Seducing the Fireman (Risky Business)

by Jennifer Bonds

  Sadly, getting stood up on her first date by her big brother’s best friend wasn’t even the worst of her craptastic luck with the male species. No, it was a just a fitting start to a dating history that would be almost comedic if it weren’t her real life. She’d figured out a long time ago the Mancini men were the only men in her life who would stick.

  And that was why she never went on more than three dates with the same guy. Well, that and the fact that date number four inevitably ended in disaster.

  Grabbing two trays of glasses from the dishwasher—there was no such thing as too many glasses when Christopher was at the bar—she shuffled back to the front, cursing her unused gym membership. Using her backside, she pushed the kitchen door open.

  When she looked up, Jackson Hart was standing at the bar looking right at home.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  This could not be happening. But, yeah, it really was. There stood Jax, in all his god-like glory, with that strong jaw and sexy grin, giving Christopher a run for his money with the ladies.

  Hastily swinging back around into the kitchen, she crashed into one of the servers, nearly dropping the trays in the process.

  “Sorry,” she muttered, keeping her head down as if Jax’s x-ray vision could spot her through the swinging door. She slid the trays onto a prep table and wiped her hands on the front of her apron.

  In the ten years since he’d blown town, he hadn’t called, emailed, or visited Christopher. Hell, they weren’t even Facebook friends. So what was Jax doing at Mancini’s?

  Only one way to find out. She tiptoed up to the door and peeked through the window. He and Christopher were doing some weird dude handshake and chatting it up, apparently making up for lost time.

  Men.

  Christopher pointed to the kitchen, and she leaped away from the door, pressing her back to the wall and desperately hoping they hadn’t seen her.

  “Eh, Frankie!” he yelled. “Get your butt out here. You’re never gonna believe who just moved back to the old neighborhood!”

  Double damn.

  Trapped. She was trapped. Her pulse thundered in her ears, drowning out the raucous sounds of the kitchen staff as they plated lasagnas and baked ziti and chicken scallopini. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.

  No.

  That wasn’t true.

  Becca marched straight to the walk-in and locked herself inside. It was the only place to find privacy in the cozy restaurant. It was also the only soundproof place to vent.

  Sucking in a deep, chilly breath, she let it rip, screaming out her frustration at the top of her lungs.

  Much. Better.

  When her throat had gone hoarse and her heart rate had settled from imminent cardiac arrest to what felt like a normal rhythm, she paced the tiny cooler, eyeballing the white chocolate parfait. Dessert made everything better. Maybe she could find the answer to her problems at the bottom of a nice Tiramisu cup. Her hand reached for the sweet treat of its own volition before she yanked it back with a frustrated sigh.

  No spoons in the cooler.

  Besides, there wasn’t time for dessert. She needed to figure this out.

  Fast.

  What was she going to do? It had become painfully obvious she hadn’t thought this little revenge game all the way through. If she had, she might’ve thought to ask Jax where he was living, instead of just assuming it was Manhattan because he’d been drinking at a stupid bar near The Garden. After all, she made the trip across the bridge five days a week herself.

  One city. Five boroughs. Eight million people. What were the freaking odds? Clearly they were stacked, and not in her favor. The assumption that ten years of radio silence proved Jax’s time with her family meant less to him than it had to them? Yeah, apparently that one had missed the mark too.

  You know what they say about assuming.

  Giving herself a face palm, she leaned against the door of the walk-in, the cold metal sending a trail of goose bumps down her back. There was only one option. She needed to own this. So she’d played Jax. It wasn’t that big of a deal. It was certainly no worse than what he’d done to her. No, it was time to stuff those guilty feelings down so deep they’d never see the light of day.

  Straightening her spine and pulling herself up to her full height, she popped the door open and headed for the bar, a fake smile plastered on her face.

  “Where you been, Frankie?” Christopher asked, throwing a towel over his shoulder. “Didn’t you hear me calling you? Never mind. You’re never gonna believe who’s here. You remember Jackson?”

  “How could I forget?” She crossed her arms over her Speaks Fluent Sarcasm T-shirt and turned a saccharine smile on the infamous Jackson Hart. “The real question is, can Jax say the same?”

  Their eyes met, his growing wide as he realized Frankie and Becca were one and the same. Guilt be damned. The look on his face was priceless. Too bad she didn’t have her camera. His jaw nearly hit the bar, but he snapped it shut before Christopher noticed. The hurt in his eyes? Sure it stung, but if he was tasting even a fraction of what she’d felt those years ago, it was worth it.

  Wasn’t it?

  “Be right back,” Christopher said, eyeing a couple of girls taking seats at the other end of the bar.

  Jax leaned forward, resting his powerful forearms on the bar. But damn if he didn’t have that pained look in his eyes, the one that said all the things his mouth never would. She knew that well enough. He was too proud. Always had been. The Jax she knew would never ask for help, even when he needed it most. “Well played, Frankie. Or should I call you Becca? You’ll excuse me if I’m having a little trouble keeping up.”

  Francesca Rebecca Mancini.

  The family had nicknamed her Frankie long before she could stop them, and when she’d enrolled at Brooklyn College, the first thing she’d done was reinvent herself, becoming Becca Mancini. Of course, she’d quickly learned old habits die hard, when her family refused to call her Becca. So she hadn’t really lied when she’d introduced herself by that name.

  She just hadn’t told the whole truth.

  “I’ll tell you what,” she said, digging deep and pulling out that careless attitude again. “Don’t call me anything. In fact, don’t call me at all. We’re even now.”

  That was a lie. They could never be even. He’d decimated her self-esteem during the most fragile time of her life. And there was nothing he could say or do that would change it now.

  “Even?” The incredulous look on his face was like a sucker punch to the gut. He grabbed her arm as she turned to walk away. “I came here to find you. To explain.”

  Pulling her arm free with a jerk, she placed her palms on the bar, leaning in close so no one else could hear the anger-fueled words she’d carried for ten long years. “What is there to explain, Jax? You. Stood. Me. Up. You know, I actually thought it would be different with us. That I wouldn’t be just another girl you made out with in the park.” Her lips trembled, the memory of her first heartbreak resurfacing with gut-wrenching poignancy. “Pretty stupid, right? I thought I was in love with you.” Crap. She hadn’t meant to say that. Open mouth, insert foot. “But apparently, after everything, I wasn’t even worth a goddamned phone call.”

  “Frankie. Becca…” He raked a hand through his hair, raw emotion flashing in his eyes. “It wasn’t like that. I wanted to take you out. Hell, it took me three months to work up the courage to ask you. If I’d known we were leaving, well, I—”

  “Wouldn’t have asked me out?”

  “No.” He looked her dead in the eye, and for a second, the rest of the world ceased to exist. “I wouldn’t have risked hurting you like that.”

  She hated that she believed him. This was the Jax she remembered. The one she’d fallen head over heels in love with. Too bad it didn’t change anything.

  “When I got home from school, my dad had all our stuff packed.” He frowned, an expression that, much to her irritation, happened to be just as sexy as his smile. “I never m
eant to hurt you. After we left, I just…I just didn’t know what to say. I’m sorry.”

  He slipped his hand over the top of hers, gently caressing her wrist with his thumb. It was a slow, sensual act, and her stupid breath hitched in her throat, betraying the fact that she was as affected by him now as she was at fifteen. She stepped away from the bar, giving herself some much needed breathing room. No way in hell was she going to let Jackson Hart back into her life. She was older and more experienced now, and she knew to protect her heart—at all costs.

  “Eh, Frankie!” Chris yelled, jerking her back to reality. “We’re outta glasses. Grab a tray from the back, will ya?”

  “I’ve got to get back to work.” Turning on her heel, she stalked back to the kitchen where she’d left the trays, leaving him alone at the bar.

  It was no less than he deserved. So why did she feel like such a jerk?

  Chapter Four

  Mind reeling, Jax sat down at the Mancinis’ table. Tucked in the back corner of the dimly lit restaurant, it hadn’t changed much since his childhood, when he’d eaten every meal he could with their family. Even the red and white checked tablecloth was the same, reminding him of all the good times he’d shared with the Mancinis.

  Hell, how many meals had he eaten at this table, pretending not to notice the way Becca blushed when their thighs brushed? Lord help him, he’d tried to fight his attraction to her, telling himself there was no way they could ever work, that her parents would never approve, that Chris would kick his ass for violating Bro Code, but it was useless. Once the idea had taken root in his brain, he’d been able to think of nothing but Becca. Her laugh, her smile, the way she looked at him as if she saw something no one else could.

  Taking the seat across from Chris, he tried to wrap his brain around the fact that Becca was Frankie, the same girl he’d spent the last ten years dreaming about. The same one he’d come to the restaurant to reconnect with. The same one that had played him. The Frankie he knew was sweet and compassionate. She never would have done something like that—something so spiteful—on purpose.

  Then again, he couldn’t fault her for it. He’d hurt her. Taken the coward’s way out like the selfish son of a bitch he was back then. Leaving the Mancinis was like being ripped from the only family he’d ever known. And if he’d called Frankie when they got settled upstate to say good-bye it would’ve been too real, too painful. So instead he’d done nothing, telling himself a clean break was best for them all.

  He’d fucked things up royally when he left. But he was back now, and one way or another, he was going to make it right. Despite what Becca said, it was clear they still had chemistry, and he had every intention of exploring it.

  Starting now.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Becca demanded, approaching the table with a healthy dose of hellfire and brimstone.

  “Your parents invited me to stay for dinner.” Jax smiled, ignoring the way she was glaring daggers at him. He’d faced five-alarm fires, twenty-car pileups, and impossible rescue missions. A pissed off Brooklynite was nothing by comparison. Besides, it was impossible to think about anything but the way those black jeans hugged her curves when she put her hands on her hips like that.

  Tension poured off her like a smoke plume from an egress. “You’ve got to be fuc—”

  “Eh,” Mr. Mancini said, pointing at his only daughter. “You kiss your mother with that mouth? Show a little respect, Frankie.”

  Mrs. Mancini made the sign of the cross.

  Christopher shook his head and plopped a slice of lasagna on his plate.

  Jax stood and pulled out Becca’s chair.

  “Sorry, Ma.” Grudgingly, she came around the table and sat next to him, scooting the chair as close to the end of the tiny table as possible, stopping only when Mr. Mancini said grace. Too bad the table was designed for a family of four. It had never been a problem when they were kids, but now there was little she could do to escape him. Whether she liked it or not, they’d be bumping elbows for the next hour. The thought had his balls tightening. Being this close to Becca, drowning in her scent, but unable to touch her? He wasn’t sure which of them had gotten the worse end of the deal.

  “Thanks again for dinner, Mrs. Mancini.” He smiled at the woman he’d once viewed as a surrogate mother. “I sure have missed your cooking. They don’t make sauce like this in Boston.”

  Mrs. Mancini beamed at him. “You’re welcome at our table anytime, Jackson. We still do dinner every Sunday. You join us whenever you can.”

  Becca choked on her water, spitting it across the table at her brother.

  “Jesus, Frankie.” Chris wiped his face with a napkin. “What’s with you today?”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” he said, answering Mrs. Mancini. He glanced at Becca, who had fully recovered and was once again giving him the side eye. Good. He liked a woman with a little fire in her belly. “With my schedule, that could be a little tough, but I’ll be taking you up on that offer every chance I get.”

  Becca gripped her fork so hard her knuckles turned whiter than the ceramic Deruta plate in front of her.

  “What’re you doing for work?” Chris asked, shoving a hunk of garlic bread into his mouth.

  “I’m a New York City firefighter, if you can believe that. Ladder Company One-Three-Two, right here in Brooklyn.”

  “No, shit?” Chris held his gaze, as if seeing him in a new light, perhaps wondering just how much his friend had changed over the years. Finally, he nodded, a show of respect. “Good for you, man.”

  He shrugged. “It’s an honor. The FDNY is the best in the world.” He glanced at Becca, who was doing her best to ignore him. In fact, the woman was shoveling lasagna into her mouth like she couldn’t get away from the crowded table fast enough.

  “You’re not going to be in that meat calendar Frankie’s shooting, are you?” Chris smirked at his sister. “What’s it called again?”

  Becca’s fork froze halfway to her mouth, her face turning the same robust shade of crimson as her mom’s homemade sauce. “It’s the FDNY Calendar of Heroes, and it’s for a good cause.”

  Chris grunted. Had she just kicked him under the table? Well, damn. Chris glared at Becca, confirming his suspicions.

  Mr. Mancini shook his head and kept eating. Nothing came between the man and his dinner. Some things never changed. Damn, it was good to be home. He’d missed the Mancinis something fierce. Not just Becca, but the entire family.

  “Moving. On.” Becca shot her brother a warning look that suggested he’d have two bruised shins if he kept it up.

  Becca was uncomfortable, was she? Time to turn up the heat. “We moved around a lot when I was a kid, but the best time of my life was here in Brooklyn. It’s always been my dream to come home and put down roots. Been working toward it for the last ten years.”

  “Ah,” Mrs. Mancini said, shaking her head. “You want to put down roots, you’re going to need a nice girl to settle down with.”

  Jax grinned. Of course Mrs. Mancini would equate roots with marriage. Not exactly what he had in mind, given the dangers of his job. The last thing he wanted to do was put someone he loved through that kind of hell, wondering day in and day out if he’d be home. Or worse. It was the reason he didn’t do relationships. No, for the time being, he’d just be content with a little stability and maybe a home cooked meal every now and again.

  Mrs. Mancini narrowed her eyes at her son. Like his sister, he’d mastered the art of ignoring the uncomfortable. “Not like my Christopher here. He goes with a different girl every week. What about you, Jackson? Have you met any nice girls since you’ve been back in the city?”

  He turned to Becca, speaking directly to her, although it was her mother who’d asked the question. She swallowed, the color draining from her face. “Nice girls? Can’t say that I have,” he said, enjoying the way she shifted uncomfortably when their eyes met. He stretched, draping his arm over the back of her chair. “In fact, just last week, a woman in Manhatta
n asked me out and then stood me up.”

  “Can’t imagine why,” Becca grumbled, ripping a piece of bread from the loaf at the center of the table.

  “Hush!” Mrs. Mancini admonished her daughter. She patted his hand, drawing a snort from Becca. “What you need is a nice Brooklyn girl.”

  “Ain’t that the truth?” Christopher agreed wholeheartedly. “You just let me know when you’re free, and I’ll set you up. You can be my wingman, just like the old days. Plenty of nice, single women in this neighborhood who’d love to meet a firefighter, and who’d have enough class to actually show up.”

  Becca blew out a ragged breath, as if tamping down her fiery temper. She was kind of cute when she was pissed off, but it was time to redirect the conversation. If this went much further, she was likely to blow. And when she came undone, it wouldn’t be like this. It would be in his arms.

  “I appreciate the offer, but I’ve got my eye on a girl from the old neighborhood. I just have to convince her to give me a shot.”

  “Good luck with that.” Shoving his arm from her chair, Becca stood, shaking that wild mane of curls over her shoulder as she looked down at him. “You’re going to need it.”

  …

  Becca cursed her shit luck—and that stupid revenge scheme—as she glared at the man beside her. What had her parents been thinking when they’d made Jax promise to walk her back to her apartment? It was just a few blocks, and she was a grown-ass woman for crying out loud. Would they ever accept her independence? She loved them dearly, but moments like this were exactly why she’d needed to get her own place.

  She sighed. Unfortunately, she had bigger problems. Like a walking, talking, infuriating firefighter who radiated sex. Not that she was thinking about sex with Jax. The man was trouble. Under all those “yes, ma’am’s” and honorable notions he espoused, he was still the same old Jax.