Playing with Fire

by Lexi Ryan

  “That depends,” I murmur.

  “On what?”

  “Are you just now figuring out that I’m not the man you thought I was?”

  She shakes her head. “No, that was pretty clear a long, long time ago.” She looks at her wrist, still wrapped up in my fingers, and then sinks into my lap. That’s when her change of demeanor—her honesty and uncharacteristic openness—clicks for me.

  “You’re drunk.” Her beer is empty, sure, but Nix is a social drinker. One beer shouldn’t put her over the edge like this, and yet every other sign points to intoxication.

  She leans her cheek against my chest, and I feel her nod more than see it. “A little. Right before I saw your light on, I had a shot of whiskey. Or maybe three. It just took a minute for it to hit me. I needed—what do they call it? Liquid courage?”

  I can’t resist, and my fingers find their way into her hair. “Tell me what you need liquid courage for, Doc.” She tilts her head back so she’s looking at me, her eyes soft and dreamy. And drunk, I remind myself.

  “Can I tell you something, Max Hallowell?”

  I nod, not trusting myself to speak when she looks at me like that.

  “I think you’re . . .” She drags her bottom lip through her teeth and sighs. “You’re more than an amazing father. You’re an amazing man, and at risk of sounding like I’m trying to get in your pants . . .” She giggles again, but softly. “I just want you to know that I think any woman who ends up as your wife and making your remaining one-point-four children should thank her lucky stars.”

  “Then why do you keep pushing me away?”

  She stands, completely ignoring my question. “I’m gonna go grab my clothes and come back here to take total advantage of that nice-guy thing you have going on.” She reaches the stairs before stopping, and at the look on her face as she turns toward her house, something squeezes hard in my chest.

  “Do you want me to go over there with you?”

  She nods. “I know it’s pathetic, but yeah, I do.”

  * * *

  Nix

  “Listen,” I tell Max when we get back to his house, “if this is weird, I don’t have to stay with you.” I don’t want to go anywhere else. I want to stay here, at his place. With the guy who waited by my bedroom door for me to pack a bag because he knew I wouldn’t want to be alone. But I’m beginning to feel foolish for my presumption that he wouldn’t mind me staying. “I could bunk with Krystal or something.”

  “You’re staying here. The guest bedroom is down the hall, clean sheets on the bed and everything.”

  “Thank you.” I bite my lip and go in the direction he indicated. The truth is, I don’t want to stay with any of my friends. I’m too afraid of what’s happening. I know it’s selfish, but I feel safe when Max is around. Safe and good. And if Patrick is going to ruin my life, I want to gobble up the last little bit of its goodness before it’s gone.

  After brushing my teeth and changing into my PJs—a black ribbed tank and blue cotton shorts—I crawl into bed, draw up the covers, and cling to my pillow. I can’t bring myself to turn off the light. Even though I try to go numb, the tears fill my throat.

  I don’t cry anymore, but my throat goes thick in my weaker moments. I’ve gotten very weak since I came to New Hope. This place had fooled me into believing I didn’t need to be strong anymore.

  The door clicks as someone opens it, startling me. I look up to see Max standing in the doorway. He’s dressed for bed—or undressed for bed may be a better way to put it—in navy athletic shorts that hang low on his hips, and nothing else.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  He stalks toward the bed and starts throwing my pillows to the floor while I stare at him. When I’m left with nothing but the pillow beneath my head and the pillow at the head of the empty spot next to me, he turns off the light then pulls back the covers and climbs in behind me.

  Before I can question him, he wraps his arm around my waist and spoons me against the heat of his chest.

  “Good night, Nix,” he whispers.

  That’s the kind of guy Max is. He makes space for me when I need a place to stay, and then he climbs into bed with me when he knows I’m too afraid to be alone.

  We lie in the dark in silence for a long time, but I know he’s not any closer to sleeping than I am.

  “Have you always been like this?” I ask him.

  “Like what?” The words are spoken against my neck in a puff of heat that has me squeezing my eyes shut and my legs together.

  “Maximilian Hallowell,” I say slowly, enjoying every syllable as it rolls off my tongue. “Such an appropriately knightly name. Are you always riding to the rescue of the nearest damsel in distress, Maximilian Hallowell?”

  His body shakes against my back with his silent chuckle. “Sweetheart, you’re no damsel.”

  “I’m a little bit too much of a tomboy to qualify, huh?”

  He grunts, and the arm around my waist tightens. “The night I moved in, I saw you on your back patio smoking a cigar and playing video poker. There’s no ‘little bit’ to your tomboy.”

  “You can’t tell anyone about that.” I smile despite myself. I should be embarrassed that he saw, but I like the idea of Max caring enough to watch me. “I’m a doctor.”

  “Doctors can’t be tomboys?”

  “Doctors shouldn’t smoke cigars.”

  “Your secret’s safe with me.” He presses his lips against my neck, and I melt into him. “I can be trusted with secrets, Nix. If you need someone to hold some of yours, I’m good for it.”

  I close my eyes and focus on my breathing. People say things like that. You don’t have to hide who you are with me. Or You can tell me the truth. But then they see the real you or find out your secrets, and everything changes. “Thank you for saying so.”

  “I’m not looking to rescue anyone,” he says softly. “But if you’re the one who needs saving, I’m happy to invest in a stallion and learn how to ride.”

  Just like that, the tears surge, warning me I could spend the whole night feeling suffocated with them trapped in my throat. But Max is here and I feel safe in his arms, so they simmer back down and I can breathe.

  I close my eyes, and I sleep.

  Eleven

  Nix

  He’s hard.

  When I woke up, I was convinced it was all part of a dream. I fell asleep with his arm around me, but the morning greets me with chirping birds, and his fingertips brushing the underside of my breasts through my tank, and his very hard, very impressive cock nestled against my ass.

  Dear God, please give me the strength not to move.

  Because I want to. Yes, sweet baby Jesus, I want to wriggle against him and invite him to touch me. I want to guide his hand farther north and feel his rough fingertips toying with my nipples.

  I bite my lip and keep myself as still as possible. This isn’t about me. This is just how guys wake up. I’m a doctor. I’m familiar with the physiology. And the hand resting under my breasts? I’m sure that was just an instinctive reaction to sleeping with a woman. He’s probably dreaming. He probably thinks I’m Janelle, and he’s . . .

  Oh, shit. Janelle.

  I scramble out of bed, but the sheet snags my foot and I stumble forward. I have to catch myself with my hands so I don’t face-plant on the floor. Wriggling my foot, I try to extract myself without pulling all the blankets off the bed, and when it comes free, I fall to a heap on the floor with a loud oomph.

  I’m not sure there’s a woman in the world with less grace than me. The question is, did Max see that?

  Slowly, I make myself turn back to the bed. Please still be sleeping.

  He’s not. Of course he’s not. And he’s not simply awake, either. Max has moved to the edge of the bed to watch my early morning sheet escape, and, judging by his twitching lips, he found it very entertaining.

  “So, do you always panic when you wake up in bed with a man, or am I special?”

  “You’re s
pecial, all right,” I mutter.

  Oh hell, that smile. If there were a way to telepathically alert him to the fact that he can just climb down here and do me now, I would totally do it.

  Except for Janelle. Right. Janelle. How convenient that I forgot all about her until this morning. And I sat in his lap last night.

  “How’d you sleep?” he asks.

  “Great. Fine. I mean, okay, I guess.” Better than I have in weeks. But let’s not think too hard on the reason behind that. I smile stupidly. I’m not sure what to do now. I could stand and go get ready for work. Yes, that would be good. But I don’t want to move as long as he’s looking at me. Unless he’s going to join me in the shower. In that case . . .

  Janelle. Sexy actress. His girlfriend. Or . . . kind of girlfriend. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Even if they’re not exclusive, that is the kind of woman Max needs. Not me with my metric ton of baggage and the creeper ex-boyfriend.

  “Are you going to get back in bed?” he asks.

  Is that an invitation? I swallow then force myself to breathe. Oxygen deprivation must be doing things to my brain.

  And oh, damn. He runs his gaze over my legs in a way so apparent even I can’t miss it, and my already hot cheeks crank up to inferno. There’s no way this amount of blood can rush to my face without melting off a couple of layers of skin. “I’m done sleeping.”

  His voice is all sexy and husky when he says, “Yeah, Doc. So am I.”

  “But Janelle,” I blurt.

  He sits up, groans, and drags a lazy hand through his hair. “What?”

  “Janelle. Janelle Crane. Sexy actress. Ring any bells?”

  “Do I want to know why you’re bringing another woman into this conversation?”

  “Because you had her tongue down your throat at the bonfire last night,” I say, and he flinches.

  “I wasn’t aware we had an audience.”

  “You’re with her.”

  He studies me carefully, as if he’s trying to figure me out, which is fair, since I’m sending him all the mixed signals lately. “Janelle and I were never together. Not officially.”

  “But you were dating.”

  “Dated,” he says. “As in twice—two dates. But we’re not now.”

  “Why not?”

  His eyes soften when he says, “Because I’m interested in someone else.” His gaze slowly moves down my body, as if to make certain I know he means me.

  “Me? When Janelle Crane of Roommates fame wants to screw you silly? Janelle Crane, wet dream of men everywhere? She wants you but you want me instead? Do you have issues?”

  He sighs and leans his head back against the headboard. “Did you ever wonder why I got a sitter that night? I could have walked you through the garage door repair on the phone. The eyes are an easy fix, and I knew it when you described the problem.”

  I throw up my hands in frustration. “I didn’t mean for you to go out of your way.”

  The deep rumble of his chuckle grabs my attention, and I look at him. Grinning fully now, his eyes crinkling in the corners, he climbs out of bed. “I got a sitter, Nix. I could have brought Claire.”

  I scramble to stand in front of him, and he offers a hand to help me up. “I wouldn’t have minded,” I murmur, but no matter how much I want to deny what he’s saying, it’s sinking in.

  “I didn’t have to come, but I wanted to. I didn’t need to get a sitter, but I wanted to.” He steps forward, his fingertips brushing the sensitive inside of my palm before he twines his fingers with mine. “Maybe you slept with me because I was convenient, but convenience had nothing to do with me kissing you that night. I like you, Nix. Honest to God, you’re the cutest damn thing. Your mental block about how I feel about you notwithstanding, you’re also really fucking smart. I like smart. And I like cute.” His gaze drops down past my face, neck, breasts, and nearly to the floor before it makes slow work of its return path to mine. “And I fucking love your legs. I can’t stop thinking about those legs.”

  I swallow. Hard. He’s serious. For whatever reason, he’s attracted to me in a crazy serious kind of way. And, yeah, this should have been clear about the time he was suiting up with latex in my garage, but hookups happen between normal people, right? He likes me.

  My heart squeezes hard at that revelation, and that’s what scares me—the way my heart thinks it’s been invited to this party.

  “I need to take a shower,” I say stupidly.

  His eyes burn hot on mine. “Want company?”

  “Yes,” I whisper. “But we can’t have everything we want, and Max, I can’t have you. You have a little girl who needs a family, and you have a heart that deserves forever. I’m not built for forever, and I don’t know the first thing about family. Not the good kind.”

  His nostrils flare as he draws in a sharp breath. “What happened to you? What are you hiding from?”

  I open my mouth to answer then close it. Because there’s honesty, and then there’s stripping bare and pointing out all the scars on your soul. Suddenly I’m cold, and goose bumps cover my arms and legs.

  “Have a good day,” I say. “I’ll find somewhere else to stay tonight so I’m not in your way.”

  “Nix—”

  “Don’t.” I hold up a hand.

  “Don’t what?” he asks.

  “Don’t make me want something I can’t have.”

  * * *

  Max

  As sexually frustrated as my time with Nix leaves me, I’m on track to reach epic levels of fitness by Christmas.

  I drop down from the pull-up bar and put my hands on my thighs as I crouch to catch my breath.

  Cade jumps up, grabbing the bar for his set.

  “Do you have any leads on the fire at Nix’s house?” I ask. After I ranted to him about the officer who took the report, Cade promised me he’d follow up on it himself.

  “Some,” he grunts mid pull-up.

  “And?”

  “And I can’t talk about it.”

  I force myself to take a deep breath. Of course he can’t talk to me about an ongoing investigation. What did I expect?

  “She doing okay?” he asks.

  I sit on a weight bench and lift my face to the ceiling. “I don’t think so. Despite what she says to the contrary, she’s pretty freaked out about it.”

  “Did she say why?”

  I shake my head. “We all process stress differently. She’s not exactly the type of woman who cries on your shoulder and tells you how she’s feeling.”

  He arches a brow. “So I’m guessing you were happy to let Nix ‘process’ her stress in your bed?”

  Will chooses that moment to join us. He grunts in response to Cade’s question. “She’d have to be willing to get in his bed for that to happen.”

  Cade takes a few swallows of water, pulls the bottle away, and frowns at me. “I thought she was your girl.”

  Will grunts again.

  “You have something to say, you can say it,” I growl.

  He holds his hands up. “Oh no, I’m not saying a word.”

  “She’s not your girl?” Cade asks.

  “Why are you so interested in my relationship status?” I ask.

  Will bites back a grin as he jumps to grab the pull-up bar, and Cade says, “I’m more interested in her status than yours.”

  I scowl. “It’s complicated.”

  “How would you feel about me asking her out?” Cade asks.

  Is this guy serious? “How would you feel about me kicking you in the nuts?”

  * * *

  Nix

  It’s just a house. It can’t pull you back into the past, and it cannot control you. It’s just a house.

  I force my shaking hands to slide the key into the lock.

  Cade called me today and told me they’re concerned enough about the fire that they’re going to have a patrol car drive by the house every hour or two the next couple of days. I appreciate the gesture, but if I believed police could protect me from the likes
of Patrick, I wouldn’t be the hot mess I’ve been since I saw his reflection in my mirror.

  When I open the door, the alarm beeps at me in its steady high-pitched warning tone. I disable it with slow, steady movements, but I can’t breathe until the door is locked behind me and the alarm system is re-enabled.

  I listen for the four reassuring beeps that indicate the system is armed, then I slide down the wall and cradle my head in my hands, all my courage eaten up by walking in my own front door.

  “Are you okay?”

  The words make me jump, and I swing toward the voice so fast I knock my arm against the doorjamb. “Shit!”

  A woman steps out of the dark living room and into the foyer, toying with her long braid of sandy blond hair.

  “Mom?” The word slips from my lips before I can stop it, and she smiles. She’s too young to be my mother, but she looks so much like her it makes my chest ache. “Amy,” I say, correcting myself.

  “Phoenix.” She wrinkles her nose as she watches me rub the back of my arm. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” She offers me her hand, and I stare at it as if she’s trying to get me to engage in some strange foreign custom. “How have you been?”

  I shove my hands into my pants pockets and ignore her hand. “How did you get in here?”

  She gives a coy smile. “I have skills, remember?”

  Right. How could I forget?

  She lifts her palms. “No hug?”

  I arch a brow and try to keep my cool, but my stomach is in knots. “I don’t hug people who break into my home.”

  “I guess I deserve that.” Her eyes are all over me, studying my face, then my hair, then my jacket and black skirt, even down to my shoes, as if she’s cataloguing it all. She probably is. And she probably searched my house before I got home and helped herself to anything of value she could use.

  But there’s not a damn thing in this house I care about as much as the girl in front of me.

  I cross my arms and rub the goose bumps covering my flesh. “Why are you here?”