“Because that’s what all the ladies call you?” She leaned into his personal space, reminding herself it wasn’t real. It was a set up. A role she played. Jax needed a hefty dose of karma, and she fully intended to deliver. Nothing more.
“The ladies?” He raked a hand through his dirty blond hair. Interesting. Jackson Hart was nervous. She was sure of it. After all, how many times had she watched him do the very same thing as a kid? His hair was shorter now, cropped close on the sides with an artfully messy spike on top, but that gesture? It hadn’t changed at all. “I just moved back to town. So, yeah, no ladies.”
“No ladies yet,” she said, correcting him with a growing level of confidence. Pressing her body against his, she snaked a hand up his arm. “Which means you’re all mine.”
“These guys might have something to say about that,” he teased, hooking a thumb over his shoulder at his buddies.
“I’m really not interested in what they think.” Licking her lips suggestively, she kept her eyes fixed on him, pretending he was the only man she had eyes for in the crowded bar. Guys liked to feel important, too, right? And really, she didn’t give a crap about his friends. They were definitely not part of the plan. “But I’ll make this easy for you, Jax. Me and you. Saturday night. Eight o’clock. Co.”
Chapter Two
Jax studied the sexy brunette who’d come right at him, asking him out without knowing a damn thing about him. They’d only talked for what, five minutes? Were all women in New York this forward? He’d had his fair share of dates in Boston, but no woman had ever approached him so brazenly. It was kind of hot.
Fuck. It was hot.
Dressed in a thin white blouse and a tailored black leather jacket, she looked like she’d come from work. And while she’d come on strong, her confidence was a real turn-on. He was intrigued to say the least. But a date? When not twenty minutes ago he’d been thinking about Frankie?
It didn’t feel right.
“Co.?” he asked, stalling for time to sort out his thoughts.
“Best pie in Manhattan,” she said, arching her brow. “It’s a few blocks over, on the corner of Ninth Avenue. You do like pizza, right?”
“Of course. What self-respecting New Yorker doesn’t like pizza?” He took a pull on his beer. “Best pizza in Manhattan, huh? I thought Grimaldi’s held that title.”
“Grimaldi’s is good,” Becca agreed with a smirk, totally at ease and exuding confidence. “If you don’t mind waiting in line with all the tourists for a couple of hours.”
A smile pulled at his lips. The woman had spirit. That was for damn sure. “It would give us a chance to get to know one another better.”
“I know enough,” she returned, her dark eyes shining with mischief. “For now.”
“Oh, really?” he challenged. Why exactly had she come over here anyway? The bar was filled with men, so what had made her choose him? It wasn’t unusual for women to chase guys on the job, but there was nothing to give away his profession, and this definitely wasn’t the kind of place firefighters normally drank after a shift. “All right, then. Why don’t you tell me what you think you know?”
“You’re new in town, but you’re a diehard Rangers fan, judging by the wear and tear on your T-shirt. You have good taste in pizza, you like a woman who can hold up her end of a conversation, and you were raised right, as evidenced by your impeccable manners.” She moved in close, once again crowding him with her curvy body. How the hell was he supposed to think when she was so close he could inhale her perfume, a sweet musky scent that made him want to find out if she tasted as good as she smelled? “And strange women make you nervous.”
She’d missed the mark with that last one. “Actually, it’s beautiful women that make me nervous.” And she was beautiful. With long, dark waves spilling over her shoulders and eyes the color of bourbon, she had a wildness about her that called to him like a siren, begging to be tamed. The way her full lower lip curved when she smiled? It was torture. He could think of nothing but sucking on it, of tasting her. But looks would only carry them so far. She was smart, too. The more she talked, the more he wanted to take her up on that date. Guilt gnawed at his gut. “What gave it away?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” She threw her head back and laughed, tempting him with the long line of her neck. His pulse thundered in response, and he shifted on his stool, his jeans growing tight. “Seriously, what fun would it be if I told you all my secrets?”
“Remind me to never play poker with you.”
“I like to save the games for the second date,” she assured him, squeezing his shoulder. “So, do we have a first date?”
That was the million-dollar question, wasn’t it? The only thing stopping him was Frankie. He scrubbed a hand over his face, questioning the likelihood of finding her single and interested. After all, it had been ten years. Ten years since he’d stood her up and left town without so much as an explanation.
Hell, she might not even remember him. The valentine she’d tucked in his bag had meant the world to him, but who knew if it had meant the same to her? And even if he did find Frankie, there was every possibility she wouldn’t want to see him after what he’d done. For all he knew, she was married with children, since he’d been too much of a chicken-shit to even call and explain things to her. But, really, what could he have said? He’d always tried to keep the Mancinis from knowing how bad his home life was. The last thing he wanted was their pity. Which was exactly why he never imagined a nice girl like Frankie would give him the time of day back then.
So, yeah, there was a beautiful woman standing in front of him right now, and they had off the charts chemistry. He’d be stupid not to explore it. Besides, it was just one date. Pizza. Nothing fancy. Nothing long term. What could it hurt?
“On one condition,” he finally agreed, turning his stool so they were face to face, his knee pressed to her thigh. “Dinner’s on me. I’m a bit old fashioned that way.”
“It’s a date then,” Becca agreed, extending her hand palm up. “Let me see your phone. I’ll put my number in just in case something comes up.”
He handed her his phone, more than happy to take her number although nothing was going to stop him from showing up at Co. on Saturday night. In fact, he was looking forward to spending more time with Becca. They’d just met, but he felt as if he’d known her forever.
When she finished entering her number, she returned the phone. Their fingers brushed lightly, sending a jolt of electricity straight to his gut. His cock stirred with interest.
Becca must’ve felt it, too. She hesitated for a moment—as if making a snap decision—then she set his world on fire. Her lips descended upon him, gentle at first, but growing more demanding as they moved in unison—demanding and unapologetic. Not giving a damn who was watching, she crushed her lips to his, her tongue caressing his lower lip as she breathed new life into him. When she finally pulled away, he was breathless.
Fucking. Breathless.
“Not that I’m complaining,” he said, struggling to keep up with the sexy little temptress who had just rocked his world, inspiring a round of cheers from the guys. “But what the hell was that?”
“Consider it foreplay.” Spinning on her heel, she winked at him over her shoulder and headed for the door. Apparently playtime was over. For now. She made it three steps before turning to face him again. “And, Jax? Don’t be late on Saturday. I’ve never been very good at waiting.”
…
Jax arrived at Co. ten minutes before eight. In his line of work, it was always better to be early. And there was no way he was going to be late for his date with Becca. Not after that scorching kiss and her parting words. The last thing he wanted to do was leave that sexy little firecracker waiting. Hell, it was just good manners. It also gave him a chance to check the place out since he wasn’t familiar with the Chelsea neighborhood.
Co. had a chill vibe, and he was always down for pizza, but communal dining? Not what he would have picked
for their first date, since the idea was to talk and get to know one another, but the place was busy and the food looked good. He checked in with the hostess, requesting a table for two, and stepped out front to wait for Becca. As a kid he’d rarely travelled across the bridge to Manhattan, but lately he found himself doing it regularly. Not that he minded. It gave him a much-needed opportunity to familiarize himself with one of the other four boroughs.
A light spring breeze ruffled his hair, carrying the scent of freshly baked bread. His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since lunch. With the day off, he’d been busting his ass to get furniture and other basic essentials to make his place livable. Crashing at the station was fine, but there was something to be said for having a place to call his own, where he could leave the job behind and unwind.
He checked his watch. Eight o’clock and no sign of Becca. She was probably just running late. No big deal, since their table wasn’t ready anyway. Funny thing was, despite his focus on reconnecting with Frankie and explaining things to her, he was really looking forward to seeing Becca again. And not just because of those soft lips, although he’d be more than happy to taste them again.
With her quick wit and easy laughter, she was exactly the kind of woman he’d enjoy spending time with when he wasn’t on the clock. He loved the job, but it could take its toll—long hours, a shit ton of stress, and highs and lows that could wring a man ragged. The trick, he’d been told, was finding balance. Not that he could speak to it firsthand, since he had no family of his own to turn to when things got tough. But somehow he managed.
Always had, always would.
“Mr. Hart?”
Jax turned to find the petite hostess who’d taken his name.
“Your table is ready, sir.” She glanced up and down the sidewalk. “Has the rest of your party arrived?”
He did a quick time check. Ten after eight. Still no Becca. Shit. “Unfortunately, my date is running a few minutes late. Would it be possible to give the table to the next party and check back when another one becomes available?”
“Sure, no problem,” she agreed with a practiced smile. “Unfortunately, we can’t seat you until everyone in your party is here, but we can keep you on the list.”
“Thanks,” he said, forcing a smile of his own. Turning the corner, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and called Becca. A few swipes later, the line was ringing, but there was no answer.
“Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice messaging system. The number you have called, two-one-two…” Jax sighed. Voicemail. When the line beeped, he left a brief message and jammed the phone back in his pocket. It was too early to worry. She was probably just out of reach. Of course, it seemed unlikely, given the entire city, including the subway, was wired. But she’d show. He was sure of it. After the kiss they’d shared? How could she not? Hell, he couldn’t have stayed away if he tried. Whatever was simmering between them, it was burning red-hot.
Ten minutes. He’d give her ten more minutes, or until the next table became available, whichever came first.
Jax paced up and down the sidewalk, feeling more and more like an asshole with each minute that passed. Where the hell was Becca, and why hadn’t she called? He hoped she was okay.
When the hostess appeared again with a stack of menus and a tentative smile, his stomach dropped. Becca wasn’t coming. She’d played him.
And like a complete asshole, he’d let her.
...
The next couple of days passed in a blur. Things at the station were quiet, and after working a forty-eight hour shift, he was looking forward to a few days off. Getting blown off by Becca still chafed, but it wasn’t the end of the world. He barely knew her, and while he had no idea what had possessed her to ask him out and stand him up, it reinforced his need to make things right with Frankie.
Jax climbed the stairs at the station two at a time and joined the rest of the crew in the kitchen. O’Rourke, the resident chef and shameless Chopped fanatic, was on duty, and something smelled damn good. The guys were gathered around the table, chanting “Chow, chow, chow,” a sure sign dinner was running late and they were getting hungry.
“What are we eating?” he asked, taking a seat at the end of the table.
“Something special tonight,” O’Rourke bragged, pulling a tray of marinated chicken breasts from the oven. “This little recipe is from Guy Fieri. It’s got a kick that’s gonna—”
“Turn up the radio!” Anderson called from the other end of the table, where his chair was tipped back against the window. “This is some funny shit. These women give a fake number to creepy guys they meet at bars, and the station plays the messages on air. Can you imagine being one of these losers?”
No, he really couldn’t. Twisting in his seat, Jax turned up the volume on the docking station speaker. Station rules were simple when it came to dinner. Everyone ate, and there was no television allowed, but the radio was fair game.
“All right, ladies, looks like we had a busy weekend on the Loser Line. It’s days like this I’m glad I’ve got balls. I don’t know how you all do it,” said the smooth voice of the radio intern. There was a loud beep, and then the messages began to play. Anderson was right. Some of them were downright tragic. But one in particular captured his rapt attention. And the attention of everyone else gathered around the table.
“Hey, Becca. This is Jax. Jackson *beep*. We met at Stout the other night. Anyway, I’m here at Co. and it’s about ten after eight. Not sure if I got the time wrong, but I thought we agreed to meet at eight. I’ll hang around for another fifteen minutes or so, but if you get this message, hit me back. Hope to see you soon.”
“Get the fuck out of town!” Anderson bellowed, slamming the legs of his chair down. “Was that you, Lieutenant?”
What. The. Fuck.
Jax’s temper flared. His face burned, and he could feel the flush creeping down his neck as molten lava pumped through his veins. There was no denying it. It was pretty damn obvious it was him. It was bad enough Becca had played him. Now it was on the fucking radio for the entire world to hear? The situation had gone from bad to worse. The guys were never going to let him live this down.
“Whoa! That’s some coldhearted shit,” O’Rourke said, wiping his hands on his apron. “Did that chick from the bar really blow you off? That’s too bad. She was smokin’ hot.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said, clenching his fists so tight the skin over his knuckles turned white. “Ever.”
Talk about utter humiliation. The guys would be busting his balls until the end of time.
“Looks like we got our very own Hartbreak Kid in the company!” McCoy chimed in. The guys roared with laughter.
Sonofabitch.
They’d found his nickname.
Chapter Three
Becca wiped down the bar at Mancini’s, thankful for the Sunday afternoon rush. She didn’t mind helping out her parents at the restaurant on the weekends, and the frenetic pace of the early dinner crowd allowed her to mute her guilty conscience, if only for a couple of hours.
Sort of.
She’d spent the last week trying to justify what she’d done to Jax, and try as she might, she couldn’t stop thinking about that stupid kiss. Or how she’d stood him up on Saturday night. What the hell had she been thinking? It was so unlike her. And that kiss. Sweet Jesus. She’d felt his lips on hers the rest of the night. Had fallen asleep thinking about them. Had found herself a sweaty, aroused mess as she thrashed around in bed, unable to get him out of her head as the throbbing between her legs intensified, demanding release.
It was a mistake. Pure and simple. Okay, maybe not so pure. Or simple, for that matter. But kissing him? She hadn’t meant to do that. Impulse had taken over and, well, she just had to know what it was like. Just once.
And damn if it didn’t live up to ten years of unfulfilled fantasies.
No, actually, it was better. The real life Jax was all hard lines and sex appeal, s
omething the sixteen-year-old kid she remembered couldn’t touch. The way his tongue had mated with hers? There was no doubt the man knew how to take a woman and claim her as his own.
She sighed. Not the point. Jackson Hart wouldn’t be claiming her. Ever.
Too bad they still had the same old chemistry, which had shocked the hell out of her when their lips touched. If anything, it seemed to have intensified, burning hotter than it had when they were kids. And that ticked her off even more. After all, how could she possibly be attracted to such an ass? Clearly her ovaries were not a good judge of character.
To make matters worse, the radio station had actually aired his voicemail, kicking her Catholic guilt up to a whole new level of self-loathing.
Only, he had deserved it, hadn’t he?
She groaned and dropped her rag in the sink. Time to focus on something else. Jackson Hart was not getting one more second of her time. Besides, what was done was done. Not like she’d ever see him again anyway, right? Quinn would just have to find a new place for happy hour. No big deal.
Exactly. Ten years from now, the whole scene at Stout will be a distant memory…just like the broken date.
Grabbing an empty tray, she headed to the kitchen for more glasses. Was it her imagination or were they going through more than usual? She ran her eyes down the bar, noting that nearly every stool was filled, most of them with women. Single women. Single women who were no doubt there for the sole purpose of flirting with Christopher.
How many of them had he hooked up with? He was her brother, and she loved him dearly, but he was a manwhore if she’d ever seen one. At least the women knew the deal. It would be hard not to, since he made no secret of it. Although she wasn’t crazy about his lifestyle, she respected his honesty. Given the choice between Heartbreak Hotel, population one, and the cold, hard truth, she’d take the latter any day of the week. After all, there was nothing worse than getting swept up in romance only to be left out by the curb while your boyfriend—the one who said he’d always be there for you—eloped to Niagara Falls with his lab partner.
Seducing the Fireman (Risky Business) Page 2