Melt For Him

by Lauren Blakely

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were from here?” he asked, holding his hands out in question.

  She furrowed her brow. “What?”

  “I had no idea you were Travis’s sister,” he said, and he sounded pissed.

  “And I had no idea you were a fireman,” she said, parking her hands on her hips.

  He shoved a hand roughly through his hair, shook his head. “And I had no idea you were the photographer. You said you were an artist.”

  “I am!” she said, her voice rising. What the hell? “I can draw, and I do tattoos. I also happen to be good at shooting pictures. Besides, you said you were a bar owner,” she pointed out, as if they could both redo this colossal mistake by rehashing the moments they both could have been more honest. “Why didn’t you tell me more about yourself?” she countered.

  He didn’t answer. He moved closer, maybe a foot away now. The anger felt like a pulsating life force, but there was something else between them, too. Heat. And want. The nearness was intoxicating. She could reach out and touch his chest. That broad, sturdy chest that she’d loved having her hands all over.

  She was edgy now, nervous, as they stood like two sparring partners, tucked away in the back hallway of the coffee shop near the restrooms. She wanted him to touch her again, and she hated that she was still thinking of last night, and how they’d connected so deeply in bed. But also in their conversations all through the night and up to a few minutes ago when they were texting. She was torn between needing to leave and wanting him to pin her against the wall and bury her in kisses that made her weak in the knees.

  Too bad she could never do any of those things with him again.

  …

  He didn’t tell her more because he didn’t tell anyone more about himself. Because he liked it that way. Because he needed it that way. Pieces of the truth were easier to swallow than the whole truth—letting someone in meant the potential for pain, and he was looking for ways to ease the ache of the memories that choked him.

  But even when he hadn’t told her everything, even in those moments when he’d given her a sliver of his true self, he’d felt lighter that he had in ages. Being with her had felt…freeing. Maybe because she had a restless heart, and a carefree spirit, and he wanted a taste of that.

  Rather than keep up the rapid-fire questions, he relented and let down his guard ever so briefly as he answered her honestly. “Because it was easier to just have you know a little bit,” he admitted.

  He was ready for her to lash out, to accuse him of not practicing full disclosure or something. Instead, she reached out her arm, grasped his forearm in her hand, gave him a squeeze. “Why is it easier?”

  “Sometimes you just want to be able to only offer a part of yourself,” he said, almost surprised that he was speaking so plainly, but glad too that he was able to say that much.

  Her brown eyes were kind, understanding even, as the corner of her lips curved up briefly. “I know what you mean. I’m usually pretty up-front and open. But sometimes it’s easier not to give the whole résumé.”

  He glanced down at her hand on his arm and swallowed. His throat was dry. That simple contact made him want more of her, made him crave that night they were supposed to have tonight. But she was so far off-limits now, she might as well be in another country.

  “Yeah, sometimes it is,” he said softly.

  “I kind of wish I’d known who you were, but I guess I’m glad I didn’t,” she whispered.

  “Same here,” he said, and fought every instinct that told him to step forward, to pin her with his arms, to kiss her softly and tenderly, to savor the feel of her, the soft slide of her tongue, the gentle press of her body. He clenched his fists, digging his fingers into his palms to hold himself back from touching. He couldn’t risk it. He couldn’t chance his friendship with Travis. He’d already lost a good friend—he didn’t need to add another. “But we can’t see each other tonight.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Or any other night when you’re in town.”

  “Definitely,” she said and when they heard footsteps, she dropped her hand from his arm in a flash. “I’d better go.”

  Travis rounded the corner and stopped in his tracks, glancing curiously from Becker to Megan. “Well, I’m glad to see you two are getting to know each other. It’ll make for a better shoot. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he said and pointed to the restroom.

  …

  As the woman he absolutely would never touch again left the coffee shop on her way to the town square with Jamie, the little dog gamely leading the way, Travis hung back and pulled Becker aside. “Saw you and my sister chatting.”

  “Yeah,” Becker said, clearing his throat. “We were just talking about the calendar.”

  The lie gnawed at his chest, like a weed twisting in him.

  “Just make sure things stay focused on the calendar when she starts tomorrow.”

  Becker shot him a curious look, narrowing his eyes. The weed dug deeper. “Of course.”

  “Good. Because I saw the way you two were looking at each other, Beck. She was checking you out, and you were checking her out. I trust you with my life, man, but you gotta stay away from her. You know you’re not in a place to give my sister the relationship she deserves.”

  Becker stopped walking, held up his hands. “Whoa. Let’s not put the cart before the horse. I’m not looking for any sort of relationship.”

  Relationships meant closeness, they meant intimacy, they meant the possibility of caring deeply about another person. But in an instant, you could be gone. Relationships meant the slow start of the end of things. That was the only way attachments ever went.

  “I know,” Travis said emphatically. “And just keep it that way when it comes to her. She’s only in town for a few weeks and she just got out of a shitty deal with her ex. Just keep it all on the up and up.”

  “Trav, nothing is going to happen. I assure you,” he said, and willed himself to mean it. He cloaked himself with his game face, while inside he reeled with worry over how his friend would react if he knew. Would Travis blacklist him? He didn’t know and didn’t want to know.

  Travis clapped him on the back. “Good. That’s what I want to hear. Or else I’d have to…” He let his voice trail off as he cracked his knuckles, adopting a menacing glare. His voice was light, though, and Becker knew it was a joke.

  But even so, there was definitely a kernel of truth to this ribbing. There were codes, there were lines, and he certainly didn’t need to cross them again.

  Even though the crossing had been the best thing he’d had in ages, the only thing that had felt purely good.

  Chapter Seven

  “Pancakes! Who wants to bet I serve the most pancakes?”

  Travis brandished a quarter, slipping it back and forth between his fingers. He was always betting on something or other. Usually the bets were much bigger and involved straights and flushes at executive card games he played all across wine country, in darkened rooms filled with cigar smoke and plenty of high rollers, made rich off vines and land. This morning, the bet was over which man from the shift would rack up the longest line and serve the most flapjacks at this morning’s fund-raiser at a nearby hospital.

  Just your average day at the Hidden Oaks Fire Department. The work here was more focused on responding to medical emergencies, hosting blood drives, and conducting fire safety classes at local schools than it was about fighting fires. The sleepy little wine country town was mostly nonflammable, though the blaze a few weeks back had been an exception.

  Becker hadn’t planned on joining the fire department when he’d moved here a year ago. He’d packed up his home in Chicago for Hidden Oaks because he needed a change. Hidden Oaks had been the perfect place for a new start. His financial adviser knew of an old pool hall in the middle of town that was prime real estate to be turned into a hip new bar. Becker signed the deal for the space that became the Panting Dog, and Hidden Oaks became his new home. For the first few m
onths, he zeroed in solely on the bar.

  But the lure of the firehouse proved too powerful to resist. It was a way of life. A calling, and so when the Hidden Oaks fire captain moved to Big Sur, Becker was offered the post. This town was much quieter than Chicago, which suited him just fine.

  The trouble was he hadn’t eradicated the painful memories of the fire in Chicago just by moving away. They still clung to him like a film and showed no signs of abating. The what-ifs were relentless. He hated to admit it, but sometimes he wondered if maybe he should quit the firehouse. Maybe he’d never get his head screwed on straight. Every now and then, he flirted with the idea of being just Becker the bar owner. Maybe that’s why he liked being with Megan so much, because when he was simply the guy in the alley behind the Panting Dog, he wasn’t carrying around a shitstorm of guilt.

  But he wasn’t a coward, and the thought of quitting ignited a fresh wave of shame. He didn’t want to be that guy. He wanted to be someone who could deal, who could manage, who could rise above.

  Fortunately, today’s shift was all about pancakes and the calendar, and he damn well better be able to handle those two things.

  “Is this even a contest?” Smith said as he strutted across the concrete floor, heeding the siren call of Travis’s challenge. “You know I’m winning hands down, and you’re going to be washing my truck for the next year.”

  “You’re on,” Travis said.

  “And I’m betting that neither of you serves the most,” Becker chimed in, trying to keep the mood light. “And you can put me down for heads or tails on that one.”

  “Who are you betting on, then, boss?” Travis asked.

  “Anyone else. Anyone else but you two peacocks. Now get out of here.”

  “Aunt Jemima, here I come,” Travis said as they strolled to the red truck parked outside.

  The other guys on shift were upstairs, so Becker was effectively alone in the firehouse, and immediately thoughts of Megan descended upon him. He was gripped by the memory of her beautiful body, of the soft skin of her thighs, of the way she’d finally let down her tough-but-playful guard when he was buried between her legs. She was so vulnerable then as she’d arched into him, her spine bowing, her hair spread out across a pillow, her hands grappling in his hair. He could get lost in her touch, in pleasing her, in bringing her to the edge of desire again. The way she responded to him, to his lips, his mouth, his touch, was both an intense turn-on and also a balm to the loop that played too often in his head. When he was with her, there was nothing else in his head but her.

  Pleasing her had made him feel good. Made him feel great, even. Like a painkiller that numbed all the noise. He wanted to go back there, to lose himself in her.

  He pushed a rough hand through his hair.

  He’d have to run for ten miles tomorrow to get that woman out of his mind, especially since she’d be here soon to go over the calendar. But daily tasks would do the trick for now, so he went through his usual morning routine of checking the equipment on the engine and making sure everything was in its proper place, until he heard the rumbling sound of a motorcycle pulling into the parking lot of the station.

  He walked over to the open garage door and took in the sight before him. The motorcycle being parked. The kickstand knocked to the concrete by a black leather boot, and a woman dismounting the bike she’d been straddling.

  He leaned against the wall, curious to watch. He was enjoying the view 100 percent and then some. Especially when the woman took off her helmet, shook out her hair once, twice, and a cascade of thick chestnut hair fell past her shoulders.

  Of course.

  Of course the owl-tatted girl rode a bike. She reached into the small storage space on the back of the bike and removed a sturdy navy-blue bag, and slung it over her shoulder. She gave him a curt wave, then glanced around the firehouse, maybe looking to see who else was there. Only him, and when it registered, she flashed a sweet smile as she walked up.

  “Hey,” she said softly, and that one word was like a reminder that they’d shared something more the other night.

  “Hey, Megan. Or should I call you Miss Megan?” he asked, picking up on Travis’s nickname for her.

  “Please don’t call me Miss Megan. It took me long enough to train him off using both names. You know he used to call me by my middle name too when I was younger?”

  “What’s your middle name?”

  “Megan Margaret. He thought it was the height of hilarity—don’t ask me why—to call me Miss Megan Margaret. Made me crazy.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s so looonnnng,” she said, stretching out the word. “And it’s so proper. Miss Megan Margaret is for a woman who goes to finishing school, who wears white gloves and jaunty hats and goes sailing.”

  He laughed. “I take it you don’t wear jaunty hats?”

  She patted her head as if looking for a hat. Then shook her head. “Nope. But I do like to draw jaunty hats on tigers or giraffes.”

  “Well, of course,” he said, not wanting to let go of the thread of the conversation, of how they’d somehow slid right back into the chatter that had marked their Friday night. He leaned against the side of the truck, and she followed suit. They were facing each other. “So if Miss Megan Margaret wears gloves and goes sailing, then Megan rides a bike and plans to be a tattoo artist?”

  Her eyes widened, and she brought her finger to her lips. “Shhh…”

  “Travis and Smith are out at a pancake breakfast and the other guys are upstairs. It’s just you and me.”

  “I know, but still. I haven’t told him that. I haven’t really told anyone the details even though it’s been my dream.”

  His lips curved in a small smile. “But you told me. At least a little bit,” he said softly, remembering how she’d said “someday soon” so wistfully when she talked about the opportunity to turn her drawings into body art.

  “Yeah, I guess I did. I just found out that day that I landed an apprenticeship at a shop in Portland. Travis knows I’m going to Portland, but I haven’t told him yet about the job and how much I’ve wanted it. I think he figures if I don’t have a job he can convince me to stay here.” She met his eyes. Hers were wide, with a hint of vulnerability. “And there I go again. Telling you my hopes and dreams.”

  “I like hearing them,” he said softly.

  They weren’t touching; they were simply talking, but somehow this conversation was starting to feel as intimate as spending the night together. In both the things they’d held back and the things they’d shared—then and now—there was something between the two of them. A magnetic pull, maybe. Something that started with chemistry but was now turning dangerously close to…interest.

  “I guess I like talking to you,” she admitted in a low voice.

  “I like that, too,” he said, his gaze locked on hers. Her brown eyes met his, and she didn’t look away. Her lips parted ever so briefly, and she took a deep breath. Tension rolled through him as he held back, as he fought every instinct to step closer, to touch her cheek, her shoulder, to run his hand down her arm.

  To learn more about her. He could see this playing out in his mind. They’d talk more, he’d ask her why she liked to draw, he’d learn more about this woman who already fascinated him. Then he’d thread his fingers through her hair, leaning in slowly, torturously close to her delicious earlobe. Her scent would fill his nostrils, the sweet, sexy smell of her citrus-y shampoo, and then her—her hair, her skin, her heat. He’d brush his lips gently against her neck, and she’d mold her body to his. He’d grasp her wrists, backing her up against the red cab of the truck, her hips jutting out invitingly. Kissing her more, exploring her mouth, her lips, her neck.

  The air was so thick and heady, the desire for this moment to become more intense, that he had to recalibrate. He snapped out of the fantasy. Focus. She’s Travis’s sister. She’s the calendar photographer. She’s leaving town. She’s not the woman you were going to enjoy several more nights with.

>   “So,” he said, clearing his throat and tapping the side of the truck. “The calendar.”

  She nodded several times. “Right. Right.”

  She fixed her lips in a straight, sharp line and focused her attention on her camera bag, rooting around in a side pocket. She removed a notebook, flipped it open, and tapped the page. “I looked at the last few calendars, and I definitely think there’s some truth to the old adage ‘if it’s not broke, don’t fix it.’ And whatever you gentlemen did worked—women loved the calendar.”

  “Yep. I wish I could take some of the credit, but I wasn’t even in last year’s.”

  “That’s clearly going to change this year, and women are going to be very excited to get their hands on your picture.”

  He laughed off the compliment. “I hardly think so.”

  “Becker,” she said in a soft voice. “You’re the most beautiful man at this firehouse.”

  His heart thumped harder, and so did other parts. “Thank you.”

  “Of course, that’s purely my professional opinion as a photographer,” she quickly added.

  “Professional or personal, I’ll take either one.”

  “But I want to up the ante a bit with this year’s. I think there are a few more locations and looks we can try. I’d love to get some outdoor shots, not just ones Photoshopped with flames in the background, and maybe even do a little something with makeup, sort of makeup on the chest, to connote smoke. Let me show you,” she said, then grabbed her notebook and sank down to the concrete floor, cross-legged, and began sketching.

  She stopped briefly to pat the floor, and he joined her, watching as her hand raced across the page. She’d sketched out what she’d just described. A rudimentary sketch, but even to his untrained eye, it was damn good.

  “What do you think?”

  “I think you can draw,” he said drily.

  She rolled her eyes. “Thanks.”

  “But seriously. You’re really good, and I also think that’s a great idea.”

  “Cool. I just really want it to have that sexy look that women love, but also a very natural feel. Not just a posed beefcake style of shot. But something that feels more real.”