How to Tame a Wild Fireman (12 page)

Until it had all gone wrong. And it was his fault. Completely his fault.

Shaking it off, he made his way to Brody’s office. His captain looked up, apparently irritated by any interruption of him staring at his cell phone. The cell was now placed squarely in the center of his desk.

“Nothing yet?” Patrick asked.

“No, damn it all. Not so much as a Braxton-­Hicks contraction.”

Patrick held up a hand in protest. “Really don’t need the details.”

Brody didn’t seem to hear him. “Now she’s got some hot lead on a story and she’s talking about going out of town to interview someone. I tried to put my foot down, but she says she’s still barely one centimeter dilated and—­”

“I’d like to take a short leave of absence,” interrupted Patrick, without thinking. He snapped his mouth shut in the aftermath of that unexpected statement. Where the fuck had that come from?

“Is my childbirth talk driving you off?”

Patrick snorted. “No. But I mostly get along better with babies
after
they’re born.”

“I brought you in here to talk about how we can make use of your signing skills. They really came in handy out there today. Good job on that.”

“Thanks.”

“I was thinking you could train the rest of us in some basic signs. Things we need all the time, like ‘anyone inside?’ and ‘where’d the fire start?’ ”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“But now you want to take a leave?”

Patrick shifted from one foot to the other. When he’d gone back to fight the wildfire, it had been under duress. And it turned out to be just as god-­awful as he’d feared. His father had ripped him a new one, he’d screwed things up with Lara, he’d behaved like an asshole.

But . . . he’d seen Megan, his little sister, all grown up. He’d kissed his mother’s cheek. Those things stood out more than his father’s ranting. Besides, he couldn’t let Lara have the last word—­words—­especially when those words made him out to be a dick. And what about Goldie . . . Goldie, that sweet baby llama, she didn’t deserve to be abandoned.

“The thing is, they’re still on red alert out there. The drought’s nowhere near over, they’ve got extreme high temperatures, and my father hasn’t cleared one square inch of brush on the property. All the structures are potential bonfires. He needs someone to get that place fire-­ready. But he won’t let anyone do it. Throws them off the premises. He already threw me out, so I’m used to it.”

“What you’re saying is, you’re the only one as hardheaded as he is?”

“Exactly. I have to go, Captain.”

After one of his patented, long, measuring looks, the captain nodded. “I guess you do. Good luck.”

And with that, for the first time Patrick could remember Captain Brody stood up, reached across the desk, and shook his hand.

Chapter Eleven

A
rare silence ruled the Haven for Sexual and Spiritual—­and possibly Neuromuscular—­Healing. All the Goddesses were at the movie theater, watching the new James Bond. But Lara had been so exhausted by the long days at the wildfire and the blowup at the Callahan Ranch—­not to mention the kiss from Patrick—­that she slept for twenty hours straight. She’d surfaced briefly, let Romaine feed her a kale-­carrot-­ginger smoothie, and gone back to sleep.

It had now been over a week since her arrival in Loveless, three days since her meeting with Dean, and she needed to take care of business. She sat on the cushions of the Room of Soul Harmony, the ledger books spread open on the gold-­painted floor, the tinkle of the fountain the only thing breaking the silence.

So no one in Loveless would want to buy the Haven, according to Dean, except the Callahans. The Goddesses would be happy to hear that, and she certainly couldn’t do business with the Callahans since Big Dog despised her and Patrick probably did too, now that she’d been so rude to him.

She still winced every time she remembered the things she’d said.
Mean and childish and just plain idiotic.
Was that really what you were supposed to say to a firefighter who’d worked his very sexy butt off on the fire threatening your hometown? The other ­people in the town had brought cookies and blankets and coupons for every business in town. Anyone who’d fought the fire was entitled to a free dinner for two at the Fourth Street Diner, a free bag of potpourri at the Crafts ’n Kitsch, and a free dog-­grooming session at Love Your Pup.

She wondered if llama-­grooming was included in that offer.

Closing the ledger, she slowly banged her head against its hard cover.

Patrick had fought a fire and rescued a baby llama, and all he’d gotten from her was a rude lecture. What was wrong with her?

No.
She opened the ledger again and stared at the blurry entries. The problem wasn’t with her. It was
Patrick’s
fault. He always brought out the worst in her. With Liam, she’d been patient and kind and
fun.
The ultimate good friend. With Patrick, she’d always been awkward and snarky and irritable. Clearly the blame was his.

The cheerful tinkle of the fountain pulled her attention away from her righ­teous indignation. Did it have to be so goddamn
soothing
? She didn’t want to be soothed. She wanted to get a grip on herself, figure out what to do about the Haven, and go home to San Diego.

Focus, focus
. She flipped the pages of the ledger to the list of workshops held during the past year and how much money they’d brought in. In retrospect, the trouble signs were obvious. The Multiple Orgasm workshop had not multiplied—­it had subtracted. The Shine Your Heavenly Body nude dancing weekend had been a disaster, with only two participants, who must have been staring at each other in utter embarrassment. The Seven Chakra Challenge still did well, probably because it mostly involved sitting. However, costs had gone up because the Haven had invested in some comfy armchairs.

No question about it, the Haven was showing signs of age. Aunt Tam never would have allowed it if she hadn’t been traveling through South America consulting shamans.

Maybe she should take the Goddesses’ request to keep the Haven open more seriously. Maybe they should do some workshops on aging. She squinted up at the cupid-­adorned ceiling, imagining the new curriculum. Getting It On in Your Golden Years. The Kama Sutra for Seniors, and its companion workshop, the Seven Chiropractor Challenge. She couldn’t help giggling, until she imagined herself trying to teach such a workshop.

Noooo!
She was absolutely not going to get stuck here in Hopeless, Nevada, teaching sex workshops to the elderly. Or to anyone. Hell, she didn’t even know that much about sex, not really. That is, she
knew
about it. She’d known all the basics since she’d come to live with Aunt Tam. At age fifteen she’d accidentally overheard a snippet of Annabella’s workshop on “Nurturing the Lotus Root,” often referred to as “blowjob class.” Once she’d opened the silverware drawer and found a misplaced vibrator.

Sex was everywhere at the Haven. The Goddesses were always talking about how ­people shouldn’t be so “uptight” about sex, that it was no big deal.
If it was no big deal,
she’d asked,
why are you always talking about it?
In self-­defense, she’d done the equivalent of putting her fingers in her ears and saying “lalalala.” She had adopted black as her signature color since hippies didn’t wear it. And she’d somehow managed to scare off all the boys. They all thought she must be ultra-­experienced since she lived at the Haven. They’d never guessed that while she knew about the
mechanics
of sex, she still didn’t understand what the fuss was all about.

But then that kiss with Patrick had happened. Or was it a kiss? Maybe his face had just accidentally gotten too close to hers. Maybe he had no idea how much that brief meeting of lips had affected her. That one shiver of contact felt as if it had changed the chemical composition of her body, turned it from an ordinary lump of flesh to something fiery and magical. As if he were some kind of alchemist.

Abandoning the ledger, Lara lay back on a pile of Indian print pillows decorated with glinting sequins. It felt decadent to relax like this. She never relaxed anymore, not since she’d started med school. Her eyes drifted shut, lulled by the fountain. Again the look in Patrick’s eyes as he’d cradled her face flashed across her vision, bringing a flush of heat.

Aunt Tam had always told her that her sexual side would awaken one day.

“So then I’ll finally get it?” she’d asked. “I’ll know why all these ­people get so obsessed and spend all this money to improve their sex lives?”

“Exactly, Lulu,” Tam had said. “Until then, don’t worry about it. Just enjoy where you are.”

But until now it hadn’t happened, even though she tried sex in college, then again with a fellow med student, then again with a guy in her condo complex, just to make sure. She’d even tried kissing a girl, but hadn’t gotten very far with that. As a medically trained professional who followed scientific principles, the conclusion seemed obvious: she just didn’t like sex.

But then . . . that kiss. She thought about Patrick’s piercing blue eyes, his muscled chest, and the way he moved in his snug, worn jeans, with that hip-­swaying, hypnotic half swagger. A bolt of desire struck her midsection with such power that her eyes flew open and she sat upright.

She looked wildly around the room, as if something had actually slammed into her. What was going on? Why couldn’t she put one little maybe-­kiss with one annoying former friend out of her mind?

The Buddha of Compassion and the goddess Kuan-­Yin were no help with their peaceful, blank expressions. The fountain chimed in, of course; it had something soothing to say in water language. Lara put her hand to her lower belly, which still tingled. Now she remembered; she’d felt this before. That Christmas, when Patrick had changed from Liam’s older brother to . . . fascinating guy who made her body parts tingle. Oh, crap. Now the attraction was back, stronger than ever.

And she’d driven him away. Where were the Goddesses when she needed them?

Half an hour
later, having completely given up on the idea of sorting out the Haven’s problems, Lara drove her rental car into town. Often the Goddesses hit the local pubs after the movies. As Janey put it, “We need to work off the extra testosterone.”

She pulled up outside the Love ’Em and Leave ’Em Saloon but saw no sign of the old maroon Cadillac the Goddesses used for group outings. The movie probably hadn’t ended yet. She hesitated. Did she dare walk into a Loveless bar by herself? How many old high school acquaintances would she run into? Would they all be as nasty to her as Dean had been?

Hey, she could take it. She’d lived through it in high school, and nothing could be worse than that.

Steeling her nerve, she stepped into the still-­hot night, clicked the lock on her rental car, and marched into the tavern. Darkness, sprinkled with a few flashes of neon, greeted her. She paused just inside the door, waiting until her eyes adjusted to the lack of light. What she could see, once things came into focus, wasn’t exactly reassuring. The place was packed, customers three deep at the bar and all the small round tables filled. An unnerving number of faces turned in her direction.

Surreptitiously, she checked her outfit. Jeans and a scoop-­necked white T-­shirt that she’d always thought flattered her curves, along with an amber necklace that made her eyes sparkle, or so Aunt Tam had told her. Modest by the standards before her; the prevailing skirt length seemed to be a half inch away from porn. Maybe she was overdressed?

She sighed. Nothing changed. She’d never manage to get it right in Loveless. Soldiering forward, she made her way toward the bar. Was it her imagination or were ­people parting before her, clearing her a path? No, it was definitely true. By the time she got to the bar, an empty stool was waiting for her. What was going on? Casting a suspicious glance at the nearby customers, she picked up no clues from their blank expressions. She looked at the stool, checking for sticky stuff or whoopee cushions, then scolded herself. This wasn’t third grade.

Even though she wasn’t normally much of a drinker, she could use one right about now. Sliding onto the bar stool, she looked defiantly at the bartender, a leathery, weather-­beaten man in his sixties.

“Vodka on the rocks,” she told him. “With lots of lime.” At least she’d get some vitamin C along with her alcohol.

Without expression, he poured the drink with quick, practiced movements, slapped a coaster on the scratched surface of the bar, and slid the drink to her. She reached for her purse, but he shook his head.

“On the house.”

It had to be some kind of trick. “What do you mean?”

“We’re real grateful for what you did out there on the fire. You saved Doc Sanderson’s life.”

A murmur of assent rippled through the bar crowd.

“I did?” Dr. Sanderson, she vaguely remembered, was the popular and beloved town vet.

“He’d volunteered himself for fire duty. Member of the National Guard and all. He got some bones broken when a tree fell on him. Heard you helped get him out.”

“Oh. Well, I didn’t do that much, really.”

The bartender pushed the drink closer to her. “I doubt you’ll be paying for a drink in this town for the next year.”

Still uncomprehending, she glanced at the ­people around her, now spotting friendly smiles and even a few familiar faces. There was Mr. Tremaine, her tenth grade biology teacher and coach of the track team. He winked at her, just as he’d always done with his favorite runners.

And was that Amy Mulligan, standing and lifting her glass? Amy had given her the nickname Lusty Lara, which wasn’t particularly clever but still managed to ruin junior year. The worst part was that she’d voted for Amy for student body president.

Apparently Amy still had leadership qualities. “To Lara Nelson. Thanks, hon, for helping us out,” she called over the crowd.

“Hear, hear,” came a rumble of voices from all corners of the bar.

“We’re proud of you,” said someone she didn’t recognize.

Had she stepped into some bizarre alternate universe time warp? Not only high school enemies but total strangers were saying nice things to her? It didn’t compute.

Only one thing for it. She lifted her glass of vodka, tilted it to the crowd, and downed it.

Patrick cruised into
Loveless around midnight. Too late to show up at the ranch, especially since no one knew he was coming. He figured the news would go over better if it was a done deal. No giving his father time to post guards at the gates, the way he’d done after the accident. No giving his mother a chance to talk him out of it. He’d sleep in the Hulk, as he had plenty of times before, and in the morning show up on his family’s doorstep, give Goldie a snuggle, and get to work.

But tonight he needed to relax after the long drive. A game of darts at the Love ’Em and Leave ’Em would do it. He found a parking spot around the corner from Loveless’s most popular night spot and strolled down the boardwalk until he reached the familiar door of the bar where he’d spent many a night ruining the Callahan family reputation.

The Love ’Em and Leave ’Em was the water cooler of Loveless. If you wanted to know the town gossip, you’d hear it here first. If you wanted to make a statement, you came here. From old cowboys to young manicurists, everyone drank at the Love ’Em. Unless the town had turned against you, in which case you’d be tossed out on your ass.

No one paid attention to him as he pushed the door open and stepped inside. At the bar, he noticed a knot of men clustered around one particular stool. Maybe a celebrity had dropped in for a cold one. A local rodeo star might be paying a visit, or Matthew McConaughey could have returned for another round after that epic night back in the nineties.

He craned his neck, but all he made out was a long, curvy, jeans-­clad leg hooked onto the rung of the stool. So a woman was causing this stir. She wore little bronze sandals that showed off tidy, unpainted toenails. Sexy, but unusual; the women of Loveless went through a lot of nail polish, as he recalled. So maybe this woman wasn’t a local. Increasingly curious, he wound his way through the tables to get closer.

Then, through the interwoven hum of the crowd, the throaty strand of the mystery woman’s voice shone through. He felt the impact at the base of his spine, in his cock. Holy fuck, was it Lara? What was she doing here? She didn’t drink, let alone socialize with the citizens of Loveless. In a hurry now, he bobbed his head this way and that, aiming for a clear visual.

And there she was, a white T-­shirted goddess gracing a Loveless dive with her presence. Her thick blond hair tumbled down her back in a freewheeling riot. She perched on the edge of the stool, one hand carelessly clutching a glass, the other flinging gestures into the air like confetti. Her eyes glowed like flaming whiskey; she looked like a lioness in tight jeans. No one could look away.