Which he didn’t.
“Oh, hey, babe!” McCullough’s run-of-the-mill smile became something altogether deeper in less than the span of a heartbeat at the sight of Capelli. “Yeah. She’s scrappy, and she talks a good game, but Faurier’s kicking her ass pretty good at eight-ball.”
“That’s definitely accurate on all counts,” Capelli agreed. “But as far as her getting too personal with him, I don’t think you have anything to worry about. I just overheard her telling Quinn she’d rather be skinned alive with kitchen shears than date a fellow firefighter.”
Gamble’s brows lifted to match the huh winging through his veins, and he slid another glance at the spot where de Costa now stood talking to Station Seventeen’s lead paramedic. “I’m assuming that’s a direct quote,” he said.
Capelli sent an ultra-serious look past his thickly framed glasses. “I have an eidetic memory, Lieutenant. Not to put too fine a point on it, but yes, any time I quote someone, it’s exact.”
McCullough laughed, clearly used to and enamored with the guy’s quirks. “Looks like DC’s virtue is safe. Even if her pride isn’t,” she added. Spinning her gaze back to Gamble, she said, “You coming over for a game? I’m not nearly as bad at eight-ball as de Costa. Bet I could take you.”
“Nah. Not tonight.”
“You sure?” Surprise mixed with the slight hint of worry on her face. “You’ve been sitting here by yourself for almost an hour.”
Ah, hell. He’d nearly gone to a shitty dive bar instead of their regular hangout for this very reason. Firefighters were a perceptive bunch, their lives depending on it and all. He probably shouldn’t be shocked that McCullough had noticed the personal-space bubble he’d created around himself. The two of them were fairly tight, with her having the most tenure on engine besides him. On any other night, he would’ve taken her up on her challenge, then had to keep every last one of his wits about him to try and beat her. But tonight wasn’t any other night. It was the only night out of the year when his fire house family wasn’t enough to dull his memories.
Five had gone out. One had come back. The only thing that could dull the anniversary of that came in a shot glass and clocked in at eighty proof.
“Yeah. I’m sure,” Gamble said. “I’ve got something to take care of over here.”
Whether McCullough believed him or had decided to let him off the hook, he couldn’t be sure, but either way, she simply shrugged. “Suit yourself, chicken.”
“That’s Lieutenant Chicken to you,” Gamble reminded her.
“Oooh, I kind of like the sound of that.” When he skewered her with the most “don’t you dare” stare he could work up, she grinned and—smartly—reconsidered. “But maybe I’ll stick with good, old-fashioned Gamble, just for the sake of tradition…and not being assigned to scrub the fire house toilets with a toothbrush during next shift.”
“You’re in love with a smart woman,” Gamble told Capelli, who finally allowed a smile to sneak a half-path over his mouth.
“I’m well aware of her aptitude.”
“Aw, flattery will get you everywhere, baby,” McCullough said with a laugh. She took a step back, letting Capelli thread his arm around her shoulders before turning back to give Gamble one last smile. “You know where we’ll be if you change your mind.”
Gamble lifted his chin in acknowledgment. “Copy that.”
Watching the two of them head back toward the pool table, he couldn’t help but shake his head a little at the idea of a relationship that deep. Sexual attraction, he got. A couple of hot-sex hookups here and there to satisfy said attraction? He got those, too. But the sort of no-holds-barred love that McCullough and Capelli and a few other members of Seventeen had tumbled into lately seemed as alien to him as little green men, complete with flying saucers and moon dust.
People swore they saw that shit; hell, they believed it in their bones. But as far as he was concerned, they were all fucking crazy.
“Well, well. Lieutenant Gamble. Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”
The throaty, feminine voice hit Gamble point-blank from the business end of the bar, and God damn it, he must have more of a beer buzz than he’d thought. He was almost always hyper-aware of his surroundings—especially when they involved someone as sexy as Kennedy Matthews. Yet, here she was in front of him, wearing a form-fitting red top and a brash, brows-up stare, and for a fleeting second, he wondered if her smile tasted as tart as it looked.
“If you say so,” he told her, while snuffing out the unbidden thought. Not that he hadn’t entertained it dozens of times before, or thought about tasting Kennedy in places other than her mouth. But as the manager and head bartender of their regular hangout, she was almost as much a part of his inner circle as his fellow firefighters, and—like his rookie—Gamble knew far better than to muddy that water with a good, fast fuck. “Can I get another beer, please?”
Kennedy’s darkly lined eyes widened for just a heartbeat before narrowing over the frost-covered bottle in his hand, the piercing in her eyebrow glinting in the soft overhead light of the bar.
“That one is nearly full.”
“Not for long.” He was already on his way to a decent beer buzz, courtesy of the bartender who had been working this section of the bar before Kennedy had come out of the back. He’d stick to beer for now to keep a low profile. Once everyone from Seventeen started heading home in a little while, he’d kick his night into high gear.
Kennedy paused. She was tougher than she looked, which was saying something since she had as much ink and even more hardware than Gamble did, with a watercolor tattoo that spanned from the middle of her bicep to her shoulder and the top of her chest, and tiny silver studs and hoops marching all the way up her left ear to match the piercing in her eyebrow. But he returned her calculating stare with one of his own, until she lifted one sleekly muscled shoulder and let it drop.
“It’s your liver, tough guy.”
She reached into the cooler built in beneath the bar, popping the cap off the beer she’d unearthed and placing it over a napkin on the glossy wood in front of him before turning to saunter off. Gamble watched her go, his eyes lingering on the way her ass filled out her jeans like a fuckable version of an upside-down heart. He couldn’t deny being tempted. Shit, he’d have to be pulseless not to be. But even if he did decide to break his personal protocol and see if Kennedy was up for blowing off a little steam between the sheets, it wouldn’t be tonight.
Tonight wasn’t about anything other than him, a bottle of Patrón Platinum, and the ghosts he’d never shake.
Acknowledgments
Huge, heartfelt thanks go out to my cover dream team—Christopher John (CJC Photography), who shot a perfect “Xander” photo of Eric Guilmette, and Shannon Passmore (Shanoff Designs), who turned it into cover gold. I hope everyone judges this book by its cover! Nicole Bailey (Proof Before You Publish), you are a saint for keeping my grammar in line, my timelines on the straight and narrow, and my words as they should be.
To Rachel Hamilton and Jen Williams, who beta read even when things were ugly. Thank you for not letting me end this book with a tidal wave that engulfs them all, the end.
To my readers—I see you, Taste Testers!—thank you for wanting more from Remington, and for reading each book so eagerly every time.
To my family (whether were related or not, you know who you are), I cannot get through a single day without your support, hugs, advice, encouragement, more hugs, and wine. And to D and the girls (yes, Olive, you, too), y’all are my whole heart. I love you more.
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The Rookie: A Romantic Suspense Standalone (The Intelligence Unit Book 1) Page 14