Playing with Fire

by Lexi Ryan

Avoiding Max’s eyes, I make a beeline for the door and go straight to the spare room.

  “Nix,” he calls behind me, the door thumping as he throws it closed.

  “Yeah?” I gather my pajamas. It’s late, and I have early rounds at the hospital. I’m going to take a shower, climb in bed, and pray for a couple of hours of uninterrupted shuteye. But when I turn toward the hall, Max is filling the doorway.

  “You went on a date with Cade?”

  I shrug. “He took me to dinner. It was no big deal.”

  “And he’s going to call you?”

  Another shrug. “He’s a nice guy, but it’s not anything serious. I’m not interested in serious.” I duck under his arm and into the hallway, but before I even make it a step in the direction of the bathroom, Max has me in his arms, his mouth coming down on mine.

  The kiss starts angry but softens as quickly as it began, and because I’m helpless against this man, I soften too, opening under him and reveling in the feel of him invading my mouth. Every sweep of his tongue sends another thousand nerve endings sizzling, and his touch is so electric it’s a wonder I don’t combust under it.

  When he pulls away, his eyes aren’t warm like they usually are when he’s been kissing me. They’re hot, burning with the dangerous cocktail of arousal and frustration. “You come alive when I touch you, but turn away every time I try to step closer. You sleep in my bed but shut down every time I ask about your past. You’ve never let me take you out, but fucking Cade gets to date you?”

  I spin on my heel and start toward the guest bathroom, but Max grabs my wrist and stops me. It’s not the strength of his grip that keeps me from moving forward—I could escape it. And it’s not the anger in his question that has me wanting to run—I don’t fear him. I stand trapped between the will of my heart and the warning in my brain. I steady my gaze on the dark hardwood floor. “What do you want from me?”

  “What I want?” He steps closer, and when I look up his eyes are blazing. “I want to know why you’re scared to let me close. I want to know what this could be if we gave it a chance. I want to know what you hide under your shirt and what keeps you awake when everyone else is sleeping. I want to know who hurt you and why you let him have your heart but you keep pushing me away.”

  But those are all the things I don’t ever want you to know. “I wouldn’t know where to start,” I whisper.

  “Start with Kent. What happened with him?”

  I turn to face him and lift my chin. “He’s the man I was supposed to marry, and when he learned the answer to all those questions you’re asking now, he left me.”

  “Then he’s a fool.”

  “You don’t know where I come from.”

  “Try me.”

  I should. I should cut open my guts and spill them at his feet. Then he could send me away, and I wouldn’t have to wait for that inevitable heartbreak anymore. But I’m a coward, so I drop my gaze to where his fingers hold my wrist and say, “Let me go.”

  * * *

  Thirteen years ago . . .

  “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Onetwothreefourfivesixseveneight. Onetwothreefourfivesixseveneight. Onetwothreefourfivesixseveneight.” I’m huddled in the corner of my bedroom, my calendar on my lap wet with tears. My hands haven’t stopped shaking since I started counting. My vision blurs but I count again. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Please no. Please.”

  Dropping the calendar to the floor, I wrap my arms around my legs and rock myself slowly, the number of weeks since my last period like a sick chant inside my head.

  Onetwothreefourfivesixseveneight. Onetwothreefourfivesixseveneight. Onetwothreefourfivesixseveneight.

  Sixteen

  Nix

  “Champagne and massage lessons.” Liz hoists her glass of bubbly into the air with a grin. “Here’s to the most brilliant business idea you’ve had all year, Cally.”

  We’re all gathered at William Bailey’s art gallery, where Cally just held a women-only class on the art of sensual massage. The idea was to teach them what to do and how to do it so they could go home and surprise their husbands, boyfriends, girlfriends, or what have you, and everyone seemed to love it.

  William was happy to allow the women to use his gallery, which makes sense, since Cally’s massage studio is located directly above it. Hanna provided the snacks from her bakery, and of course all the other Thompson sisters and I came to support her. I may have picked up a few ideas too.

  Cally grins into her own glass of champagne and shakes her head. “I’m not sure how brilliant it is to teach women how to massage their lovers. This town isn’t that big, and if I’m a decent teacher I’m at risk of losing clients.”

  William grunts. He only joined us once the event was over and has been dutifully putting away folding chairs and tables while the girls gab. “No offense to your lesson plan, Cal, but sensual massages rarely result in the therapeutic benefits of a visit with you.”

  Krystal giggles. “Truth. These ladies will spend ten minutes rubbing on their honeys and be ready for a different kind of action.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with that,” Maggie says. “Cally’s doing a public service.”

  “Hey,” Will says, “I’m not knocking it. I’m just saying Cally’s client list isn’t in any danger from nights like these. And anyway, she has a gift.” He presses a kiss to her forehead and grins.

  Damn. They’re cute together. More than cute. Amazing. Perfect. Beautiful.

  When I moved to New Hope, I didn’t believe love like theirs was real. I thought it was a myth perpetuated by millions of people desperate to believe. Like kids who believe in Santa, despite all the evidence to the contrary.

  But then I met all of these wonderful and unlikely couples with their wonderful and unlikely happy endings in this town where wonderful and unlikely things seem to happen every day.

  I’m jerked from my thoughts when Liz blurts, “Sam wants to have a baby,” and we all turn to gape at her.

  “But you aren’t even married yet,” Hanna says.

  “You had the twins before you were engaged to Nate,” Liz says, “and you’re the one who’s already knocked up again.”

  Hanna throws up her hands. “You don’t have to get defensive. I have no room to talk in terms of how things should be done. It’s hard, Lizzy.”

  Cally shrugs. “She’s right. It is hard. Not marriage, not really. That’s the easy part. But trying to make time for that marriage when you’re juggling midnight feedings and doctor appointments and your own career. You focus so much on the babies you forget that you also have a marriage that needs tending.”

  Lizzy’s eyes go big. “Are you guys okay?”

  Hanna and Cally look at each other and laugh.

  “We’re fine,” Hanna says. “This is just real life and it’s awesome in all its imperfection, but we want for you to enjoy yourselves as long as possible without kids.”

  “So we can live vicariously,” Cally says, giggling.

  “I’d like to see Sam with a baby,” Will says. “Nothing more humbling than having a six-month-old who’s in total control of you.”

  I busy myself by filling the sink to hand-wash the champagne glasses, and think wonderful and unlikely.

  No matter how much I like Max, I can’t count on the wonderful and unlikely. I don’t just have imperfections. I have secrets and scars. Ugly ones. And I can’t even imagine a life where my biggest worry is whether to get pregnant on my wedding night or a year later.

  The girls are emptying the bottle of champagne when Liz clears her throat. She looks to me, then Hanna, who looks to me and back to Liz.

  Krystal snorts. “Just ask her.”

  “Ask me what?”

  “We were wondering . . .” Hanna begins.

  “If you’re going to use your new skills on Max,” Liz finishes.

  Will coughs on his beer and holds up a hand. “I think that’s my cue to exit this conversation.”

  He steps away
, but Cally wraps her fingers around his wrist and yanks him back. “Don’t you dare run away now, William Bailey. You’re Max’s best friend. We need your input.”

  Will arches a brow and it disappears under his mop of messy curls. “On massaging Max?”

  Cally smacks him in the chest with the back of her hand. “On whether or not Nix should seduce him. You talk to him. What does he say about her?”

  He cuts his eyes to me, and then looks back to his wife. “You girls do realize that guys don’t sit around and share their feelings and fantasies with each other, right?”

  “Sure they do,” Liz says. “Just like girls get together and have pillow fights in our nighties. Now spill.”

  “No,” I interrupt. “Please don’t spill.”

  “Just tell us what you do know,” Cally says, releasing his arm.

  “No,” I say at the same time as all the other girls shout, “Yes!”

  Will groans and rubs the back of his neck. “Fine.” He turns to me. “He’s my best friend. I’ve known him all my life. He likes you, Nix, and he’s been so focused on his daughter the last couple of years, I think he’s forgotten what it’s like to do anything completely for himself.”

  “See?” Liz screeches. “He needs your sweet lovin’.”

  Will shakes his head and drags a hand through his hair. “I knew I should have gotten out of here early.”

  Hanna narrows her eyes and studies me. “What’s holding you back?”

  “I have—” Ugh. There are too many eyes on me to have this conversation. “Baggage.”

  Cally and Will exchange a look, and she laughs. “I know a thing or two about baggage.”

  “I know.” I smile politely. “Everyone has problems, right?”

  Cally shakes her head. “Listen to me. You are not your past. You are bigger than your past and you are better than your past. Let it be part of who you’ve become, but don’t you dare let it define you.”

  “Do you know what he’s doing right now?” I ask. “He’s building a tree house for his daughter.”

  “The asshole,” Will mutters.

  I scowl at him. “I’m saying he’s the kind of guy who builds a tree house for his daughter.”

  Hanna props her hands on her hips. “So?”

  “He’s the kind of guy who asks how my day was and really listens when I answer.”

  “Sounds just awful,” Will mutters. “Surely you could do better.”

  The girls laugh, but I shake my head. They’re not understanding. “He’s the kind of guy who holds me when I’m sad. The kind who makes me feel safe.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “So safe I could let my guard down without even realizing it.”

  “Nix,” Liz says softly, and her arms come around me. “Sweetie. What are you trying to protect yourself from?”

  “Maybe I’m trying to protect him. Maybe he’s the one who deserves better.”

  “Fucking women,” Will mutters, and Cally smacks him in the middle of his chest. “What?”

  “Don’t be a misogynist,” Cally says.

  “I just think all this trying-to-protect-the-guy-from-herself stuff is ridiculous. He’s a grown man and he’s going to make his own decisions. If you respect him, you’ll respect that.”

  Liz nods. “In other words, say, ‘Fuck it. Life’s too short!’ and leave the baggage at the curb long enough to screw him silly.”

  Will lifts both hands, palms facing us. “I’m out.”

  * * *

  Nix

  I found it. I found the most beautiful thing.

  When I was dating Kent, we traveled as often as we could. We stole time wherever possible. A long weekend in Paris, spring vacation in Rome, and Christmas in Chile.

  During those trips, I would take pictures of the most beautiful spot or thing I saw in each place. I tried to avoid the obvious, like the Eiffel Tower or the Sistine Chapel. Instead, I opted for the beauty in the living part of the city.

  I took a picture of a restaurant chair where I’d seen a three-year-old girl with her arms slung around the neck of her elderly grandmother in Rome.

  In Paris, I took one of an alleyway where we’d seen a couple making out. It had been raining and everyone was hustling to get out of the streets, but those two didn’t even seem to notice. Her head was tilted to the side and his mouth was on her neck. I watched them from under the awning of a patisserie while the rain showered them until their clothes were saturated. I told Kent I wanted to get a picture of that spot before the sun dried the rain from the streets. He was obliging but a little awkward about it. Then I realized he thought I wanted to make out there. But I didn’t want to duplicate their experience. I just wanted a photo of the spot. A memory of a beautiful moment.

  Now, my fingers itch for my camera because Max is in his backyard, building a tree house for Claire. The beauty isn’t just in the man’s body—though he’s working shirtless, and God knows I’m not complaining about the way his muscles bunch and strain as he positions the wood and nails it into place—but in everything this moment says about him. Just. Beautiful.

  “Need another beer, man?” someone calls behind me, making me jump. “Oh, hey, Nix.”

  Sam comes out of the garage with a bottle of beer in each hand. “Is that for me?” I ask.

  He hands one to me and grins. “Why not? Max can get his own beer.”

  I take a long pull and shift my gaze to Max’s bare back as he nails more boards into place.

  “Looks good, doesn’t it?” Sam says.

  “Mm-hmm.”

  For the first time, Max looks over at us and notices I’m here. He grins, and I melt. Because damn.

  Sam clears his throat. “Um, no offense to my buddy over there, but you do know I’m referring to the tree house, right?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  Another throat clear. “I think I’ll get out of here.” He lifts a hand to Max. “See you tomorrow.”

  Max waves to his friend. “Thanks for your help, Sam.”

  “No problem,” Sam says. “Call me any time you need help getting it finished.”

  As soon as Sam leaves, Cade appears in the doorway to the garage. He’s also shirtless, and I can’t help but do a mental comparison of the men.

  Cade is smoking. I mean, hard body, narrow hips, nice smile, and bedroom eyes to seal the deal. But he doesn’t make my tummy do that free-fall, flip-flop thing that Max does.

  He runs his eyes over me from hairline to sandals. “Any more problems since we last talked?” he asks, his voice low.

  “Nothing. Did you find him?”

  “There was an issue with tracking him down.” He shifts his eyes to where Max is working then back to me, ensuring his words will remain private. “The Patrick McCane you described doesn’t exist.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? Are you saying the fire in my yard started itself? That the phone calls didn’t really happen?” I sound defensive. Panicked. All I can do is stand here and try to breathe.

  “That’s not what I’m saying,” Cade says. “I’m saying there’s no public record of a male aged twenty-nine to thirty-two with that name. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t someone trying to intimidate you.” He lifts his palms. “Maybe he was operating under a false identity.”

  “Operating? He was an eighteen-year-old kid, not some grown man hustling me.”

  Cade sighs. “Or, it’s possible, since it was so long ago, that you misremembered his name.”

  I shake my head. That name is burned on my brain. I didn’t misremember anything.

  “Is there anything else you can tell me, Nix?” Cade asks. “Where did he go to school? Who were his parents?”

  “He was . . . homeschooled.” More or less.

  “You said he was around eighteen when you started dating. Was he registered for college somewhere? Who were his best friends?”

  More questions I don’t want to answer. Because the truth is this: I may have found the courage to ask for help finding Patrick, but I don’t have the courage
to take it to the next step by opening the doors to my past.

  “You know what? Let’s drop it. Nothing has happened all week. Whoever was trying to freak me out has clearly gotten bored with their mission.”

  “Nix—”

  I shake my head. “I’m sorry I bothered you about this, Cade, but please let it go. Half of it was probably paranoia anyway.”

  “What is it that you don’t want anyone knowing? Why are you holding back?”

  “Why do you assume I am?”

  “I think we’re done here,” Max says, his voice hard and closer than before.

  I look over Cade’s bare shoulder and see Max standing on the patio behind him, his arms folded across his chest, irritation all over his face.

  Cade doesn’t step back right away. Instead, he drops his gaze to my mouth and holds it there for a long beat. “You have to decide if you really want help,” he finally says, his voice so soft I’m sure Max can’t hear. “I can’t help if you’re hiding details I could use to find this guy.”

  I don’t bother replying, because Max is on his way over to me.

  “I’ll show myself out,” Cade says, giving Max one of those chin-lift things they must teach in Hot Guy School. “Nix, call me if you want to talk more.” Then he’s gone, and Max is looking at me with narrowed eyes.

  “Are you two going out again?”

  I shrug and force a smile. “We’re just friends.”

  He scowls. “Like you and I are just friends?”

  I bite back my smile. He’s jealous, and I am a very shallow girl for enjoying that fact. I ignore his question. “You look hot.” My gaze dips to his bare chest and flat stomach, all coated in a thin sheen of perspiration.

  Max smirks. “You’re pretty hot yourself. Have a good time tonight?” He takes the beer from my hand and downs half of it.

  My eyes are glued to his throat as he swallows. Can this man make everything into an obscenely sexy gesture? “Mm-hmm.”

  “How was your class? Sam said Cally was giving massage lessons?”

  My cheeks heat, and I ball my fists to keep myself from pressing my hands against them. “I was just helping.”