Lone Hearted Fire Captain (Not Looking for Love #11)

Chapter 1

IKE

The high school parking lot is almost empty when I pull in, which means I'm early.

Story of my life. Fifteen years as a fire captain has drilled punctuality into me so deep it's practically a personality disorder.

I kill the engine and check my phone.

Wade sent a text ten minutes ago.

Thanks again for picking up Riley this week, man. I owe you a six-pack.

I'd texted back a thumbs up, but he knows I’d do anything to help him out. And I wouldn’t leave his fourteen-year-old stranded after soccer practice. Wade's going to have a hell of a week—dispatch has him running hauls that don't get him home until eight most nights.

So I'm on Riley duty.

Pick her up, feed her, and make sure she’s safe until her dad's done for the day.

It's not a hardship. I like the kid. She's smart, funny, gives me shit the way only a teenage girl can.

She calls me Uncle Ike even though there's no blood between us.

It started when she was six and couldn't figure out what else to call her dad's best friend who was always there, showing up for birthdays and school plays.

I could wait in the truck…scroll through emails, answer the texts from Aiden about the meal he's planning for the next station dinner this weekend.

But I'm restless, my skin tight in a way I can't explain. Probably too many hours behind a desk today, and not enough getting my hands dirty.

So I get out and walk toward the soccer field.

The afternoon sun is doing its best to cut through the February chill—one of those rare mild days where Montana pretends spring might actually come on time.

The golden hour light makes everything look softer than it is, but I can hear the coach's whistle, the thud of cleats on grass, girls shouting to each other across the field.

I spot Riley first. She's running drills on the far side, her dark ponytail whipping behind her as she cuts around a cone.

She's gotten good. I feel a weird swell of pride at that, like I have any right to claim credit for her athletic ability.

Then my gaze drifts to the sideline.

And every coherent thought in my head just...stops, throwing everything into slow motion.

The coach is pacing along the edge of the field, blowing that whistle, shouting instructions I can't hear over the sudden roar of blood in my ears.

She's wearing dark, form-fitting leggings that cling to legs that go on for-fucking-ever—lean and toned, the kind of legs that make a man trip over himself.

Underneath a tiny unzipped hoodie, she has on an athletic tank top that hugs her body in a way that makes me sweat.

She's fit, but soft in all the right places with curves that her athletic wear only accentuates.

I'm looking at the sweet swell of her breasts under the fabric, and I'm officially going to hell.

She's got this tawny blonde hair pulled back in a high ponytail that bounces when she moves. Even from here, I can see she's pretty. More than pretty, fucking stunning in that effortless way that young women are before the beauty industry convinces them otherwise.

Young.

The word hits me like cold water.

She's way too young.

I'm forty-six, standing here like some dirty old man, staring at a woman who's probably closer to Riley's age than mine.

She's got to be mid-twenties at least, old enough to be coaching high school. But still. Still. I'm old enough to be her…nope, not finishing that thought.

I force my eyes back to the field. To soccer practice. To the girls running drills.

But my gaze keeps drifting back to her like she's magnetic north and I'm a compass that's lost all sense of direction.

She moves with such confidence and athleticism, completely in command of her domain.

There's authority in her posture. A natural presence that has nothing to do with age and everything to do with who she is.

I recognize it because I have it too.

Fuck.

Practice wraps up a few minutes later. The girls disperse toward the bleachers, grabbing bags and water bottles, the volume rising as they shift from athletes back to silly teenagers.

I hang back at the edge of the field, arms crossed over my chest, trying to look like a regular guy and not a man who just got his entire world knocked off its axis by a killer pair of legs.

The coach is talking to one of her players, a hand on her back, nodding as she listens. Then she glances up, scanning the perimeter of the field with sharp eyes, and her gaze lands on me.

She goes still for just a second, as if she’s assessing me. Her eyes narrow slightly—not totally aggressive, but alert. And protective.

Good. That's exactly what she should be. I mean, a strange man lurking at the edge of a high school soccer field? She'd be an idiot not to be wary.

She says something to the player, who nods and jogs off toward the bleachers. Then she heads straight for me, ponytail swaying with every step, and stops about five feet away with her hands on her hips.

"Hi there. Can I help you?"

Her voice is friendly enough, but there's steel underneath it. A clear subtext that says who are you and why are you watching my girls?

I like her immediately.

Dammit.

"I'm here for Riley Dawson," I say, keeping my voice even and as neutral as I can. And not affected by the fact that she's even more gorgeous up close, with her bright green eyes, full lips, and perky little nose.

She relaxes a fraction, but she's still sizing me up. “She doesn’t have anyone else on her pickup list."

"Her dad's a trucker. He got a week full of long days. I'm the backup."

"And you are...?"

"Family friend." I pause. "Uncle Ike, apparently."

The wariness fades in her expression, replaced by a spark of amusement. "Apparently?"

"She started calling me that when she was barely above my knee. It stuck."

Now she smiles—just a smidge, one corner of her mouth curving up in a way that makes me want to see the full thing. "That's sweet."

I grunt. I don't do sweet. But something about how she says it, with that teasing edge underneath...gets under my skin.

"I'm Sloane Chandler," she says, extending her hand. "I took over the soccer program this year."

Her hand is smaller than mine, but her grip is firm and confident. The brief press of her palm against mine sends heat shooting up my arm, surprising me.

"Ike Thurman."

"Nice to meet you, Ike Thurman." She holds my gaze for a beat too long before releasing my hand. "Are you from around here? I haven't seen you at any other practices."

"I’m the Captain of the Deepwood Mountain Fire Department," I say. "My shifts don't always line up with Riley’s soccer schedule."

Her eyebrows lift, and there's that spark again—curiosity or interest, maybe, but probably something I shouldn't be reading into. "Fire captain. That explains the..." She waves her hand in my direction.

I wait. "The what?"

"The whole..." There’s a smile threatening to break through, and I can see her fighting it. "Authority thing you've got going on."

I—I’m not sure what to do with that. Is she...is she flirting with me?

No. She's making casual conversation.

Even if the way she's looking at me, like she might see something most people don’t, makes my blood run hot.

"The authority thing," I repeat, deadpan.

"Mmhmm." She crosses her arms, mirroring my posture, and the movement does devious things to her ample cleavage that I’m absolutely not looking at. "You've got a very commanding presence…an I'll-take-charge-of-this-situation vibe. Fitting for a fire captain."

"I'll put that on my business cards."

She laughs and the bright, lilting sound hits me somewhere south of my sternum. "I'd love to see that."

Before I can respond—and honestly, I have no idea what I'd even say—Riley comes barreling across the field like a puppy who just spotted her favorite person.

"Uncle Ike!"

She throws her arms around me and I catch her easily, giving her a quick squeeze before setting her back. "Hey, kid. Good practice?"

"So good. Well, mostly good. Mackenzie kept hogging the ball during the scrimmage even though Coach Sloane told her to pass more, and then she got all defensive when Jenna called her out, and it was like this whole thing—"

She's off and running, a breathless recap of practice drama that I only follow about sixty percent of. But I'm aware of Sloane watching us, her expression soft.

I catch her eye over Riley's head and she doesn't look away. Just holds my gaze with that quiet steadiness, a small smile playing at her lips.

Something hot and uncomfortable curls through my gut. I look away first.

"—and then Coach had us do suicides, which was brutal, but I beat my best time, so that was cool." Riley finally pauses for breath, glancing between me and Sloane like she's just now registering that we were talking. "Wait, do you know Uncle Ike?"

"We just met a few minutes ago," Sloane says simply. "I had to make sure he wasn't some creep lurking around my field."

"Uncle Ike's not a creep." Riley wrinkles her nose at the thought. "He's like...the total opposite of a creep. He's the fire captain."

"So he mentioned." Sloane's eyes flick to me, and there's that teasing warmth again.

Riley looks between us with curious eyes, and I can practically see the gears turning in her teenage brain. She's too smart for her own good, this kid.

"I'm gonna go get my bag," she announces, in a tone that suggests she's giving us privacy on purpose.

She's gone before I can tell her to hurry up, jogging toward the bleachers where her stuff is piled.

Which leaves me alone with this young vixen.

The silence isn't awkward, exactly. It's charged. Heavy with something I’m having a hard time ignoring.

"How did you meet Riley’s dad?" she asks, zipping her hoodie up as the night cools.

“High school. We had gym together. Been inseparable since.”

She nods.

“Since it’s just Wade, he sometimes has to take extra shifts…and the less than desirable ones.” I shove my hands in the pockets of my jacket. “I just act as her chauffeur, get her fed, and keep her out of trouble until Wade comes home.”

"That's nice of you,” she says, like it's a statement of fact. Then she tilts her head, studying me with those sharp green eyes. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Captain."

The way she says Captain does something to me. Something I haven't felt in years. But it's like she knows exactly what that word does, dropped from her pretty mouth with just a hint of emphasis—respectful but teasing, acknowledging my authority while also poking at it with a tempting touch.

"Same, Coach Chandler," I manage, and my voice comes out rough.

"Call me Sloane. Please,” she replies, holding my gaze.

Riley reappears, bag slung over her shoulder, water bottle in hand. "Ready!"

"Good work today, Riley," Sloane says, her attention shifting smoothly. Like the last thirty seconds didn't just short-circuit half my brain cells. "Keep up that footwork—you were really on it during drills."

"Thanks, Coach!" Riley beams, then tugs at my arm. "Come on, Uncle Ike, I'm starving. Can we get pizza?"

I sigh. "We'll see."

"That means yes." Riley grins up at me, then waves at Sloane. "Bye, Coach Sloane! See you tomorrow!"

"See you tomorrow." Sloane's gaze slides back to me, warm and amused. "I'm sure I'll be seeing you around this week, Captain."

I nod, awareness prickling over my skin.

I turn and walk away, Riley chattering beside me about pizza toppings. I can feel Sloane's eyes on my back the whole way to the truck.

But I don't turn around.

In my truck, Riley's still talking, something about a group project and how her partner never does any work, but I'm on autopilot. Making the right noises in the right places while my brain runs circles around itself.

Sloane Chandler. New soccer coach. Confident and…witty? Way too young, with legs that could stop traffic and a smile that makes me want things I have no right wanting.

She looked at me like she knew something.

That's insane. She's twenty-something years old. She doesn't know anything about me except that I'm Riley's Uncle Ike.

But damn, the way she said Captain...

I tighten my grip on the steering wheel and force myself to focus on the road ahead and on Riley's voice filling the cab. On the normal, mundane reality of my life—dinner with my best friend's kid, an evening of homework supervision, maybe a beer on the porch while I wait for Wade.

I've spent years keeping my shit locked down tight…burying the parts of myself that don't fit in this small town, that could ruin my reputation. I'm the fire captain. I'm Uncle Ike. I'm the guy everyone trusts to keep them safe.

I don't get to want certain things. Not like this. Not her.

She's too young. Too bright. Too everything.

And I'm too old to be this stupid.

"Uncle Ike?" Riley's voice cuts through my spiral. "You okay? You're being weird."

"I'm fine." I glance over at her, and give her a silly face. "Just thinking about work stuff."

She chuckles, then narrows her eyes at me—that bullshit detector all teenagers seem to come equipped with—but lets it go. "Okay, but you're still getting me pizza, right?"

"Yeah, kid. I'm still getting you pizza."

“Yes!” she cheers, settling back in her seat, satisfied, and goes back to scrolling through her phone.

I keep my eyes on the road and try very hard not to think about a tawny blonde ponytail and tight leggings and my name on Sloane's lips.

It doesn't work.