Chapter 9
Chapter
Nine
CATALINA
Dumpling greets us happily by the door. I get a cursory glance and figure-eight twirl around my legs before she focuses on the fireman. She purrs extravagantly, rubbing against his pants and covering his dark Wranglers in orange fur.
“Oh, shoot,” I exclaim. “I’m sorry. She’s kind of in the middle of shedding.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he replies graciously.
“It’s obvious who her new favorite is,” I remark, voice icier than before. I’m jealous of a cat.
Leaning down, he scoops her up, corded forearms straining teasingly against the button-down plaid shirt rolled to his elbows. Dumpling melts in his arms, purring so loudly she sounds like a lawnmower. Yep, green with envy.
Ambrose smells of spicy sandalwood and evergreen, my favorite fall fragrances. And his home is equally inviting, with warm wood tones, spicy, woodsy scents, and overstuffed, custom-made leather furniture that invites me to sit.
He turns on a row of lights, and the massive place illuminates. I gasp, craning my head to look upwards, through the center of the Great Room, reaching all the way to the third-story ceiling.
“This place is breathtaking,” I gape.
“Thanks.”
“For all your support of rescue animals, I’m surprised you don’t have your own pets, though.”
He shrugs. “I plan on building a stable and getting a few horses. Same with some dogs or cats from the shelter. But it hasn’t been my main priority, yet. Especially with how hectic and unpredictable my job gets.”
“Makes sense,” I say, moving around the Great Room slowly to look at photos hanging on the wall. Off to the left-hand side, I spy a darkened hallway.
“How about a quick tour before I get you back to your car?”
I nod, throat tightening at the thought of being in such an intimate space with this man.
He takes me from room to room downstairs, showing me the kitchen, massive dining room with a long, hand-carved table, a rustic guest bedroom, laundry area, and mudroom that lets out onto the area where he plans on putting his stable.
Next comes the home office, billiards lounge, and TV room, and that’s not even all of the first floor.
The TV room is really a home theater, featuring a wall-sized screen. Promo photos for SoCal Hotshots decorate the space with rows of seats. Mouthwatering images of Ambrose bare-chested. No wonder women go feral for him.
“My mom decorated this room,” he says ruefully. “I really do hate those photos up there like that.”
I shrug. “They’re still a part of you.”
“Don’t feel like it.”
He motions for me to follow, heading for the darkened hallway. Clicking a row of light switches, the place radiates warmth, opening up onto a massive library with floor-to-ceiling books. It’s a rustic mountain man’s version of the library from Beauty and the Beast.
I gasp, covering my mouth. Leather and ink hit my nostrils. It’s the kind of room where time would slip away unnoticed.
“I told you I’d put my Tbr against yours any day,” he reminds drily, stepping forward, still cradling Dumpling.
“My God, Ambrose. You even have stair ladders.” Unable to control myself, I sprint forward to the nearest shelf. Running my finger along the spines of a row of books with sacred reverence.
He chuckles. “And you’re welcome here anytime. But we probably should get you back to your car soon.”
“You’re right,” I say, voice guilt-tinged as I straighten, admiring for one long moment how Dumpling remains happily nestled in the big brute’s arms. The contrast between his firm muscles and her fluffy softness captures my imagination in filthy ways.
What would it feel like to replace the floof with my soft flesh?
To feel those big hands sliding over my hips. Gripping my waist possessively. Pushing me over the edge.
My eyes flutter to his heated ones, guilty thoughts spiraling. What am I doing? I have to go.
Instead, my eyes settle on his far-too kissable lips. I want this man to the depths of my soul … in the darkest, most clandestine parts of my being.
Is this what finding your mythic right person feels like? If so, I never want to let this sentiment go, even as fear follows close on its heels, warning me of the dangers of depending too closely on another person, especially a man with a notoriously dangerous job.
Still, what would it be like to be his girlfriend? To sit in this cozy space with him, relaxing and reading together?
He shifts his weight, appraising me quietly. “Can I get you a drink or something?”
The question jolts through my body. “Oh, no, I really must go.” Because if I stay, I’ll never leave. And that would never do. Gran is counting on me. So is Tilly.
I promised to be her caretaker, and I can’t let anything get in the way of that. There will be time for love later, once I’m in a better place in life, more secure in myself and my finances.
Ambrose follows me to the door, face puzzled. “Did I say or do something wrong?”
“No, it’s just late. I’m sure you’re tired, and I don’t want to be a bother—”
He frowns. “You could never be a bother. It’s not possible. But I do understand this night was far from pleasurable, constantly running from fans. I get it.”
It was awkward. It was frustrating. It was the best night of my life.
The last sentence sits on the tip of my tongue. But I don’t want to give this man mixed signals when I can’t even sort out what I’m feeling.
It’s been this way ever since my dad left mom and me when I was a child.
I had to put on a tough face and act as my mother’s parent, in so many ways, to keep her going despite the pain of rejection and abandonment.
It made me disconnect from my emotions …
until feeling nothing became a habit. My only safe place.
Ambrose retrieves a cardboard carrier for Dumpling, placing her, along with her food and medicine, in the extended cab. He turns up the country love songs even louder this time, resigned to my silence.
I don’t mean to be so quiet and closed off. But he’s triggered a wound that runs deep. I know he didn’t mean to. That doesn’t stop it from aching and smarting as we reach the high school parking lot, though.
The cowboy parks next to my navy blue Corolla, and I hop out unceremoniously. I half expect him to scold me again, but he doesn’t. I can feel the disapproval and disappointment pouring off him, though.
“This was fun. Thank you,” I say softly.
He nods, pulling the cat carrier and Dumpling’s supplies out of the back seat and waiting patiently until I open the trunk for him to deposit them. I close it, and he stands unmoving, arms crossed over his broad chest and thick thighs spread ever so slightly in a formidable stance.
It takes my breath away. He takes my breath away.
I fumble with my key fob and door, looking up to watch his jaw muscles tense as he watches me without moving. A pained expression etches in his face, as though seeing me open my own door causes true distress. But he says nothing. He does nothing.
“Good night,” I squeak, and he nods.
Inside, I clumsily put the key in the ignition, hands shaking so much that I drop my keys on the driver’s side floor instead.
Great. Could this get any more awkward?
He moves closer to the vehicle, eyeing me somberly. I wish he’d just go, leave me to my own devices. But everything about our two interactions has shown me he’s not that kind of man.
My keys clang as I reach for them, trying again with the ignition. I turn it, but the engine doesn’t crank over. Nothing. I try again and again. “Please, God. Not now.”
Ambrose raps gently on the window, and my hand goes reflexively to the roll-down button before remembering I can’t. Frowning, I crack the door open a few inches. “My car’s not starting. Happens sometimes. No big deal.”
He frowns, leaning down. “Let me take a look. Pop the hood.”
Turning on his cell phone flashlight, he sticks it to the hood of the car. Apparently, his case has a built-in magnet. He tinkers around for a long moment as I hold my breath. Finally, he grumbles, “Alternator’s bad.”
“Oh no, what do I do?”
He straightens, eyeing me warmly. “I can give you a jump tonight, but you’ll need to get it into a mechanic first thing next week. If you need a tow, let me know.”
“Thank you.”
“No problem. Glad I could be of service.” This man lives for helping others. It’s written in the authentic warmth of his words. Trying to act like I don’t need him is not only stupid, but also mean. I’ve probably triggered him as much tonight as he’s triggered me.
Pausing and looking up, he studies me for a moment, eyes darker than the night around us. “You know, you don’t have to keep doing this all alone.”
I frown. “Maybe not, but I’m stubborn.” I say it like it’s a sin.
“Oh, you don’t have to tell me that.”
“What do you mean?”
“The cat. The auction. The car. Climbing a tree half-blind without a ladder.” His lips twitch, but his voice is steady, serious. “You think being stubborn makes you difficult. But it doesn’t. It makes you fire.”
My breath catches, his words striking deeper than any compliment ever has. Fire. Not too much. Not a burden. Not too loud or too stubborn. Fire. The word settles inside me like a spark to dry kindling, igniting in places I thought had gone cold.
No one has ever named my stubbornness as anything but a flaw. But in his mouth, it sounds like power. Like worth.
I can’t find words. My chest is too tight, my eyes too hot. All I can do is stare at him, caught between wanting to run and wanting to burn.
“And,” he says, stepping closer, lowering his voice until it vibrates through me, “it’s the sexiest damn thing I’ve ever seen.”
He wipes his forearm across his forehead, the beam from his phone flashlight catching the hard line of his jaw. For a second, he just watches me, and it’s too much … his size, his steadiness, the heat rolling off him in waves.
Striding back towards me, he opens the car door, offering me his hand with authority.
“No reason to sit in there until we get that engine started.”
I nod, vulnerability coursing through me as I lean back against the car. No fans. No stage. No car between us.
His arms fold across his chest, wide and sure, like he’s holding himself back. “I meant what I said, Catalina. That fire of yours? It drives me crazy.” His gaze dips to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “I want you to know that before I do this.”
Before I can ask “Do what?,” his arms are around me, pulling me flush against him. My breath stutters, heart jackhammering as his lips cover mine.
The first touch is soft, reverent … like he’s giving me a chance to push him away. God help me, I don’t. I melt into it, into him, into the press of solid muscle and the scent of sandalwood and summer heat that refuses to vanish despite the changing seasons.
He deepens the kiss, and suddenly it’s not soft at all. It’s hunger. It’s need. It’s everything I’ve been pretending I don’t want.
His mouth claims mine with fierce tenderness, like he’s been waiting all night, maybe his whole life, to finally taste me.
My fingers tangle in his hair before I know what I’m doing. His hand slides down to my thigh, rough palm squeezing, and I gasp into his mouth. He swallows the sound, and the kiss burns hotter, stealing the air from my lungs.
This man may be dangerous to my heart, but he feels like the safest place I’ve ever been.
His calloused hand drags higher, the kiss scorching hotter.
The juncture between my legs tightens and throbs, wetter than I’ve ever felt before. Is this even a normal response, or is there something wrong with me?
“The way you kiss …”
“You like it?” he asks, furrowing his brows, face gloomy, and shields going up.
“It’s criminal,” I confess, eyes searching his, need mounting to the breaking point.
He smiles warmly. “You better go home to Marguerite before I decide to keep you.”
“Decide to keep me?” I scrunch my nose. He brushes his impossibly soft lips over the tip, then claims my mouth again.
“Yeah, because we’re about five minutes away from me sweeping you up into my arms and carrying you back to my place.”
I don’t know how long we stand there, tangled up in heat and want, lips crashing, tongues stroking, until finally he breaks away just enough to rest his forehead against mine.
“Sparky,” he rasps, voice wrecked. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
I can barely breathe enough to whisper back, “Same.”
He chuckles low, sliding his thumb across my cheekbone, and then, with maddening self-control, steps back.
I shake my head, following and bringing my hand up to his mouth. “Your lips are covered”—rub—“in my lipstick”—swipe. “Although I have to say red is really your color.” My thumb slides over his bottom lip again, the visual transfixing me. I want so much more of this man.
His face darkens, eyes black as night. “I want you to leave your mark on me, Sparky, though I’d rather it were a bite.”
The thought shuttles through me like a thrill, a promise, the possibilities too delicious not to captivate me.
“Oh.” I sigh.
He chuckles low, dangerous, “Better get you home. Let’s see how our jump-starting plan works.”
Reluctantly, I climb behind the wheel, hands still shaking as I twist the key. The engine roars to life. Triumph surges … until my stereo blares at full blast.
The British narrator’s voice fills the night, crisp, mortifyingly precise: “The fireman’s massive, throbbing cock slams into me, an earth-shattering demand …”
My stomach plummets. Kill me now.
“Oh, no, no, no!” I yelp, diving for the dial. My purse, poised on the armrest, flies as I scramble, cheeks hotter than a nuclear meltdown.
Ambrose doesn’t help. He doesn’t even pretend to. He leans against the fender of my car, laughing so hard he has to brace a hand on his knee.
I finally stab the pause button, breathless, horrified. “Please tell me you didn’t hear that.”
His grin is wicked. “Every word. And I’ve got to say … I like where that book was headed—”
My phone vibrates, and I jump.
I search through the contents strewn across the passenger seat and floor, finding the culprit. The screen reads “Tilly,” and guilt slams into me.
“Hello.”
“Hi, Cat, I know you’re out with the hunky firefighter, but I was just wondering what your ETA is.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I should’ve called sooner. I’m just picking up my car now and then heading your way.”