Rekindle the Flame (12 page)

Darcy poked at the chocolate croissant she had bought in a fit of pessimism five minutes ago. Her third since walking into the aromatic, supposedly calming interior of the popular coffee place with Mel. Between the holiday excess and this Beck business, it looked like she’d be making her grand exit from the city ten pounds chunkier than when she arrived three months ago.

Or maybe all that extra weight could be attributed to her heavy heart.

“Well, I’d love to see you settled before I leave Chicago,” Darcy said with fake cheer. Her disinterested gaze drifted to a salt-and-pepper-haired professorial type reading an actual newspaper. “Elbow Patches seems nice.”

“Lives with his mother.”

Undeterred, Darcy tried again. “That guy with the hipster hat and the sideburns is cute.”

“There are only so many microbrewery tours and ironic T-shirt shopping trips I can fit into my schedule.” Mel’s pixie features turned kindhearted. “Quit stalling. Time to discuss the man of the hour—or should I say the decade?”

Darcy gave her most Continental shoulder shrug, perfected during her time in Paris. “There’s nothing to discuss.”

“Right.” Mel stared Darcy down. “So how’s this going to end, D?”

The end was a done deal. Seven years ago. Again, two days before when she discovered Beck had cut her out of the decision to take the road to Splitsville. More men taking care of business for their women. Her father, Preston Collins, François, every guy she’d ever dated, really, and now Beck. She almost rolled her eyes at the canyon of self-pity his actions had opened up. Her heart was set to deluded, and now she wanted to wallow in her own stupidity for a while.

“It’s not going to end with me forgiving him.”

“Hmm. Men are just manipulating douche canoes,” Mel said in sympathy.

“Testify.”

“They leave the toilet seat up, can barely walk and chew gum at the same time—”

“Act like they know best,” Darcy cut in, getting warmed up.

“That’s their problem. They think they know best, but in this case . . . I have to agree.”

Darcy was stunned. “I can’t believe you’re taking his side.”

Mel blew out an oh-girlfriend sigh. “It was a long time ago and he was crazy about you. That’s gotta count for something.”

Darcy didn’t doubt Beck’s feelings for her all those years ago, but it was tainted, corrupted,
ruined
, by his high-handed behavior. What gave him the right to ride solo on such an important decision?

“I’ve spent the last few years building myself up. I can’t be with someone who doesn’t respect me. Who pays lip service to the notion of my strength but wants to pull the lever behind the curtain.”

“Like your dad.”

“What?”

“You know.”

She did. Every man who crossed her path was assessed with the checklist: was he bossy, manipulative, demanding, in any way like Sam Cochrane? One tick was enough to scuttle any potential relationship. But at the same time, she was drawn to decisive, confident men. Men like
Beck who knew what they wanted and fought with gloves on, fists raised, to make it a reality.

So sue her for being a girly mass of contradictions.

“You had to give him my address,” she said faintly, not quite ready to capitulate to common sense.

“Gage extracted it from me under false pretenses,” Mel said, as if Thor-lust could excuse her guilt. “Still can’t believe that hot piece of ass is gay. I weep for my fellow Vagina Americans.”

“I really loved him, Mel.”

“When?”

That pulled her up short. She had fallen in love with a serious boy that day in the boxing ring, and two weeks ago, fell right back into the Beck Rivera groove. The
when
wasn’t a fixed point in time. Her feelings for this man existed on a continuum.

She had never stopped loving him. Not for one second.

Mel gave a short nod as if Darcy had spoken that aloud. “You said you were over him. That you’d moved on and this was just a fling, revenge, whatever, to see you through the holidays. But you never got over him. Not really. And now you want to punish him for breaking your heart all those years ago instead of just accepting that shit happens, people make decisions for good or bad—” Darcy opened her mouth to object but Mel countered with the hand. “And that now he’s a different person. You’re a different person. He wanted the best for you, to make you happy in the long term because he was nuts about you. Best intentions, so-so methods.”

“You think I overreacted?”

Mel broke off a piece of Darcy’s croissant and popped it into her mouth. “Is that what you call it when you pick a fight?” she asked around her chewing. “ ’Cause that’s what you did, babe. All this time you didn’t want to know why he dumped you, but the minute it comes down to the wire, as soon as he pushes you to be brave,
now
you start channeling Countess Curiosity? You knew you wouldn’t like the answer, and it gave you the perfect out.”

Darcy hated that Mel was right. Damn her.

“I guess I panicked.”

“
Yeah
, you did. Loving this man is going to turn your life upside down and make you question everything. That’s a lot to take in if you’re not ready for it. I tell my students all the time that fear is often a good pointer to what we really want and need. If it’s outside your comfort zone, it’s going to be so much more rewarding when you pull it off. You have to feel it to heal it.”

Darcy knew that what Mel said made sense, but making sense never made it easier. Bringing her fears front and center was supposed to make the hurt of facing the truth worth the pain, all shit that sounded great on paper. She thought back to Beck’s words, how she needed to figure out where she was going instead of dwelling on where she had been.

Gotta stop running sometime, Darcy.

Was she ready to let down her guard, expose her soft underbelly, and give this man free reign over her heart?

Beck tore off his mask and gulped the cold, pine-scented nighttime air. Even mixed with the acrid smell of smoke and burned wood, it was the second best scent ever because it told him he was back in the thick of it. The best scent . . . damn, thinking of that, thinking of
her
, would only drive him mad.

“Good job, Rivera,” Lieutenant McElroy said with a clap on Beck’s back as they gathered for the debrief by the pumper outside the four-story walk-up on Sheridan. “You didn’t screw up once.”

Two kids with minor smoke inhalation, mom with first-degree burns on her hands, and Fluffy the family dog would survive this holiday season. The same could not be said for the Douglas fir that had once stood proud in their living room—or the oodles of presents beneath it.

“Any idea how you pulled this one out of your ass?”

Beck turned to find Luke squinting at him through black-rimmed eyes. He shook his head, still bewildered by the turn of events over the last twelve hours, starting with this morning’s 6 a.m. wake-up call from the deputy fire commissioner.

Your hearing’s been scheduled. Get your ass in gear, now.

Four hours later, witnesses had been called, testimony had been given, and Beck was in the clear with a warning to “not be so eff’n impetuous” and an order to report for immediate duty. His captain said it was a done deal and, while Beck appreciated being back in the fray, he appreciated less the helpless feeling that the strings were being yanked from above.

Decisions made by big men in small rooms.

A little like how Darcy must have felt, when she realized Beck had made a unilateral ruling that affected the course of their entire lives. How her father always made her feel. Growing up as he did, Beck knew the helplessness of having no control over your life. One day you’re on the streets, the next you’re inhaling Irish stew with a bunch of wild foster kids.

Regret at how things had ended with Darcy constricted his chest like he had choked down black smoke. Sure, he could see her point, how cutting her out of the loop minimized her agency—but to use it now to bail on this great thing they had going?

Unacceptable.

He knocked back a half bottle of water to cool his parched throat and raised his gaze to take in Luke. “I never said thank you.”

His brother frowned. “For what?”

“For saving my life.”

Luke gave a desultory sniff. “I won a packet on you at the last Battle of the Badges. You think I’m going to let my meal ticket get incinerated?”

“Screw you, then.”

“You know, Becky,” Luke said in that parental tone that signaled a major speech was about to go down. “Maybe it’s middle-child syndrome, but sometimes I think you forget that we are your family and there is nothing—and I mean nothing—we would not do for you. Walking into a burning building to drag your dumb boricua ass out? It’s just part of the deal. Of course, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t try to upstage me with the heroics
on every frickin’ run. I am older, after all.” With a smile in his eyes, he laid his gloved hand on Beck’s shoulder. “Semper fraternus.”

Forever brothers. Made a man feel good to know he had these people in his corner. But there was someone else who had always been rooting for him, right from the moment their eyes clashed over a boxing ring’s ropes.

“Lock and load, boys,” McElroy called out, his heavy boot on the sideboard of the pumper’s cab. “Back to the house we go.”

“We need to make a stop, Big Mac,” Beck shot back.

The lieutenant’s face lifted, flashing white teeth bright against ebony skin. “Burritos as big as your head? You’re speaking my language, Rivera.”

Luke threw his helmet into the cab and climbed up. “You can stuff your face later. Our boy needs to take care of important business.”

Beck stared past the truck, down the snowy street, and all the way to the merry band of red and green lighting up the hundredth floor of the Hancock on Michigan Avenue. With no time to shower or change, she’d just have to take him as he was. As Sean used to say, you can’t fall off the floor, boy, the only way is up.

The count was not over. He could still haul himself off the mat.

And this time, Beck would fight to win.

W
ith its gold-leafed pillars and crystal chandeliers, the grand ballroom at the Drake Hotel might seem like an odd choice for a charity gala aimed at helping the homeless, but such was the way of big-time philanthropy, Cochrane-style. Opulence always made people feel important, and the decadent surroundings were intended to inspire subconscious counting of blessings and deeper digging into Benjamin-lined pockets.

“They’re more fake than a three-dollar bill.”

“What are?” Darcy asked her grandmother, and immediately regretted it.

“Her tits,” Grams pronounced in a loud whisper, lifting a bony finger in the direction of Darcy’s stepmother, Tori, who admittedly did have a very fake and very fine pair of girls, bought and paid for by Darcy’s father.

Tori and her gravity-defying breasts were currently in
deep conversation with Mayor Eli Cooper, who looked like he was hitting those puppies up for a campaign donation. He caught Darcy’s eye and winked. Chicago’s youngest-ever mayor, and undoubtedly its most handsome, Eli was an old friend of the family. Since his election three years ago, he had kept the female voters in a perpetual state of hormonal frenzy.

“You covered up,” Grams remarked in a voice flavored with disapproval.

She had. Darcy could have walked in, tats—and tits—blazing, but frankly she was over it. So she had worn an LBD, though the L stood for
long
, the B stood for
boring
, and she looked like she was auditioning for Morticia in the
Addams Family
musical. Masking every inch of her offensive skin, the dress and matching jacket made her invisible, which was just how her father liked her.

Two tables over, Sam Cochrane sat glad-handing the governor, but raised his head when the low murmur of moneyed voices went from a burble to a babble toward the back of the room.

Darcy turned in the direction of the commotion, and her heart stuttered, stalled, and stopped. Striding toward her in full firefighter regalia, and looking so hot she half expected the sprinklers to go off any second, was Beck. His expression blazed a path of fire to her table, sizzling all the way up her spine. The clucking of the well-heeled crowd increased with every sure step.