Reckless (12 page)

“Alex. Take me inside. Please.”

Yes. Inside. Oh hell, yes.
The pure impulse grated up from the darkest, most reckless piece of his mind. He returned to her mouth to sweep his tongue over hers in one last promise before taking her upstairs and turning his unspoken oath into raw, hot action.

But then the fragments of all the words Zoe had just spoken slid up against what they really meant.

Holy
shit.
He was standing in the garage of his childhood home, barely one degree of separation from taking his captain's only daughter into his house and stripping her very, very naked.

And up until this split second, he'd had every intention of letting her return the favor so he could drive her on a straight, hot path from a sigh to a scream.

All night long.

“Zoe . . .” Alex lowered her feet to the concrete floor, his limbs slow and clumsy as if they were weighted and trapped under water. “I can't . . . we can't do this.”

“I know. We're in your garage. Why do you think I asked you to take me inside?” Her eyes fluttered open over a slow, sexy smile, but then her gaze narrowed over his face in the scant glow of the streetlight spilling through a side window, and realization covered her features all at once. “Oh.” Zoe stiffened, letting go of his shoulders to right her misplaced clothing with a handful of precise tugs. “You don't mean we can't do this here. You mean you don't want this at all.”

Shit. Shit, fuck, and damn it to the stars, the hurt slicing across her face sent a pool of guilt to the bottom of his gut. But despite his reputation, as well as the truth that fueled it, he knew the difference between recklessness and a total lack of regard. He'd given Captain Westin his word he'd stay ruler straight and just as narrow, and God knew Alex owed him more than this.

In fact, God alone knew exactly how much he owed the man. Which meant Alex had to make this right, even as much as he wanted to kick his own ass right now—and as much as refusing Zoe would likely launch him right back to square one with her.

The captain's daughter was always, always off-limits.

He pressed his lips together, ignoring the way they still tingled and tasted like want. “We did a lot of climbing today, and the adrenaline must've gotten to me. I guess I just got carried away.”

“I thought you believed in being reckless. Life's too short, and all that?” A tinge of something Alex couldn't place flickered through Zoe's voice—there, then gone in the same breath. Still, his answer was absolute.

“I do, but . . . not like this. Not with you.”

“I see,” she said, stabbing her arms through the sleeves of her hoodie before turning to stare at the expanse of the garage door in front of her. “Well. At any rate, you won your bet. I guess I'll see you Monday.”

For a split second, Alex nearly backpedaled. But better for her to think him a jerk than for her to know the whole, harsh truth.

It wasn't that he didn't want her. But he sure as shit couldn't have her, and he double sure could never tell her the whole reason why. So Alex took the only option left on the table.

He said, “Good night, Zoe.”

When she squared her shoulders and walked a straight path to her car, he didn't turn to watch her go.

Chapter Eleven

Zoe propped her elbows over the gray-flecked Formica tabletop in her favorite booth at Scarlett's, staring into her mostly full cup of coffee while mentally banging her head against the closest solid surface. Alex's community service dictated that he serve four ten-hour shifts Monday through Thursday, which meant she'd had Hope House's kitchen to herself today for both breakfast and lunch. Considering the code red embarrassment of their parting last night, Zoe had thought not having the outlandishly gorgeous firefighter right there in front of her as she nursed her battered pride back to working order would be a relief.

But every time she'd tried to squelch the memory of Alex's lips, so strong and bold and undeniably good on hers, she couldn't get around one simple fact. She'd thrown herself at him not once, but twice now. And even though twice, he'd gone for the old
thanks but no thanks
, the bald-faced rejection still couldn't stamp out how recklessly hot she'd felt with his hands on her body. How hot—even now—she still felt at the memory.

Turned out they didn't have to be actually sharing the same airspace in order for Alex Donovan to make her pride feel like it had been run through a high-speed wood chipper.

“Come on, girl,” Zoe whispered, brushing a hand over the fresh prickle of warmth on her cheeks. “Time to get back on the reality horse.”

So Alex had blamed their kisses on the heat of the moment, not the heat of the attraction she'd felt sure had been building between them all day. But Zoe was already highly acquainted with how being risky and impulsive only led to errors in judgment. While in this case, the only thing that had been torched by Alex's hot and heavy risk-taking had been Zoe's pride, she knew all too well that the stakes of not playing it safe could be so much higher. Family relationships. Marriages.

A person's life.

Taking risks, even with something as seemingly small time as rock climbing or a heat-of-the-moment hookup, just wasn't worth it. After all, if Zoe slept with hornets, at some point she should sure as hell expect to wake up stung.

Nope. Not happening. Not now. Not again. What she needed was to forget the rush she'd felt while rock climbing, the pure electricity of Alex's kisses on her skin, so she could nail her caution sensors right back into place.

“You've been working on that coffee for a while,” Sara said, hooking Zoe's thoughts back to the diner in short order. Which was just as well, since Zoe was really just throwing confetti at her own pity party. “Can I get you a fresh cup? I brewed a pot of French roast not even five minutes ago.”

“Oh, no, I'm good.” Zoe lifted her mug to her lips in an effort to prove the fib, but karma bit her square on the butt when she got a mouthful of coffee that had long since gone cold. “Ugh. Okay, maybe I'm not that good.”

“Change your mind about a pick-me-up?” Sara tipped her chin toward the wait station behind the front counter, but Zoe shook her head.

“No thanks. I think in order to really pick me up, you'd need to put something a hell of a lot stronger than coffee in my cup.”

“Whoa. Not to put my nose where it doesn't belong, but that sounds like man problems.”

Zoe shrugged, and what the hell. Her pride had already taken the hit, and as much as it smarted, she was still standing. Maybe copping to her schoolgirl syndrome would let her put the whole stupid kiss behind her so she could get back to normal, once and for all. “If by ‘problems' you mean I got all jacked up on rock climbing endorphins and tried to twist myself around my community service volunteer like a bag full of pretzels, only to have him friend-zone me without the friendship, then yup. That's exactly what I've got going on right now.”

Sara's brows disappeared beneath the thick fringe of her dark brown bangs. “Ouch. If it's any consolation, the guy kind of sounds like he graduated with high honors from the asshole academy.”

Zoe couldn't help it. She laughed. “Maybe a little. But to be honest, it's really just as well. Heat of the moment hookups with the wrong guy never end in happily-ever-after, and anyway, I've got way more important things to focus on right now.”

“You're probably right about getting down and dirty with the wrong guy, but it still sounds like you've earned something stronger than coffee in your cup.” Sara slid a glance at the watch strapped to her wrist. “My shift at Bellyflop starts in half an hour. Not to brag, but I make a pretty kick-ass martini. If you feel like downloading your crappy day, first one's on me.”

The coffee cup still in Zoe's grasp found the table with a
clunk
. “You work at Bellyflop, too?”

“Working two jobs pays the bills,” Sara said with a nonchalant lift of one shoulder. “Plus, staying busy keeps me honest, and I don't mind the restaurant scene. Anyway, the offer stands if you feel like chucking your worries.”

Zoe paused. Not that she didn't feel like chucking her troubles far and wide, but . . . “I'm kind of gross from spending the day at Hope House,” she said, running a hand over her sauce-splattered T-shirt. Of course she had to have served spaghetti for lunch, of all things.

But Sara just gave up a grin. “Sing me a song with a tune I don't know. I've got a bag in the back with an extra top and some trial-size toiletries. You'll be fresh as field greens in no time.”

“Wow.” A smile tugged at the corners of Zoe's mouth, the knot of tension that had lodged itself right between her shoulder blades unraveling by just a fraction. “I guess I don't have much of a choice, then.”

“Oh, you've always got a choice. You just might not always like your options.”

God, wasn't
that
the truth. But while it wasn't as routine as going home to flip through cookbooks and sink up to her chin in a bubble bath, heading to Bellyflop for one impromptu drink was hardly wild and crazy. Sara's offer certainly sounded more fun than Zoe's standard go-to; plus, even though it was a step outside her norm, breaking bad with her usual Saturday night schedule paled in comparison to rock climbing and sizzling hot firefighter kisses and all the other things she wanted to put in her rearview.

After all, how much damage could one martini and an hour at the local sports bar really do?

Zoe stood, her mind made up. “Well, right now, my choice is to take you up on that drink. Just give me ten minutes and your bag of tricks, and I'll be good to go.”

 

 

Zoe smoothed a hand over the hem of the formfitting black and white striped top she'd borrowed from Sara, unable to dampen her smile as she looked up at the blue neon sign boasting
B
ELLYFLOP
S
PORTS
B
AR
, H
OME OF THE
H
OTTEST
T
EAMS AND THE
H
OTTEST
W
INGS IN
F
AIRVIEW
!
Okay, so she'd had to get a little creative with her kitchen-frazzled hair and her eau de pasta sauce scent, but it hadn't been anything a fistful of bobby pins, a couple of Purell hand wipes, and some body spray couldn't fix—at least, temporarily. In fact, between the tube of mascara Zoe had found lurking at the bottom of her messenger bag, the swipe of merlot-colored lipstick she'd borrowed from Sara, and the deep scoop that rendered the new-to-her top practically backless, she felt pretty darn good.

Thank God for getting back to normal. Even if she was taking the scenic route.

“I haven't been here since I've been back in Fairview,” Zoe said, meeting Sara halfway between their cars in the partially full parking lot. In fact, since she'd left for culinary school at the ripe old age of twenty-two, she could pretty much count the total number of times she'd been to Bellyflop on the fingers of one hand.

“It's still a little early, but the Saturday crowd is usually fun.” Sara's black leather boots clacked over the pavement as she led the way toward the bar. “There are a bunch of regulars who like to come in to watch whatever game is on, maybe play some pool while they have a couple of beers. Just hang with me at the bar and I'll introduce you to anyone you don't already know. You'll be totally fine.”

“Okay, sure.” Zoe eyed the low, darkly bricked but warmly lit building, the last of her residual unease disappearing from her veins. Two pairs of oversized picture windows graced the bar's facade, one on either side of the massive glass and mahogany double doors. The bright blue awning that ran the length of the upper ledge of the window casings fluttered gently in the spring evening breeze, and the light from the brass fixtures flanking the windows combined with the glow from the interior of the bar itself, cutting through the shadows to unfurl like a slightly raucous but still cheery welcome mat.

As Sara swung the front door in a wide arc of invitation, the earthy aroma of beer fresh from the tap and the tangy-spice scent of hot wings hit Zoe's senses like a culinary frat party. Small clusters of people gathered either in booths or tables dotted throughout the dining room or tall, communal tables by the bar in the back of the wide, airy space. Every ounce of all four walls was covered in team pennants and memorabilia from every sport Zoe could think of, and even a few she hadn't. Bright neon mingled with the soft gold light overhead, illuminating the place with a festive glow that put her instantly at ease even though she didn't know a home run from a hat trick. A couple of pool tables were barely visible in a smaller alcove to the right of the bar, and yeah. Forgetting her troubles in a place like this was going to be a piece of cake without the calories.

Except for the fact that Alex Donovan was sitting at a table full of firefighters, right smack in the center of the bar.

“You cannot be serious,” Zoe breathed, her heartbeat doing the hey-now in her chest despite her best-dressed effort to keep it level. But from what she'd been able to glean, there wasn't anybody in Fairview who Alex didn't work, skydive, or swap favors with. It figured he'd spend his Saturday night at the hottest bar in town.

“What's the matter?” Sara asked, but she was too perceptive for her own good. She followed Zoe's stare—which she'd dropped just a second too late—to the table across the dining room. “I'm sorry, I just figured you knew that the guys from Eight sometimes hang out here, what with it being your dad's house and all.” Sara gestured to Alex with a subtle nod. “I take it you know Mr. Congeniality.”

“Oh, I know him, all right.” The words were out before Zoe could capture them for a do-over, and Sara connected the look on her face with the reason she was making it in about three seconds flat.

“Wait . . .
that's
your Wrong Guy? The one you, ah . . . you know. Tried to pretzel?”

Zoe's laugh was a three to one ratio of irony to actual humor. “Yeah. That would be him.”

Thankfully, the steadily growing crowd gave them just enough cover to go unnoticed as she and Sara made their way to the stretch of oak and brass lining the back wall of the dining room. She slid onto an out-of-the-way stool by the break in the bar that served as the waitstaff's pass-through, bracing for impact as Sara settled in behind the wood with a catlike smile.

“Girl. I'll give you this. When you jump into the pool, you sure do aim to make a splash. Alex might be a little all-American for my taste, but there's no denying he's not hard to look at.”

A ripple of heat dashed down Zoe's spine as if to second Sara's observation, but Zoe sat up as tall as she could to snuff it out. Alex might be off the roster at Station Eight for the next three weeks, but he was still a firefighter, all the way from his helmet to his hell-yes attitude. She might've had a momentary lapse of sanity yesterday with all that risk-taking, but it couldn't—
wouldn't
—happen again.

“Yeah, well, easy on the eyes or no, firefighters and I don't mix. What happened between me and Alex was an impulsive mistake. I came here to have a drink and put it far behind me, and that's exactly what I intend to do.”

Sara grabbed a stainless steel drink shaker from the tray of clean barware on the counter behind her, filling it with a hefty scoop of ice before following suit with an even heftier portion of Grey Goose. “You sure about that?”

“Yes.” Zoe cleared her throat once, then twice to make sure the words held conviction. “Absolutely. I'm sure.”

“Well, good, because he looks about as serious as I've ever seen him,” Sara said, although if her eyes had strayed from the drink ingredients under her hands, Zoe hadn't caught the sneak peek. “Also, he's about five paces behind you and coming in hot at four o'clock. Heads up.”

Zoe sucked in a breath, hoping like hell that the
huh?!
flooding her central nervous system didn't translate to the expression on her face. “Thanks,” she murmured, and Sara had barely winked in reply before Alex arrived at the bar.

“Zoe? What are you doing here?” he asked, and damn it, those wide-open baby blues were just freaking unfair. But they were going to have to do this face-to-face soon enough, and anyway, they were both adults. She had a kitchen to run, and he had community service to fulfill. There was no reason they couldn't both do precisely that.

“I know I take my job seriously, Donovan, but I am human. Plus, I heard these were the best in town, so . . .” She gestured to the martini glass that had magically appeared on the stretch of glossy oak at her elbow, softening the edges of her expression just enough to take any heat out of the words.

“Okay, okay. Fair enough. I guess that was kind of a dumb question.” He tipped his head in concession, his smile lasting for less than a second before pressing into a flat line. “Listen, I'm not really a beat-around-the-bush kind of guy, so I'm just going to say this. I owe you an apology for last night.”