see her as a desirable woman and not the fat chick always snapping pictures for the high school yearbook. Okay, so his dick had noticed. But not his head. Or his heart.
The parts that mattered to her.
No, no, no. This wasn’t about heads or hearts. She was leaving in a few weeks. He was staying. All it was about—all it ever could be about—was down-and-dirty, no-strings-attached, good-enough-to-last-the-rest-of-your-lifetime sex.
Too bad he didn’t see it that way.
With jerky movements, she unbuttoned the borrowed jersey. “See you around. Good luck with Sasha. She doesn’t strike me as a woman who takes ‘no’ lying down.”
“Ivy, wait...”
But she’d waited long enough for Cade Hardesty. Sixteen years, to be exact, since grade school, when she’d started to notice things about her brother’s best buddy. Like his full, firm, oh-so-kissable lips and his solid-looking chest with the dusting of hair she saw when he took his shirt off in the summer and God, oh, God, the vee at his hips pointing to nirvana that made her brain freeze.
Her palms sweaty, she took off his shirt, balled it up and threw it at him, leaving her half-naked in her sports bra. But he sure as hell didn’t care, and neither did she. “Here. I’d offer to wash it, but I’m sure you’ll find some other friend to help you out.”
Before he could respond, she’d gotten out of the SUV, slammed the door shut and was heading up the stone walkway to the front door. She fumbled for her keys and heard gravel spin out from under his tires as he backed out of the driveway then sped off down the street.
She almost laughed at the irony of it. She’d just dumped a man who refused to go out with her.
IF HE LIVED to be a hundred, Cade would never understand women. Especially one feisty, curvy redhead who’d been taking up way too much space in his brain the past few weeks.
All he’d said was the truth. They were friends. Was it so wrong that he didn’t want to risk their relationship for a night of doing the horizontal mambo? Even if, based on the heat generated by their kisses, it would probably be the stuff sexual legends were made of.
He shook his head and reached for the extra virgin olive oil. It was his turn to cook for the squad, and he was trying pasta with clam sauce. Maybe focusing on his culinary skills—or lack thereof—would take his mind off how Ivy’s lips felt on his, soft and sensuous, or how goddamn hard he’d gotten when she’d raked her nails down his back.
He tossed some minced garlic into the pan and stirred it with a wooden spoon, but his thoughts kept spinning back to Ivy and the scene in her driveway. She should be flattered that their friendship meant more to him than a night of meaningless, albeit mind-blowing, sex, not pissed off and refusing to return his calls or texts.
Unless what she had in mind was more than a meaningless one-night stand...
“What’s burning?” Cappy barked. “We’re supposed to put out fires, not start them.”
“Shit.” Cade pulled the pan off the burner and stared at the charred bits of garlic.
Cappy wrinkled his nose. “Please tell me that wasn’t dinner.”
“It was.” Cade strode to the sink, turned on the faucet and stuck the pan underneath. “Good news is it’s not too late to start over.”
“What’s with you lately, son?” Cappy grabbed a bottle of water out of the fridge and sat down at the enormous oak slab table with the station’s logo embossed in the center that took up most of the firehouse kitchen. “Your head hasn’t been in the game since the Battle of the Badges. You’re not still upset we lost, are you?”
“Nah.”
“O’Brien still bugging you? I can give him a verbal warning.”
“Not necessary, Cap.” Cade finished rinsing the pan, stuck it back on the stove and began chopping fresh garlic. “We’re cool.”
As “cool” as they were going to get, unless O’Brien made another crack about Ivy. Then all bets were off.
Cappy cracked open his water bottle and took a sip. “If work’s not the problem, it must be something at home. You got woman trouble? Maybe one of those gals at the game?”
The knife slipped in Cade’s hand, almost slicing off the tip of his index finger. Jesus Christ. Did they have to talk about this now? Or ever?
“Look, Hardesty,” Cappy continued. Apparently they did have to talk about this. “You’re one of my best men. But you’re no good to me or anyone else in the company stumbling around like something out of The Walking Dead.”
A stab of guilt pierced Cade in the gut. Cappy was right. Cade was damn lucky the most serious call they’d had in the past week was from a lady whose five-year-old somehow got her head stuck between the toilet and the wall. With the way he’d been acting, he’d have risked his own life and the lives of all his brothers in arms in an actual fire.
He put down the knife and turned to his captain. “I’m sorry. I’ll pull my head out of my ass, I promise.”
“See that you do.” Cappy gave him a dismissive nod, indicating the conversation was blessedly over, and Cade turned back to the garlic.
“Do what?” O’Brien came in from the engine bay, followed by Sykes and Hansen, B Company’s paramedics. “Cook dinner without burning it? Smells like it’s too late for that.”
“Lay off.” Cappy pushed his chair back and stood, slapping a palm on the table. “Let the man work.”
They disappeared, leaving Cade to mince and dice in peace. About half an hour later, just as he was pouring the sauce over the pasta, the alarm blared.
“Figures,” he muttered, shoving an uncovered bowl of salad into the fridge. “I knew we’d never get to eat it hot. It smelled too damn good.”
He dropped the now-empty pan into the sink, double-checked the burners to make sure they were off and raced to the lockers, where the rest of the crew was already jumping into their turnout gear.
“What’s the deal?” O’Brien asked as he pulled on his boots.
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