. “Sorry, Max. I had a long night. You’re seeing the dark side of my insomnia. Welcome to the neighborhood.”

  “Thank you.” He studies me for a beat then drops his gaze to my calico cat, who has abandoned my legs to rub against his. “I didn’t know you had a cat.”

  “I got her a few months ago.” You know, after you made me forget I’d sworn off love and romance. After you made me want things.

  He crouches to rub her between her ears, and Marmalade purrs so loudly the porch practically vibrates. As far as I can tell, Max has that effect on all females.

  He cranes his neck to study me. Ever since that night we slept together—twice—he looks at me differently. It’s as if his blue eyes can see all the pieces of me I don’t show anyone. It’s a ridiculous thought, of course, but it’s there like an electric buzz, warning me every time his gaze is pointed in my direction.

  “I’m having a little housewarming cookout tomorrow night,” he says. “I’d love to see you there.”

  “I already have . . .” I already have plans with Liz, a.k.a. Miss Matchmaker. She’s the only one who knows about what happened between me and Max, and she’s been doing her best to push us back together ever since. I’d bet a hundred dollars that tomorrow’s “casual party” she’s asked me to attend with her is Max’s housewarming. “Crap,” I mutter.

  “What’s wrong? Out of excuses to avoid me?”

  “I’m not avoiding you.”

  He stands and arches a brow but says nothing.

  I shove my hands into my pockets. “Sure. I’ll stop by. I’d love to see the house.”

  “I don’t bite, Nix.” Without another word, he heads back to the trucks and starts unloading boxes alongside his friends.

  I should do something neighborly, like bake him a casserole or something. Jesus, I’ve made a mess of this, and all because I don’t want to have feelings for him but I do anyway.

  Marmalade hops onto the porch rail and howls in Max’s direction.

  I scratch her between the ears. “I know how you feel, honey. But we don’t need him. Life is good with just us girls.”

  Hissing, she hops down and saunters back into the house, only stopping once to turn and glare at me.

  * * *

  Max

  William smirks and shifts his eyes to Nix’s front porch. “And how’d that go?”

  I glare at him. “I’m sorry I told you.”

  His lip twitches. “Why? Because you don’t want anyone to know you’re getting rejected every time you talk to her?”

  I grab the rocking chair out of the truck and hoist it over my head with more effort than necessary. I need to lift something much heavier if I’m going to work out the frustration that conversation with Nix just inspired. The frustration every conversation with her inspires.

  Will laughs behind me. Fucker.

  I head toward the house and into my daughter’s room, and as soon as I enter the pink-walled space, my aggravation fades away.

  So what? I had a thing for Nix and it turned out to be unrequited. Big deal. What matters is right here in this house, where I’m making a life for my daughter. What matters is making Claire feel like her family is complete, even without all the traditional pieces.

  “Hey,” Will says from the doorway. He props the mattress to Claire’s toddler bed against the wall and crosses his arms. “Sorry. I’m just razzing you.”

  “No apology necessary.” Sighing, I position the rocking chair in the corner and sink into it. “I don’t care anymore. I’m over her.”

  Will’s face says bullshit, but he’s smart enough to hold his tongue. I’m not sure if I’m trying to convince him or myself, but I need to hear the words out loud. “When Hanna left me, I decided I was going to focus on Claire. It was a good plan then, and it’s a good plan now.”

  Will looks skeptical.

  “What?”

  “And that’s why you bought the house next to the cute doctor?”

  “Shut up,” I mutter. “It’s a good neighborhood, and I got this place for a hell of a deal.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “It’s been three months, and she’s had an excuse every time I’ve asked her out. I can take a hint.”

  “Good. Then you’ll come out on a double date with me and Cally? She got a sitter for tonight and specifically requested you join us. Apparently, she has someone picked out for you who happens to have the night off.”

  I bite back a groan. God save me from meddling females determined to play matchmaker. “Dare I ask who?”

  Will shrugs. “I didn’t ask. I’m not gonna lie; I didn’t think you’d be interested.”

  Claire’s bedroom window overlooks the backyard, and from here I can see Nix gardening where our property meets. Her hair’s in a ponytail, and when she wipes a stray lock from her face, she leaves a smudge of dirt on her cheek. She’s dressed in a tank top—a modest one, not one of those flimsy things most girls wear—and cutoffs that show inch after inch of reason to believe there’s a God and He is good.

  Yeah. Totally over her. I haven’t thought about the sounds she makes when I touch her or how it felt to slide into her in going on six minutes.

  Pathetic piece of shit is what I am.

  “So can I tell her you’ll go?” Will asks. “Because this lovesick thing you’ve got going on is kind of a downer.”

  No kidding. “Actually, I can’t.”

  When I tear my eyes off Nix and look at Will, his eyes are wide. “Because you’re going to tell the doctor how you feel?”

  “No.” I push to my feet and wipe my hands on my jeans. Only another four hundred or so trips to the moving vans, and we should be done. “Because I’m already have a date,” I say on my way out the door.

  “You do?” Will asks, matching my strides out to the van.

  “Yep.”

  “And it’s not with Nix?”

  “Nope.” I pick up a box and shove it into his hands.

  “And are you going to tell me who your mystery woman is?”

  I grab a couple of boxes for myself, and spin back toward the house. “Nope.”

  * * *

  Nix

  I would have driven my car to the hospital this afternoon if I’d suspected how my day might unfold. Instead, I thought I’d be heading home by dinner, and I left the car behin
d. An eleven p.m. walk through the dark streets of New Hope wasn’t what I had in mind.

  A few months ago, a stroll alone in the dark didn’t scare me. For one, this is New Hope, and though every place has its moments, this town is about as safe as it gets. For two, walking helps me decompress after a long, stressful day.

  But things have changed. Or I’ve changed. I’m not sure which.

  I should have called Krystal for a ride. She would have happily picked me up and joined me for a drink or two—single chicks unite and all that—but I didn’t feel like company. I was afraid that if I went for a drink with Krystal, I’d admit that I’m rattled by Max moving in next door and then I’d have to explain why that rattles me.

  A twig snaps behind me, and I jump and then shake my head. Okay, clearly just thinking about whether or not it’s safe to walk alone is enough to spook me. I don’t see anyone behind me, but I pick up my pace.

  An old, cautious tingle creeps up my spine, standing the hair at the back of my neck on end and making something spasm in my belly. The sound probably came from an animal. Or the breeze snapping a dead twig from a tree.

  I can see the first streetlight ahead, and I lengthen my strides to reach it faster. There’s a gasp, then footsteps, but I spin around and no one’s there.

  My heart pounds wildly against my ribcage, and the smell of smoke swirls wickedly in my nose, nearly tripping my gag reflex.

  This has been happening more and more lately. I felt safe in New Hope. I believed I was safe. Then three months ago, I saw Patrick’s reflection in my own home—like a specter from another life—and that sense of security was yanked away. Ever since, every time I’m alone the hair has prickled on the back of my neck like I’m being watched. I hear sounds in my house when I shouldn’t, and feel like I’m being followed when I’m walking alone.

  “It’s your imagination, Phoenix,” I mutter, but the sound of my voice is eerie in the otherwise silent night, and I wish I hadn’t said anything at all.