One Fine Fireman

by Jennifer Bernard

  Then the rest of her body called to him, and he slid his hands down her sides, brushing the slight swell of her breasts crushed against him. He felt her shudder and nearly came in his workout pants. Speaking of which, she must be feeling every bit of his fierce erection pressed against her pelvis. All of a sudden he felt too exposed. All this time he’d hidden his longing for her. But you couldn’t hide a boner the size of a tire iron behind a thin layer of cotton.

  Not that she seemed to mind. She pushed her hips closer to him—oh God!—and made a moaning sound.

  He got even harder and fought not to embarrass himself by coming all over her like a teenager under the bleachers. “Maribel,” he forced himself to say, “I don’t know about this.”

  “Why not?” Her breath was coming in quick, jagged gasps, and her glorious hair tumbled around her head like a halo of sunset. She looked like a fallen angel. “If you’re worried about Pete, forget it. It practically takes a fire alarm to wake him up. You want me. I can tell.”

  He snorted, then groaned as the motion pushed his cock against the soft gap between her legs. “You think?”

  Her eyes closed halfway, as if desire was dragging her eyelids down. “I want you too,” she said, like a siren crooning to her next victim. “You can probably tell.”

  She put his hand on her breast and he wanted to weep, she felt so tempting. He caressed her soft, round apple of a breast, her aroused nipple nudging through her clothes. She was wearing a silky-looking dress with one of those peasant-type necklines, like a country wench in a tavern. It was held up by a ribbon tied in a bow right at the front, and lord help him, there was no possible way he could resist a gift-wrapped Maribel. His hand shaking slightly, he pulled the end of the bow and drew down her top so her breasts peeked out from a satiny, creamy nest of a bra. Her skin was one shade darker, more pink, than the bra, and a thousand times silkier. He drew his finger reverently across the rise of her breasts and into the dip between.

  She gasped and leaned her upper half toward him. Color came and went in her cheeks. The knowledge that he was turning her on went to his head like a shot of vodka. He moved his hand to cup her breast, pulling down the edge of her bra with his thumb. Her nipple seemed to leap into his hand as if it belonged there, as if that velvety morsel was created to be touched by him. It swelled deliciously hard, begging for more attention.

  He bent down, put his hands on her curvy ass, and picked her up, depositing her on the kitchen table.

  “Oh!” she said, her mouth open in a shocked oval of surprise.

  “You have no idea what you do to me,” he muttered as he bent to her breasts, which were somehow, miraculously, both exposed now. Had he done that? Maybe he possessed magical powers of undressing women he wanted, women he . . . well, loved. No getting around it.

  He gorged himself on her breasts as if they were snow cones on a hot day. Helped himself to her nipples as if they were chocolate-covered cherries. She threw her head back and let his hands roam at will, welcomed his ravaging tongue, writhed under the long sucklings of his mouth.

  “That . . . feels . . . so incredible . . .” she panted. “Is there somewhere . . . else . . . ?”

  He knew what she was trying to ask. They could go only so far on the kitchen table. Pete might be a sound sleeper, but then again, what if a fire alarm did go off? Catching his mother and his friendly neighborhood fireman screwing on the kitchen table might cause all kinds of nightmares.

  His bedroom was just down the hall. It had a door. They could put something under the knob so no one could open it, so that if Pete woke up and wandered around looking for them, they’d have enough time to get decent before explaining that Kirk had been showing off his collection of . . .

  A cold wave of sanity hit him. He couldn’t let her inside his bedroom. Kirk closed his eyes, battling the drumbeat of lust and the throbbing of his cock. He’d started this, in a moment of sheer, panicked refusal to see her walk out of his kitchen. But if they didn’t stop now, they’d end up in bed, and as much as he wanted that, she’d probably regret it quicker than a cat in a bathtub. He called upon all his higher angels, every speck of moral fiber, every ounce of the endurance he’d honed during chemotherapy.

  And he firmly put her aside.

  “Maribel.” He gritted his teeth. “We can’t do this. What about . . .” He cast around for something to throw cold water on the moment. “Duncan?”

  “Duncan’s a dick.” She looked shocked at her words and clapped a hand over her mouth. “I didn’t mean to say that.” But his mention of her fiancé had done its intended job.

  “Dick or not, he’s probably waiting for you. Maybe he wants to apologize.”

  “He’s probably sulking because I ditched him.” She wrenched herself off the table and stalked around the kitchen, wringing her hands. “He sulks. He doesn’t appreciate my son. He assumes I’m going to move to New York and stay home and be his haven.”

  Kirk prayed for the right words. The name Duncan, fortunately, had worked like magic on his erection. Time to start thinking with his head. The real one. “You don’t want to move to New York?”

  “No, I do. I think. I mean, I did. Oh fudge! What am I doing?” She squeezed her hands together in apparent agony.

  “It’s my fault. Don’t blame yourself.”

  She cast him a skeptical glance. “Don’t you dare let me off the hook here. I would have had sex with you on the kitchen floor.”

  Arousal pulsed again through his cock. Focus, man, focus. Even if it hurts like a motherfucker. He braced himself. “Do you love Duncan?”

  Her face went flaming red. “I’m the wrong person to ask.”

  He let out a surprised snort of laughter. “Who else would know?”

  “What I mean is, I’m not a big fan of love. I thought I loved Pete’s father because his hair flopped over his forehead when he played the drums. It’s important to know your flaws and shortcomings, right? I make bad decisions about men. I realize that. So I have to make decisions based on what’s best for Pete.”

  He supposed that made sense, in an odd sort of way. And a tiny tendril of hope awoke in his heart. She hadn’t said that she loved Duncan. “Okay, I can buy that. You’re a single mother; you have to watch out for your son. So what is best for Pete?”

  “Well, moving to New York, of course.” She frowned, giving him the impression she was trying to convince herself. “It’s the greatest city in the world, after all. All the writers live there, and he loves to write. Publishers too. He’d get a much better education, especially because Duncan wants to send him to private school. Probably so he can make connections with famous people’s kids, but even so. It’s a great opportunity for Pete . . .” She trailed off.

  “And what about you?” He made himself ask the question. “Are you excited about the move?”

  “Sure!”

  Maybe it was his imagination, but her cheerfulness seemed forced. And were her knuckles turning white as she gripped the edge of the kitchen counter behind her back? He felt bad, pushing her like this, interrogating her, but something told him she hadn’t asked herself the tough questions. He waited patiently for her to continue.

  “I’m ready for new horizons. San Gabriel’s been wonderful, but I can’t work at the Lazy Daisy forever, and it’s not as if my photography career is taking off. I think I’ve sufficiently documented the jacarandas around here. Maybe it’s time for subway tunnels and neon billboards.” She looked forlornly around his kitchen, like a kitten caught in a storm. Suddenly she went still. Kirk followed her gaze. Oops.

  MARIBEL STARED AT the abstract study of a yucca plant in bloom. The spiky red flowers looked like ominous red-painted claws. The long rays of the late-afternoon sun made every bulbous thorn stand out in horror-movie relief. It wasn’t the most warm and fuzzy photo she’d ever taken. She’d been in a funk at the time. But here it was, framed and hung in Kirk’s kitchen, right over a wall-mounted magnetic strip that held his kitchen knives.

  H
er eyes drifted to the hallway outside the kitchen. She could just make out the edge of a frame. Tilting her body to the left, she took in the sight of one of her pretentious black-and-white portraits of Mrs. Gund in her hairnet. Her boss stared sternly at the camera from the Lazy Daisy grill. Mrs. G. had actually paid her to take the photographs. They both knew it to be a mercy commission: Maribel had been facing some daunting medical bills after Pete had fallen off the roof during an unauthorized attempt to see if he could play Quidditch with the kitchen broom. Mrs. Gund had loved the photos and proudly displayed them in the coffee shop, but Maribel thought they were embarrassingly clichéd. Then, one by one, they’d been purchased.

  Now here was one of them . . . no, two, she realized as she paced toward the hallway door. Three. Four. Five. All five. Except for the one Mrs. Gund had kept for herself. Five portraits of Mrs. Gund’s impassive Norwegian face framed against various coffee-shop backdrops. The menu board. The coffee maker. The long counter. And so forth. The entire series—perhaps the low point of her creative learning curve—paraded down Kirk’s hallway.

  “You were the one who bought my Mrs. Gund photos,” Maribel said numbly.

  “Yes.”

  “Why? You can’t possibly like them.”

  “Why not?”

  “No one could. Except Mrs. Gund. Which I never understood, by the way.”

  She dared a look at Kirk. He was rubbing the back of his neck in what she now knew was a signal of discomfort. His intent, lustful look was gone, replaced by an awkward shifting of his eyes.

  “I like them. Why else would I buy them? I like all your work.”

  Suddenly struck by a thought, Maribel dashed out of the kitchen.

  “Wait,” called Kirk, but she ignored him. She ran down the hall toward the open doorway at the end. Maybe it was rude to barge through someone’s house like this. But she had to know.

  Sure enough, there in his tidy blue-plaid bedroom, near the punching bag that swung from the ceiling, hung another of her photographs. At least she was proud of this one. A flash flood had crashed through the desert outside San Gabriel one rainy January, and she’d gotten an amazing shot of a drenched sparrow taking refuge on a cactus, clinging to the thorns with frantic little feet.

  It wasn’t the only work of art gracing Kirk’s bedroom, but it was the most prominent. He also had a dreamy Irish landscape with two horses and a poster advertising the Rugby World Cup. Really, his décor was sad. From the bedside table came the low murmur of a police scanner.

  “How come you never told me you were a fan of my photography?” she asked without turning, knowing he was right behind her.

  “I did.”

  “When, right between ‘coffee’ and ‘black’?”

  “I always buy your Christmas ornaments.”

  “That’s different. Those are goofy little craft items I make for extra cash. This is my art.” Duncan always laughed at her when she referred to her passion as art, but what the hell, Duncan wasn’t here right now.

  Kirk was looking slightly panicked. “Should we go check on Pete?”

  “Forget about Pete. He’s fine.” Maybe she sounded like a heartless mother, but she knew her son. He’d probably sleep through a collision with an asteroid, then be really bummed that he’d missed it. “Wait! I know! You’re just storing these here because Mrs. Gund ran out of room. It’s not like you actually bought them all.”

  But Kirk raised reluctant, silver-smoked eyes to meet hers. “No. I bought them.”

  “But that’s . . .” She tallied up the photographs she’d seen so far, added in the cost of framing, and flinched. “A lot of money.”

  “Over the years, maybe. It’s not like I liquidated my savings or anything.”

  “Did you do it to help me out? Did I seem that desperate? The clichéd struggling single mom trying to make ends meet on a wing and a prayer?”

  “That’s not fair.” He looked so hurt she instantly felt bad.

  “You can’t possibly like all those pieces. The sparrow, I’ll give you that one. It’s one of my better efforts. But you can’t convince me you always dreamed of having five portraits of an expressionless Norwegian coffee-shop owner filling your hallway.”

  His eyes darted around the room, as if looking desperately for escape. It occurred to her that she wouldn’t get far in her career if she was this hard on everyone who bought one of her pieces. But . . . one, she could understand. Seven?

  “Do you have others?”

  “No. This is it.”

  She took a step back and folded her arms across her chest. “Do you think these will be worth something someday? I hate to break it to you, but the chances of that are very, very minuscule.”

  “They’re worth something now.” He flushed in a rather endearing way. “To me, anyway.”

  “Why?”

  “Because . . . because they’re . . . you. You made them. That’s worth something.”

  She shook her head with disbelief. “You felt sorry for me. You knew I needed money. They were mercy purchases.”

  “No! Damn!”

  He turned away and slammed a fist against the punching bag that hung in the corner. It spun away in a blur of red leather. When it swung back toward him, he sent it whirling again with another roundhouse punch. After a minute of this, a minute during which she berated herself for upsetting her one and only collector, he deliberately stopped the bag and turned to face her.

  “Okay, I knew it would help you out, but that’s not the only reason. I like looking at your photographs. I like the way you see things. I’m a fan. That’s all.”

  “That’s all?” It felt like something was missing, but the hell if she knew what. She frowned, oddly disappointed, and shrugged. “Okay, I guess. I’m flattered. To the best of my knowledge, you’re my only fan. So, thanks.”

  He gave her a frazzled glance, like a drowning man watching the last lifeboat disappear. She took a step toward the door, more than ready to end this awkward scene.

  “Wait! That’s not all.” There went his hand to the back of his neck again. “For God’s sake, Maribel, don’t you get it? I love your art. I love everything about you. I love you.”

  Chapter Seven

  * * *

  “WHAT?”

  Now that Kirk’s silent-type shell had cracked, he kept talking, as if he couldn’t stop himself.

  “I’ve loved you forever, it feels like. Since I don’t know when. Early on. Why do you think we always come to the Lazy Daisy? But I couldn’t have you. You were with someone. At first I figured it was a crush and it would go away. But it hasn’t. I still feel it, more than ever.”

  She shook her head, trying to clear it, unable to grasp what he was saying. “That’s why you bought my photographs?”

  “I like them. I wanted to support your career because . . . I think you’re really good. That’s just my opinion, and I know I’m not an expert.”

  He looked so wretched, she couldn’t stand it. “It’s okay. I’m glad. I mean . . . I’m glad they’re here.” She gave one last wild glance around the bedroom. She thought about Duncan waiting at home, and what she’d almost done here, with Kirk. Who said he loved her.

  But she couldn’t think about that now. Couldn’t take it in. “I have to go. In the living room, she scooped Pete up, barely managed a stammered goodbye, and fled. Thankfully, her son slept through the short wait for the cab, insertion into the cab, and the drive home, which gave her lots of time to lose herself in her windmilling thoughts.

  For the last six years, she hadn’t spent time with any man other than Duncan. Being with Kirk wasn’t anything like being with Duncan. Kirk made her feel more—how to pin it down?—interesting. Duncan claimed to find her adorable and enchanting, not to mention his haven, but he tended to glaze over when she talked. This had never bothered her. He was a celebrity photographer, after all, and she was a teenage mom turned waitress turned amateur shutterbug. But now that they were really, as opposed to hypothetically, getting marrie
d, big alarm bells were going off right and left.

  Duncan didn’t inspire any sort of urge to have sex on a kitchen table. Duncan hadn’t ever spent one dime on any of her photographs. Duncan didn’t look at her as if he never wanted to stop. He didn’t listen to her much at all. He’d certainly been in no hurry to get married; in fact, she still didn’t know why he’d suddenly decided the time had come. Surely a free weekend in the Hamptons wasn’t enough of a reason.

  As the driver waited at a stoplight, she watched his digital clock change to midnight. She never stayed up this late, yet she was wide awake, as if she’d stuck her hand in a socket and every nerve had been jolted awake. And she knew it was because of Kirk. His kisses, his touch, his strength . . . his shocking declaration.

  Don’t think about that. It was too much to grasp. All this time, Kirk had been in love with her? How could she not have known? Since I don’t know when, he’d said. A secret warmth filtered through her as she thought of all the times Kirk had come into the coffee shop. She’d always looked for him, been extra aware of him, felt a special zing when their hands brushed over a to-go cup and some change. She’d admitted to herself that she found him attractive, that she had a crush. But she’d never allowed herself to follow up on the idea. She was engaged. To a man who could have anyone but who wanted her. Her awe at Duncan’s presence in her life had blinded her to everything else.

  When the cab reached her house, she paid the driver and roused Pete enough so he could make it inside on his own two feet. He made a good zombie; she could probably make him brush his teeth, change into pajamas, and maybe even do some homework without him remembering a thing the next day. But her car was in the driveway and her bedroom lights were on, so she told Pete to go crawl into bed.

  Confrontation with Duncan was at hand.

  She heaved a sigh as she guided Pete toward his room. Oddly, she didn’t feel guilty about anything that had happened with Kirk. She probably ought to, and she gave it a good effort, but it went nowhere. Kirk was . . . he was . . . he was magic. He made her feel like Wonder Woman and Greta Garbo combined. He made her feel alive and desired and appreciated. Was that selfish? Maybe it was.