3. Banks
I’m a goddamn mess.
My best friend’s had some stupid fucking ideas over the years, but this has gotta be his worst.
Living with his little sister for the next three months?
If he knew how bad I want to fuck her, I doubt he’d have been so quick to offer her couch up to me.
But turning down this opportunity would’ve been moronic, so here I am, lifting my shaking hand to knock on Clover James’s door.
I've just spent forty-eight hours battling a four-alarm warehouse fire. My muscles are screaming, and my brain feels like sludge. Now I’m about to be face-to-face with the one woman in Portland who makes my heart pound like I've sprinted up ten flights of stairs in full turnout gear whenever she looks at me.
Kasen warned me she wasn't exactly thrilled about this arrangement. I was exactly zero percent surprised when he warned me to, and I quote, "Be on your best fucking behavior or she'll stab you in your sleep." Which is fair. The number of times I've deliberately gotten under Clover's skin just to watch her cheeks flush and her blue eyes narrow into that cute glare? I'd deserve it.
It's just so damn fun.
I adjust the duffel bag on my shoulder and knock three times, hard enough to be heard but not enough to seem demanding. The door swings open halfway through the third knock, and every coherent thought in my head just fucking vanishes. Gone.
She stands in front of me in a pair of criminally small sleep shorts and a tank top with a popsicle on it. Underneath, it says It’s Not Gonna Lick Itself and fuck, my mouth waters. I’d give my right arm to lick it for her. Don’t even care what part of her it is.
Her black hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun that's listing dangerously to one side, a few strands escaping to curl against her neck. Without her usual makeup, the freckles across her nose and cheeks are fully visible.
The sight of her in those tiny shorts sends a jolt of raw, primitive hunger through me. My fingers fucking ache to grab her hips, to mark that pale skin with my mouth, my teeth, my hands. I want to claim her in ways that’d get me buried alive if Kasen ever found out. But goddamn it, I want her so bad it scares me.
She looks soft. Approachable. Nothing like the sharp-tongued bartender who rolls her eyes at my jokes and acts like I don’t exist.
My throat goes dry. “Hey, Freckles.”
Her eyes narrow. “Don’t call me that.”
I clear my throat, biting back the urge to rile her up. “Sorry.” I’m not sorry, but I’m too fucking exhausted to deal with her wrath right now. “Clover.”
She steps back, gesturing for me to enter with a stiff wave of her hand. My gaze snags on how her shirt rides up, exposing a sliver of pale skin and those indecent shorts that make my lungs seize. Feels like I just sucked in a lungful of smoke—every nerve in my body locks on that tease of bare flesh. I swallow hard before I embarrass myself.
I force my eyes up, catching the slight widening of her eyes as she takes in my appearance.
"You look like hell," she says and then bites her lip like she didn’t mean to blurt out the first thought that popped into her head. There's something beneath the bluntness, too. Concern, maybe. Though she'd probably rather set herself on fire than admit it.
"There was a warehouse fire in the industrial district. Just came off a double." I drop my duffel inside the door and roll my shoulders, wincing at the protest from my overworked muscles. "Place went up like it was made of matchsticks and soaked in gasoline. We almost lost two guys when a support beam collapsed."
For a split second, the mask slips, and genuine worry flickers across her face. "Is everyone okay?"
“Yeah. We got ’em out.” I leave out that I was one of the ones who went back in. That I can still feel the heat of the flames licking at my turnout gear, hear the roar of the fire as it consumed everything in its path. Or that I'd spend another forty-eight hours in that inferno if it meant someone's dad made it home to his kids.
She nods once, then produces a sheet of paper from nowhere. "These are the house rules. I expect you to follow them."
I blink at the color-coded bullet points. Jesus. She typed them out like a goddamn operations manual.
“You color-coded them,” I say, a half-smile tugging at my mouth despite my exhaustion.
"Red for hard non-negotiables, yellow for important but flexible, green for preferences." She crosses her arms over her chest, which does interesting things to her t-shirt. Things I shouldn't be noticing if I want to keep all my limbs. "It's efficient."
I skim the list, my amusement growing with each item.
Rule #1: NO bringing women back to the apartment. EVER.
(Bold, underlined, and in red)
Rule #2: Quiet hours are from 8 AM-12 PM and 6 PM-9 PM.
(So she can sleep after her night shifts and studying, I'm guessing)
Rule #3: Wipe down all kitchen surfaces immediately after use.
(Not even a five-minute grace period?)
Rule #4: Do NOT move the plants under any circumstances.
Rule #5: If you eat any of the emergency chocolate stash, replace it within 24 hours or suffer dire consequences.
(Which, coming from a five-foot-four force of nature, could mean anything.)
“What counts as a ‘dire consequence’?” I glance up from the paper to find her watching me closely.
“You don’t want to find out.” She tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Any questions before I show you where you’ll be sleeping?”
I hold up the paper. "Do I need to sign this in blood, or...?"
"Don't tempt me, Priestly." But there's the faintest quirk at the corner of her mouth that might, if I squint real hard, be the ghost of a smile.
She leads me through the apartment, which is exactly what I'd expect from Clover James—spotless, organized, and much warmer than she pretends to be. There are exposed brick walls, bright throw pillows, and plants fucking everywhere. Every bookshelf is organized by color, creating a rainbow effect that somehow looks pretty instead of lame. The kitchen gleams with neat countertops and labeled canisters.
I’m almost afraid to touch anything.
“Bathroom’s there.” She points to a door off the living room. “My room is on the other side. The couch is a futon and pulls out into a bed. I set fresh sheets on the chair for you.”
“Thanks.” It’s a simple gesture, but after two weeks of grabbing sleep on my buddy’s dingy floor, I could kiss her for it. An actual bed sounds like heaven.
As much as I love to fuck with her, she really is doing me a solid here.
She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, and I notice she's barefoot. Her toenails are panted a sparkly blue. It's so unexpectedly intimate, seeing her guard down like this, that I have to look away before I pop a boner picturing all the things we could do naked.
Since apparently, I’m desperate enough for her that bare feet equal nakedness.
"Hungry?" she asks abruptly.
I realize I can't remember the last time I ate something. "Starving."
"I made sourdough last night. Grilled cheese okay?"
"You bake?" For some reason, this surprises me. How did my obsession with all things Clover not uncover that she likes to bake?
"When I'm stressed." Her eyes flick to mine, daring me to say something. If I wasn’t so tired, I would. "I spent most of last night baking after Kasen dropped this ‘Hey, my bestie’s living with you now’ bomb on me yesterday.”
"I can find somewhere else—"
"It's fine." She waves me off like it’s nothing. “I said yes, didn't I? It's done."
She moves into the kitchen, and I follow, watching this girl I’ve known since she was a mouthy teenager. I’ve seen Clover James roll her eyes at drunk idiots, slam down shots like water, and handle troublemakers with the same gives no fucks attitude she handles everything else with. But here in her own kitchen, there’s a softness I’m not used to seeing as she pulls out bread, butter, and cheese.
She made homemade fucking sourdough, for Christ’s sake.
"You can sit," she says, nodding toward the small table tucked against the wall. "Unless you want to shower first. You smell like a campfire."
“Hazards of the job.” I run a hand through my hair, grimacing at the gritty feel. “I’ll clean up after. If I jump in hot water now, I’m pretty sure I’ll pass out face-first in my sandwich.” I do get up and wash my hands, though.
She nods, her movements precise as she slices bread that looks like something from a magazine. "How bad was it? The fire."
Part of me wants to play it off, but there’s an undercurrent of real concern in her voice that tugs an honest answer out of me. “Bad. It was an old building with a shit ton of chemicals stored improperly. We're lucky it didn't spread to the neighboring structures." My eyes follow her hands as she butters the bread. Which, of course, makes me think of how her fingers would feel against my skin—something I definitely shouldn’t be thinking about right now. “One of our probies got lost in the smoke. I had to go after him.”
Her head snaps up, eyes wide. “You went back in?”
“It’s part of the job,” I say, shrugging like it’s no big deal.
For a second, she just stares, something flickering in her gaze I can’t pin down. Finally, she turns back to the stove. “That’s… brave.”
It’s the closest thing to a compliment I’ve ever gotten from her. “Nah. Just what needed to be done.”
Silence falls between us as she cooks, but it's not uncomfortable. I lean my head back against the wall, closing my eyes. The faint sound of bread sizzling in butter makes my stomach rumble. Even through the smell of smoke seeping off my skin—that stench that never quite leaves even after multiple showers—I catch the mouthwatering scent of toasting sourdough and melting cheese.
"Don't fall asleep at my table." Her voice jerks me back to consciousness. When I open my eyes, she’s setting a plate in front of me. A perfectly golden grilled cheese cut diagonally. Steam curls up from the center where melted cheese threatens to spill out.
"This looks phenomenal." I bite in and damn near moan at the taste—crisp edges, fluffy center, tangy cheese. "Holy shit, Freckles. This is the best thing I've ever put in my mouth."
She sits across from me with her own plate, but she’s not eating, just watching me. “It’s just grilled cheese.”
“Nothing about this is ‘just’ anything.” I take another bite, savoring it. “Seriously, this bread? You made it from scratch?”
A faint pink tinges her cheeks. “Bread-making isn’t rocket science. Time does most of the work.”
“It’s still impressive.” I catch her gaze over the table. “You’re impressive.”
Her blush intensifies, but she slaps a brick wall over it fast. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what? Compliment your baking?”
“Don’t…” She waves a hand between us. “This. We’re not friends, Banks. You’re crashing here for three months, then you’re gone.”
I nod, swallowing another bite. “I’m aware. Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate you and what you’re doing for me.”
She makes a dismissive noise and finally starts in on her own sandwich. I watch her eat—small bites, brow creased like she’s working through something. She's wound so tight I'm surprised she doesn't snap in half.
“So,” I say, filling the silence, “what’s up with all the plants?”
Her eyes light up for a split second before she schools her face back to neutral. “They make me happy.” She shrugs. “And for fun, they’re all named after cocktails.”
“Of course they are.” I grin. “Which one’s your favorite?”
“Mint Julep. Julie for short.” She nods toward a plant on the windowsill. “He’s a mint plant and he’s been with me three years. He’s survived a move and a spider mite infestation.”
I have no idea what spider mites are, but they sound disgusting. “Nice.” I want to keep her talking but I’m floundering for something to ask.
She fiddles with her glass of water. “I like them because they’re simple. As long as you pay attention to what they need, they thrive.”
“And what does Mint Julep need?” I’m pretty sure I’ve never given a damn about plants before. But Clover could be talking about paint drying and I’d still want to listen.
“Morning sun, plenty of water, room to spread his roots. And someone to talk to. Studies show plants respond to voices.”
“You talk to them?” I can’t hide my smirk.
She immediately bristles. “It helps them grow.”
“I believe you,” I say, raising my hands in mock surrender. “It’s cute.”
She stiffens. “I’m not cute.”
“No?” I arch an eyebrow. “What’s the preferred adjective? Badass? Intimidating? So obsessively organized it borders on clinically insane?”
She narrows her eyes. “You’ve been here forty-five minutes and you’re already violating rule number six.”
I squint at the sheet next to me on the table. “Pretty sure there is no rule six.”
“That’s ‘Don’t be an asshole.’ It’s implied.”
I bark out a laugh, unable to help myself. Even half-dead on my feet, messing with Clover James is the best time I’ve had in weeks. “You’re something else, you know that?”
“And you’re deliberately trying to piss me off.”
“Maybe.” I polish off the last bite of my sandwich and lean back. “Or maybe I just like seeing that flush on your skin. And your eyes turn this shade of blue when you’re mad. They’re the exact color as the middle of a flame burning extra hot.”
She blinks, mouth parting in what might be shock. “Are you… are you flirting?”
“Would it break one of those precious rules if I was?”
“Yes.” She leaps to her feet, grabbing my empty plate. Her shoulders are stiff, but I catch the faintest tremor of something—nerves? “That’s rule number seven. No flirting.”
“Oh, so that one’s official.” I grin. “Not just implied?”
“Yes, it’s going on the official list.” She spins toward the sink, and part of me wishes she’d take that frustration out on me instead of the dishes. “Specifically for cocky firefighters who think they’re charming when they’re actually just obnoxious. Now please go shower, you stink. Towels are under the sink. Don’t hog all the hot water.”
Rising from my chair, I realize just how cramped this kitchen is. If I stepped forward, I could box her in against the counter. Press closer, see if that sharp tongue of hers tastes like I’ve imagined.
“Thanks for the food, Clover.” I force myself to give her space, even though I’d rather push her to see what she does. “And for letting me crash here. I know Kasen left you with no choice.”
She doesn’t turn around, but her posture relaxes the tiniest fraction. “You’re welcome. Just follow the rules and we’ll be fine.”
Right. Follow the rules. If there’s one thing I love, it’s pushing boundaries. She doesn’t need to know that yet, though. I’ll let her find out the fun way.
I shut the bathroom door behind me with a soft click, duffel in hand. The place is immaculate, just like the rest of Clover’s apartment, but it’s got that unmistakably girly vibe—pale blue shower curtain, rows of little bottles without labels lining the counter, and a clean, fresh scent that’s way too nice for a guy covered in two days’ worth of smoke and sweat.
There’s even a plant living on the windowsill.
It’s a hell of a contrast to the station’s locker room, that’s for sure.
Catching my reflection in the mirror, I almost groan. No wonder she said I looked like hell. My eyes are bloodshot, streaks of soot cling stubbornly to my skin, and my hair’s doing that stand-up-in-all-directions thing. The shadows under my eyes are so big they could get their own zip code.
I yank off my T-shirt and crank on the shower, waiting for the water to heat. My body aches in that twisted, satisfying way only a brutal fire can leave you with—like I got run over by a truck but somehow survived. It could’ve been so much worse today.
As steam fills the small bathroom, I strip the rest of the way and step under the spray. The hot water hits my shoulders, and I can’t hold back a groan. Feels like heaven on sore muscles. I reach for one of her bottles—something that smells like citrus and vanilla—and try hard not to think about how this same soap glides over Clover’s skin.
And fail. Miserably.
My brain conjures up this crystal-clear image of her in here, the water streaming over those full tits, that gorgeous black hair clinging to her neck, freckles everywhere, lips parted and head tipped back as she rinses soap from every inch of her body. Her hands sliding lower, exploring places I’d give anything to touch—
Fuck.
I twist the knob to cold so fast I curse, hissing as ice-cold water pelts my overheated skin. This is exactly the shit I can’t be thinking about. Not when I’m bunking in her apartment. Not when I’ve spent years swearing to Kasen I won’t look at his baby sister that way.
“Liar,” I mutter, letting the frigid water nuke my libido.
Because the truth is, I’ve wanted Clover James since I saw her at seventeen, rolling her eyes at Kasen across some crowded house party like she owned the damn place. She was whip-smart, sharp-tongued, and so beautiful it physically hurt to lay eyes on her.
But I made a promise to my best friend. And Banks Priestly doesn’t break promises—not to the people who matter.
Which is why the next three months are gonna be the sweetest kind of hell. Living under the same roof, sleeping in a room just one wall over from hers, watching her stroll around in tiny shorts, hair loose, guard down. Eating the food she cooks, catching whiffs of the scent that now clings to my skin everywhere I go.
I lean my forehead against the cool tile and let the water wash away the last of the grime, even if it does nothing for the heat still pulsing through me. Cold shower or not, I know one thing for sure:
I’m so completely, utterly fucked.