Chapter 5
IKE
Come find out who wants to be your valentine, Captain.
— Hopefully Yours
I've read the card so many times the paper is starting to soften at the edges. My living room floor probably has worn down from where I've paced back and forth until my feet hurt. I've started to get dressed and stopped myself…then talked myself into going, then talked myself right back out of it.
I’m verging on insanity.
I don't chase anonymous valentines to roadhouse bars like some lovesick fool.
But these letters...
I close my eyes, and the words from the previous cards scroll through my mind like a fever dream.
I think about your hands, Captain. I want to call you Daddy and watch your control finally snap.
Christ.
I've jerked off more times this week than I have in months…in the shower with the water running hot, my hand wrapped around my cock. In bed at night, biting back groans as I stroked myself to the thought of her on her knees, looking up at me.
I've even done it once in my office at the station…door locked, hand shoved down my pants, coming into a fistful of tissues like some goddamn teenage boy while my crew was two rooms away.
I'm not proud of that one.
But I couldn't help it.
Yep, the man known for control has completely lost it.
My brain has been running through possibilities of who it could be all week.
Could it be someone from town who's admired me from afar?
A woman I met at some community event and don't remember?
A firefighter groupie—yes, they exist, if Aiden and Jasper's extensive personal research has anything to do with it.
Not Sloane. It can't be.
She's sunshine and sharp wit and legs that go on forever, and she has absolutely no reason to be interested in a graying, emotionally constipated fire captain who's twice her age.
It's not her. I've convinced myself of that. The timing is just coincidental.
But god, if only it was her.
My phone chimes.
At MacKenzie's! We made heart-shaped pizzas.
A photo comes through of a surprisingly decent heart-shaped pizza pie.
Happy Valentine's Day Uncle Ike!!
Nice job! Happy Valentine's Day, kid. Don't stay up too late.
Ok boomer
I chuckle and set the phone aside.
There’s no pickup duty tonight…or any other obligations. It’s just me and this invitation and the empty house pressing in around me.
I think about the loneliness and the silence. All the years I’ve spent denying myself because I was afraid of judgment, afraid of rejection, and afraid of wanting things a man like me isn’t supposed to want.
But I’m tired of being afraid.
Even if this turns out to be awkward, even if it’s someone I’m not interested in, I owe it to myself to show up. To try. To do something for me for once.
I look at the card again.
Come find out who wants to be yours.
Fuck it.
I grab my keys and head for the truck.
Bear Creek Tavern is exactly what you'd expect from a roadhouse a short drive outside of town—neon beer signs glowing in the windows, classic rock drifting from the sound system, the smell of grilled meat and fried food hanging in the air.
The parking lot is nearly full, a mix of pickup trucks and motorcycles, and the crowd inside is eclectic in a way that only highway bars can manage.
I push through the door, aware that I might look out of place. I’m in dark jeans and a charcoal gray sweater that a woman once told me looked great with my eyes, and a splash of my best cologne. I wanted nice, but not trying too hard—or at least that’s what I told myself in the mirror.
Scanning the room, I see couples in booths, some guys at the bar watching a game, a group of burly bikers in the corner celebrating something with drinks and laughter. No one who looks like they're waiting for someone.
I check my watch. I’m early. Doesn’t surprise me.
I order a beer at the bar and take it to a booth toward the back, positioning myself where I can see the door. My heart is pounding harder than it should be. I feel like I'm about to run into a burning building, except what's waiting for me on the other side is ten times more frightening.
I take a long pull of my beer, hoping to settle my nerves.
The door opens, and there she is…Sloane.
Impossible.
She's not in her coaching gear. Instead of a ponytail, leggings, and whistle around her neck, she's wearing fitted jeans that hug every god given curve, ankle boots, and a soft leafy green sweater that’s buttoned up just before her sexy cleavage. Heavens, I could dive right in.
Her hair is down, waves of tawny blonde tumbling past her shoulders. She's wearing makeup—only enough to make those green eyes pop and her lips look full and soft and infinitely kissable.
She looks like my ultimate fantasy.
She spots me immediately, and smiles.
It's knowing and confident, but maybe a little nervous around the edges.
I get up from the booth. My dad taught me to stand when a lady enters the room.
She walks straight toward me, and when she’s close enough to touch, she stops.
"Happy Valentine's Day, Captain." Her voice wraps around me like smoke.
"It was you," I say, still trying to believe it.
"It was me." There’s no shame in her gaze as those gorgeous eyes take me in. “May I…give you a hug?” she asks.
“Of course,” I reply, unable to deny such a sweet request.
She steps forward, sliding her arms around me, and I stop breathing.
She fits against me like she was designed to be there, her head tucking perfectly under my chin, her breasts pressing into my chest. She’s warm and soft and she smells like flowers carried on the breeze. I’d nuzzle my face into her hair if it was appropriate. But it’s not…not yet.
Still, I hold her longer than I should.
When we separate, her cheeks are flushed.
I stare at her, my brain trying to catch up with reality.
I'd convinced myself it wasn't her. Told myself a thousand reasons why it couldn't be.
But some part of me—the part that noticed every glance, savored every teasing word, and replayed every moment of her saying Captain in that particular tone—always knew.
"You knew," she says softly. "Didn't you?"
"I suspected." I clear my throat. "I told myself I was wrong."
"Why?"
Because you're twenty-three. Because you're beautiful and bright and could have anyone.
"Because it seemed too good to be true," I say instead.
Something in her eyes goes soft. "I wanted you to come because of the letters and how they made you feel, not because of who you thought wrote them."
That hits me somewhere deep inside. She wanted me to want this—the dynamic, the connection, the things she described in those cards—not just her pretty face.
"Well, I'm here," I say. "Because of both."
Her smile widens, and she gestures to the booth. “Then let's get to know one another better, shall we?”
“Let’s,” I reply. We slide in on opposite sides, as a waitress appears. I order a club sandwich with fries and Sloane gets the chicken fried steak with mashed potatoes…after finding out the gravy is homemade. And I find her unreasonable excitement over it adorable.
The conversation flows easier than I expect—she tells me about growing up in Atlanta, her single mom working two jobs, how soccer saved her from a lot of bad choices.
And I tell her about my dad, about losing him, about my job becoming everything because it was easier than dealing with the grief.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, Ike,” she says, sliding her hand over mine.
Normally, I’d pull it away, uncomfortable with sitting in the emotion. But with Sloane, it feels…good.
We talk about Riley, about the team, about the drama between her, Mackenzie, and Jenna and a group of boys on the volleyball team.
I’lll have to remember to tell Wade about this so we can keep tabs on them.
She makes me laugh, deeply and loudly, surprising myself.
But underneath the pleasant conversation, there's a current running between us. Every time our eyes meet, I swear it crackles. Every accidental touch, whether it be her leg under the table or the brush of our arms when we both reach for our drinks has my heart rate spiking.
She reaches across to steal one of my fries, and before I can think, my hand wraps around her wrist.
Her breath hitches and her eyes go wide.
"You ask first, sweetheart," I say, in a rough whisper.
The flush that spreads across her cheeks is ravishing. She wets her lips, and when she speaks, her voice is low. "May I have a fry…Captain?"
The word goes straight to my cock. I hold her gaze, letting the tension stretch. Then I release her wrist with a slow stroke of my thumb across her pulse point. "You may."
She takes the fry and bites into it without breaking eye contact.
We both know what just happened, and it’s hard not to keep smiling.
For the rest of dinner, it seems every look is loaded. I notice the way she bites her lip when I drop my voice. She notices the way my eyes track to her mouth.
By the time our plates are cleared, I’m so on edge I debate running to the restroom to relieve the ache. But I manage to take a few breaths to steady myself.
When the check comes, she reaches for it.
I give her a look that makes her hand freeze mid-air. "I've got it."
"Ike—"
"Sloane." It’s just her name, but it's a warning.
She sits back, that pretty flush returning. "Yes, sir."
Christ. This woman is going to be the death of me.
I pay, leaving a generous tip, and walk her to her car with my hand hovering at the small of her back.
I open the door for her and she pauses before getting in.
"Thank you for coming tonight," she says, her voice puffing a cloud in the cold night air. "It took a lot of courage."
I give her a smile. "I'm glad I came. And I insist on following you home," I say. "To make sure you get there safely."
She raises an eyebrow. "I’m fully capable of driving myself home, Ike.”
"I know you are, Sloane." I hold her gaze. "It’s for my peace of mind."
Something in her relaxes, like a knot coming undone.
"Okay," she whispers. “If you insist.”