Fuel the Fire (Southern Heat Book 8)

by Jamie Garrett

  “Hello,” he said into the phone, plucking his keys out of his pocket. Geez, why had he put his sling back on? Rachel had told him he didn’t have to wear it full-time anymore, but any extra rest his arm could get was still a good thing. Still, it would only be coming off in a minute anyway to drive his truck. Rachel had gotten an Uber back to her car—on his dime, of course—when everything was said and done the night before. There was no way he was picking up the date of his life in a damn taxi. He was driving, and that was that. Besides, he’d be missing out on the opportunity to stare at, and possibly hold, her delectable ass while he helped her climb into the high vehicle.

  “Umm, hi.” The voice coming down the line belonged to the woman of his dreams, causing Jeremy to stop in the middle of the front porch.

  “Rachel? Everything okay?” His eyebrows creased in concern at the tone of her voice.

  “What? Oh! Oh, no. Everything’s fine.” There was a long pause, which he especially didn’t like, but she continued before he had a chance to jump in the pickup and drive over to see what was worrying her in person. He didn’t like the idea of Rachel upset. “An emergency case came in where they needed my help. A guy fell off his ladder, and I was called for a musculoskeletal assessment.” Jeremy shook his head. The number of calls they got because some idiot had fallen down from a roof, or gotten themselves stuck up there, numbered too many to count. When were people going to figure out how to use rigging when leaving more than a couple of feet off the ground? “So anyway,” Rachel continued, “I’ve only just walked in the door, and I’m a complete mess. I hate to do this, but rain check?”

  Nope. There was no way he was letting that gorgeous woman talk her way out of their date. Especially when it had taken him half an hour to choose his damn shirt. He grinned. The perfect solution popped into his head. “No way,” he said. “You go shower, rest, whatever you need. I’ll be there in twenty minutes with the solution.”

  “Jeremy, I’m still in my scrubs and covered in sweat. Besides, I’m pretty sure some kid with the stomach flu managed to splatter vomit on my shoes.”

  He chuckled under his breath. He’d promised himself to behave, but apparently his time limit on good behavior had been reached already. “Baby, I like you all hot and sweaty. My favorite times, in fact.”

  He heard a groan down the phone and could almost hear the eye roll from there. Just as he thought he’d pushed her a little far, Rachel’s soft giggle came down the phone. “Right back at you,” she said. “But I’ll still jump in the shower. I think we could both do without the vomit.”

  Her comment brought out a full throaty laugh. “Let’s leave that at least until I’ve bought you dinner, Sweetheart. See you in twenty.” He clicked to hang up the call before she could protest further, then jumped in the truck, throwing his sling onto the passenger seat. Rachel was just going to have to deal with it being off for the rest of the evening. Now as well as driving, he had a whole dinner to carry. He punched the address of the restaurant into his GPS and pulled out of the driveway.

  Exactly twenty minutes, and one successful bribe to the head waiter later, Jeremy pulled into Rachel’s place. There were times where living in a small town definitely came in handy, and tonight had been one of them. It had taken only a small amount of buttering up the server at Rachel’s favorite place to eat for him to tell her what her most-ordered dishes were. He’d grabbed an extra handful of fortune cookies on a whim. If he was lucky, one of them would get something about a new relationship in their future or something. He wasn’t generally a superstitious person, but he’d take all the help he could get with wooing Rachel. She smiled when she saw him, and laughed at his jokes, and so as far as he was concerned, she was a winner already. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t take every opportunity to nudge things along. He hoped showing up on her doorstep with dinner in a bag would be one of them. Unfortunately, the fried ice cream would have to wait until he could take her back to the actual restaurant, but he hoped she’d appreciate the gesture anyway.

  Or not. He sat in the car, staring at her front door. A tough shift could go either way. He knew that much. Sometimes after a bad day, all he wanted to do was change into sweats and then Netflix and chill—and not the good type. People thought of him as the perpetual joker, but those tough calls affected him as much as anyone. He just didn’t like letting the world see it.

  Man up, idiot.

  He’d already told her he’d be over, and so cancelling now would be a completely jerk move. Besides, unlike his bad shifts, no one had died on her watch that night. He hoped, anyway. Oh God, had someone died during her shift? He was such an insensitive bastard! He’d just knock, hand over the food, and then go back to his place. Jeremy climbed out of the car, cursing himself the whole way to her front door. When she opened from his knock with a smile, his brain took a moment to catch up.

  “You promised me food,” she said, making grabby hands at the bags in his arm. “Hand it over before you hurt yourself, or I do. I’m starving.” A slow grin spread over his face as Rachel snatched one of the bags out of his hand and turned to head into the kitchen, leaving the door open.

  His gaze followed her as she sauntered back to the kitchen. She’d taken his advice and stayed casual, and Jeremy didn’t have a single problem with her choices. Her pants looked like jeans, but were made out of some stretchy-style material that fit her like a glove. It hugged her body, down over her gorgeous butt and then those amazing thighs, all the way down to her pretty, bare feet. He wasn’t into skinny girls, and Rachel’s curves hit all the right notes. She’d completed the look with painted toenails that were adorable as fuck and a T-shirt that fit her like a glove. When she turned back around and he read the front, Jeremy had to hold in a snort. Printed across the front was “Let’s Get Physical” with “Therapy” beneath it in a much smaller font. He grinned. Rachel was definitely his kind of woman. Anyone who would wear that shirt in public was a winner in his book. He just hoped she rated as highly a man who brought food to her door.

  Rachel bent over behind the counter and stood back up a few seconds later holding two bowls and a handful of spoons. She started emptying out the bag she’d snatched from him, placing the cartons on the countertop, and gestured toward the fridge. “Make yourself useful and chose something to drink,” she said. “I’ve got a nice Riesling chilling in there.” Just how long had he been standing at the door, staring at her ass? He couldn’t tell from the look on her face whether he’d been busted or not, but he hurried inside anyway. Placing the rest of the food on the counter, he opened the refrigerator and let out a small breath when he saw several bottles of beer chilling next to the wine. He was definitely more a hops man than grapes man. He indulged occasionally on a nice glass of cab sav with a good steak, but usually he was a pretty simple guy. Give him a beer and a burger, and he was happy.

  “Help yourself to whatever you’d like,” Rachel said from where she was now opening the dishes. “I figured you might want a beer. Hopefully they’ll be chilled enough by now. I put them in the freezer first.” She sucked in a breath, a look of dreamy appreciation coming over her face. Takeout containers covered nearly the whole side of her counter. Okay, so he might have gone a little overboard, but he wanted her to have whatever she wanted. If she didn’t want to go out that night, then he was going to bring the restaurant to her. He grabbed the bottle of wine and a beer and walked over to where she was standing. He had to smile. He was dressed up for the night, but his shoes were nice black boots rather than dress shoes. They suited his personality way better than anything too fancy, but standing next to Rachel when she was barefoot, the small amount extra they added made him feel like he was towering over her.

  Fortunately, the wine was a screw-top lid. As much as his shoulder was feeling better, it would probably be tempting fate to open a corked bottle of wine. He poured Rachel a generous glass and then walked around the counter and bent down to remove his boots. If she was going casual, then so was he. Made it much easier
to play footsies, anyway.

  Thank God she seemed oblivious to the theme that had been playing through his head all day. She looked up, smiling around her glass of wine, taking a sip. The look on her face changed to one of bliss, which didn’t help his physical reaction in the slightest, but it was still something he’d buy her favorite every time to see. Rachel happy was a glorious sight. “Oh God, I needed that,” she said, taking another sip. She picked up her bowl of food, piled nearly as high as his would be, and walked over to the couch. She was absolutely perfect. Every time he thought he’d discovered the best part about Rachel, she’d go and surprise him all over again. He loved a woman with a healthy appetite. He hoped that before the night was through, he’d discover a few more secrets. “I’ll meet you over here,” she said. “I figured we could watch a movie while we ate.”

  Jeremy fixed the bowl of food faster than he had in his life and then scooted over to the couch. She’d laid out several DVDs in anticipation on the coffee table, but hadn’t put one in. Instead, the TV was on and switched to the local news channel. “Great,” Rachel muttered, digging her chopsticks into her bowl. “Last thing we need is another storm. There’s always some idiot who tries to drive through them and ends up working with me for the next few months.” He knew how she felt. Calls to crashes always went up in bad weather, plus there was structural damage from the winds. Add on the occasional lightning strike, and he didn’t like bad weather any more than she did.

  Soon after the broadcast, she turned over, finding a movie already started on cable that caught her interest—an action flick that he’d seen already but enjoyed. Jeremy went with it. As long as he didn’t have to watch a chick flick, he was happy. Over the movie, dinner turned to seconds, then dessert, then cuddling. He brought Rachel a second glass of wine, but left himself at one beer. As much as he’d like a repeat of the previous night, he wasn’t making any assumptions about whether he’d have to drive home later that night or not. Plus, if the wild weather forecast didn’t skip over Monroe as he hoped, he was betting the chances of them all being called in for extra shifts was high enough he should be completely sober. Shoulder or not, there would always be something he could do to help in an emergency.

  He was in the middle of giving Rachel a foot rub, and nearly dying from the moans and groans she was making at his touch, when his phone went off in his pocket for the second time that night. Dropping an apologetic kiss on her big toe, he shifted on the couch and fished out his phone, frowning at what was written on the screen. Why the hell was Shane calling him at nearly 10 p.m. on a night off for? “Dude, what’s up?”

  Wherever Shane was calling from was noisy. He could hear multiple conversations in the background, plus a PA system droning over it all. It didn’t sound like dispatch, but his stomach still twisted up at the sound. Wherever Shane was, he wasn’t calling with good news. Rachel looked up at him, her forehead wrinkled in concern when his hands stopped moving. “Babe? Everything okay?” Jeremy shot her a smile at the unexpected term of endearment. He wasn’t sure she’d even noticed she’d said it, but the tone of Shane’s voice was dominating his thoughts.

  “Geez, man, it’s just . . . fuck,” Shane said. He took in a deep breath before continuing. “It’s Bill, man, from B-Shift. His wife called me about an hour ago, saying he was being rushed to the hospital.”

  Jeremy shot up at his words, Rachel’s feet falling from his lap. Damn it. She looked at him with worried eyes and laid a hand on his arm. He grabbed it and held it in his palm, then put the phone on speaker. “What happened?” he asked Shane.

  “All I know is that he’s critical,” Shane replied. “Some kind of accident with the storm.”

  Well, fuck.

  5

  Rachel

  Rachel pulled into the hospital parking lot. The night was dark, with splatters of rain decorating the windscreen as she drove. It looked like the bad weather the news had been forecasting was on the way already, the rain part, at least. The full storm cell was still brewing, and hopefully wouldn’t materialize at all. She still wasn’t taking any chances. She’d driven them both in, not wanting to test Jeremy’s shoulder on a wet road or in difficult conditions. He would likely have been fine, at least if their earlier activities gave her any indication, but she hadn’t wanted to risk it. Besides, the man shouldn’t have been driving in the mental state he was in, regardless.

  He’d been manic when the call had first come in, whirling around her living room and snatching up his shoes, wallet, jacket—anything that had been placed down at some point in the evening. He’d stopped midspin, looking over to her as if he’d only just remembered where he was. “I have to go,” he’d blurted out. “God, Rachel. I’m so sorry, but I have to go.” At that point, she’d had no idea what had freaked him out so much. A few deep breaths and explanations later, she’d grabbed her own jacket and snagged the keys to his truck, bundling him into the passenger seat. His vehicle was better suited for any incoming bad weather, anyway, and that way if he ended up staying, she could always leave it there for him and grab a taxi home.

  Who was she kidding? The moment she walked through those doors, there was no way she was leaving again.

  Jeremy wasn’t the only firefighter she knew in Monroe. A job like that came with a decent-sized risk, and more than one of Monroe’s finest had ended up in her therapy room over the last few years. Add in the small-town factor, and she was at least on first-name basis with most of them and their loved ones. Most of the guys on Mason’s squad were more her age, but some had families—or soon would. Meg Deavers, a pillar of the community and one of Rachel’s favorite people, looked as though she’d been pregnant for about a year. She wasn’t personal friends with Meg, but anyone who lived in Monroe more than a couple of months knew who she was. The kindest woman Rachel knew, she’d do anything for someone who needed her, no questions asked. It appeared that hadn’t changed in recent months, even though Meg could no longer see her feet. She flitted around the hospital waiting room with a tray full of coffees and sandwiches, handing them out to anyone and everyone. How someone nine months pregnant still moved with that speed and grace, Rachel didn’t know.

  Her gaze moved from Meg and to the recipients of the snack, her eyes widening. It wasn’t just Mason’s squad—off duty—who were there, but most of the guys at the house, period. Many of them were still in uniform, looking like they’d come to the hospital straight from the call, soot smudged across their faces. They probably had, she realized. Bill’s team members were huddled around a woman who was sitting on a hard plastic chair. Her nose was red, and she held a bunched-up tissue in one hand. Meg handed her a coffee, and the woman smiled up gratefully. She reached up and patted Meg’s stomach, and Rachel noticed the slight swell to the woman’s midsection. She smiled. Looks like it was going to be baby showers all around at 82 soon enough.

  The woman—Louise, she heard someone call her—stood as a doctor came through the waiting room doors. She stood, braced by B-shift’s captain and walked over to the doctor. He stood, still in his scrubs, a surgical mask hanging about his neck. The scrubs were crumpled but clean, something that didn’t match the look of weariness on the doctor’s face. Rachel shifted, bracing herself against Jeremy’s strong form. No one else had noticed yet, but she knew the look on the doctor’s face. She could read it as easily as though the man’s thoughts were coming from her own brain. God, why had no one else noticed yet?

  Quiet whispering came from the ground, and the doctor touched Louise on the elbow, probably an attempt to guide her into a quiet room. Rachel hated the quiet rooms, hated even the thought of them. She thanked the universe daily that it was something she rarely came into contact with during her regular practice. Still, she wasn’t immune from it. Physiotherapists worked with all sorts of patients, including those who had suffered major trauma, or were terminal cancer patients, or other life-limiting conditions. It was rare that death was completely unexpected, though.

  The scene played out in fr
ont of her as if in slow motion. Her brain raced ahead, comparing seemingly endless data points, trying desperately to convince herself that she was wrong. That all failed when, at the next quiet whisper from the man in scrubs, Louise’s lower lip trembled. A single tear slid down her face, and her body seemed to give off a large shiver, seconds before her legs gave way. The quiet air of waiting in the room gave way in seconds, turning into panicked movement. B-shift’s captain lunged forward, catching Louise before she could hit the floor. Mason’s eyes grew wide and he sucked in a breath before stepping over, taking Louise’s free arm in his. The need to do something—anything—was as clear as day on his face, but he could do nothing more than ease her way as Louise glided to the floor. The serene motion jolted through Rachel like an electric shock. The woman should be loud. She should be yelling, raging. Not sitting on the floor in silence, staring at the wall.

  Rachel couldn’t move. She couldn’t speak, she couldn’t help, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away as Mason and the chief exchanged a glance over Louise’s head, and then in one choreographed movement, swept her up. They half carried, half walked her over to the chair, where she sat. Unmoving. Unspeaking. Her eyes were glazed over—in horror or shock, Rachel didn’t know.

  Slowly a low hum filtered through the air, the sudden panic and noise having given way entirely the moment Louise’s legs had crumpled underneath her. It returned now, insistent, buzzing, and Rachel’s skin felt too tight. Why the hell was she having this reaction? Bill wasn’t—hadn’t?—been her husband! He hadn’t even been a close friend. An acquaintance, a sort of colleague at best. She’d seen him occasionally, during shifts in the ER, and more recently at the bombing of the local high school. Everyone who possibly could have pitched in that day, her and Bill included. She’d seem him, along with the rest of Monroe’s firefighters, pulling victims from the rubble. He’d been so strong, so sure, so skilled. He couldn’t be . . . dead.