Firefighter Wolf's Next Door Mate: Midlife Mates Book 1 Page 2

  “He’s right, you know. We can be civilized people.”

  His words had Hattie pausing, her body language shifting cautiously into openness. Just a bit. Grudgingly, she considered. “Perhaps.”

  “We can discuss how none of this is my fault and you’re just wasting your time trying to pin it on me.”

  Her mouth dropped open as a wordless sound came out, the tip of her tongue coming to rest on the side of her lip. His gaze took it in, his stomach clenching. Then he followed the trail of her pointing finger, which led back to the yard littered with trash, crushed flowers, and what appeared to be broken pieces of her wooden fence. Rafe winced before returning to his neutral expression, refusing to be blamed for it.

  “Still not my fault,” he returned, shrugging. Feeling bad, he settled for a hint of a smile.

  Hattie returned the smile with a glare, her blue eyes sizzling with anger, she was flushed all over. He gripped the doorknob tight, close to breaking it, the breathtaking sight making him want to do irrational things—like pull her in and soothe that bad mood out of her, make her body pliant and soft. Like grip all that temper in his fingers and witness how brilliantly she’d shatter at the height of that fire, her passion as vibrant as her looks and affecting him more than he cared to admit.

  “Someone needs to answer for this,” she retaliated, stubborn. There was a hint of frustration, too, and he felt the explosion coming a mile away.

  “Well it’s not me. But I’ll try to find the culprit’s info and pass it along.” He paused, letting her take that in. “Welcome to town, Hattie Jones. I look forward to our next encounter.”

  The door wasn’t slammed or anything rude, but he could’ve laughed at the sheer incredulity on her expression before he firmly, deliberately shut it in her face. Seconds later, Bruce peered out the window, a frown marring his lips. Rafe did the same, noting the shock. She stood still and gaped at the door for a long time before she blinked, glared at it, and turned to stalk off.

  He followed the sway of her hips, followed the gentle curve of her butt and those smooth, long legs while she returned to her yard and went straight into her house. When she was out of sight, Rafe sighed and turned—and found Bruce eyeing him with speculation.

  “What?”

  The older man shook his head, trudging to the kitchen and opening cupboards. Rafe followed, watching Bruce take out ingredients for pancakes.

  “She’s got a right to be angry, you know. Her front yard was destroyed. We’re not giving her names, and we’re not paying her, either.”

  “I wasn’t lying about passing the message along.”

  “But you were rude.”

  Rafe shot him a look. “So was she. Besides, that was Julie she’s describing—and I wasn’t kidding about finding her in my bed either.”

  Bruce grimaced, taking out a pan and turning on the stove. “I figured.”

  “Your Julie,” Rafe pointed out. “Not girlfriend but stalker, who thought it would be fun to hop from your bed to mine. What the hell, man? I thought the whole Julie thing was over.”

  Sizzling sounds filled the kitchen, the scent of butter made Rafe’s mouth water. Bruce sighed.

  “She wasn’t in my bed. She was having a party a few blocks away and was too inebriated to drive home, so I lent her the couch for the night.”

  Rafe strode to the fridge, suspicion confirmed when he found a few beer bottles missing. “You need to stop being so nice to her, especially when she’s interpreting it as being welcome here whenever she feels like walking in. We aren’t a hotel.”

  “She behaved last night.”

  “She just needed some hours to catch up on sleep, found your room empty, and surmised she couldn’t wait any longer,” Rafe said dryly, then eyed the stacks of pancakes set on the island counter.

  They both sat in companionable silence, digging with their forks while Bruce added some fruit, syrup, and a mug of coffee. Rafe groaned at the first bite, feeling the rest of his nagging headache go away.

  “This hits the spot,” he said in appreciation. “I still think that you should’ve been a cook instead of one of us, man.”

  “I’m flattered and all, but I like putting out fires.” Bruce chugged the coffee black, a ritual that they often had when they were both off work and could just lounge around the house. Then he sobered. “Maybe I should just pay for the damages. I shouldn’t have stayed silent. If we contact Julie again, try not to get her in too much trouble…”

  “I’ll contact Julie,” Rafe assured. “And that’s a no on you paying. You don’t owe Miss High-And-Mighty Jones anything.”

  “She wasn’t so bad.”

  The woman in question darted through his mind, an image that stuck. One that simmered. “She was cold and hard.”

  “She just wanted what was due to her,” Bruce shot back, contemplating. Smiling. “And I know why you’re riled up.”

  “What?”

  “She didn’t throw herself at you like most women do. She didn’t give you a chance to flirt and charm your way out of trouble.”

  “I don’t do that.”

  “Yes, you do. They usually hand over their underwear before you’re even done talking.”

  “Ha-ha. Funny. Not funny. I’m not riled up.”

  Except he was, and the fact that Bruce could read him so well didn’t appease him at all.

  “She’ll be back, you know.”

  “I know.”

  And that didn’t appease him either, not when he wasn’t sure how he was going to react to another sight of her glaring at him and tugging at physical parts of his body. Not cool, his brain repeated. Quietly, he scowled through dishwashing, then headed to their basement gym where he took his restlessness to work and lifted weights. It helped ease the noisy ruminations and sweat the hangover off, then he stepped in the shower. He was in such a state of relaxation that he decided to return to bed… hopefully without Julie’s scent in it.

  Work had been slow this week—thank goodness—but Chief had made sure that they weren’t slacking off either by putting them through training exercises that would make any grown man cry let alone a fit one. A groan slithered from his throat when he climbed into fresh, crisp sheets, sleep taking him to dreams of mountains of pancakes, the moon glowing cheerfully, and blue eyes making him swim before he drowned.

  He woke up drowsy, refreshed, and no longer irritated, the window framing the moon he’d seen in his dreams. A quick grab of cold noodles and some lemon water comforted the grumbling of his stomach before he wandered through the house and determined that Bruce wasn’t home. His keys and shoes were, so the man hadn’t gone far.

  Rafe stepped out the front door, eyeing the dimly lit street and rows of cozy houses before he turned to eye the yard beside theirs. The trash and crushed flowers were gone, and the bins had been lined into position again, while the splintered wood had been stacked to a corner. Bruce or Hattie? His next-door neighbor’s lights were turned off save for a room upstairs, where the curtain was thick and prevented even shadows from showing.

  No one knew who she was, and no one knew why she was there. All they knew was that she was from the city and was some slick writer, her excuse for being there that she needed a new environment to get inspiration. Even this was inside knowledge, and he wondered what else made her tick, what else brought out that fire that contrasted with her cold personality—what would make her eyes darken like that again.

  No. The warning clear, he strode to the back, continuing his walk until he was out of the backyard and crossing the fields that expanded beyond their row of houses. There was a forest up ahead, but it was far enough away that he could enjoy the trip.

  The moon called to him, an instinctive hum in his system that he braced for. He kept going, body brimming with each step, anticipation tingling his bones when he reached the first tree and started discarding his clothes. A second later, his body moved into motion, an explosion as old as time that turned skin into fur, fingers into claws, and human limbs in
to the long-boned ones of an animal.

  The howl came next, short and enraptured, stopped as consciousness told him they had a new person in town who wasn’t used to it and might investigate out of curiosity. He hoped that she wasn’t that reckless. A blur of motion in between the overhead branches caught his attention, sharp vision zoning in on the clouds…more specifically, the shadow above, which anyone would mistake for a bird. It wasn’t a bird, and it delighted when it spotted him, twirling its glossy brown body and tail, wings flapping upside down before it returned to its original position.

  Showoff, Rafe growled teasingly, then ignored the creature while it flew away and out of sight. The beast inside him grew restless, so he let it take the reins, the snapping of twigs sounded as he sprinted in that direction.

  The rabbits, squirrels, and other forest creatures let him run after them, and his beast let them think that they had the upper hand. Just as he was a moment away from snapping his jaws on their bodies and crushing their bones to pieces, he reined his beast back, a struggle for control that halted his motion. Dark dots dimmed his vision before returning it to clarity, the animals gone. He took deep gulps of air to keep himself where he was, fighting the temptation to follow them, to tear them to pieces, to take the meat that he’d once craved but had actively restrained from taking for years now.

  A deep, rusty scent filled his nostrils, his spine stiffening when recognition flared. A heated growl burst from his throat before he was flying towards it, stopping in his tracks when he spotted the flying creature from earlier now on the ground—not just that, but hunched over three of the rabbits that he’d been chasing a few minutes ago, their lifeless eyes calling to him.

  The dragon’s head lifted, gray eyes locking with his and glittering with hints of remorse. Then it ducked and feasted on the torn flesh, a sight that Rafe couldn’t look away from no matter how hard he tried.

  Chapter 3

  The cursor blinked at her as Hattie stared at the screen, the blank first page silently mocking her. Realizing that she was shooting dirty looks at an inanimate object, she sighed, then sat back on the chair and closed her eyes. Writer’s block wasn’t a foreign concept to her as she’d experienced it many times in her life, and she knew it happened even to the best of the lot. The longest bout happened a few years ago, back when her life had been in turmoil and…not good.

  It blazed, taking her back, a memory of figures screaming, of doors slamming with such fury. Her chest tightened to the point that she had to rub a hand over it, and she cursed herself for the weakness and tried to block it from her mind. Writer’s block had been the start of those thoughts, so she focused on that, gripping the edge of the table until her heart was no longer palpitating. Six months was the last one, her mind devoid of ideas and interesting characters to weave into the plot.

  This one was slowly, surely taking the cake.

  Cake!

  Like a lightbulb, her brain turned on and her feet followed, common sense reasoning that she wouldn’t get anywhere if she just kept staring at the screen. A break might inspire ideas, and eating something sweet called her to the kitchen, where she basked in her decision to bulk grocery shop last week and buying ingredients for the sole purpose of “future use.” Sure, it also came with the reflection that she wanted to avoid the curious townies while she was still settling in the neighborhood.

  “Chocolate cake,” she muttered. Like a madwoman, she began hauling bags from her cupboards and cleaning out bowls, then turned on her tablet to search a recipe. Minutes later, Hattie was humming through the assembly of ingredients, her spirits lifted as contentment settled in for the first time since she’d arrived.

  It went well during the mixing and folding, was measured accurately until the last drop that she transferred to a buttered pan. Eager and confident, she stuck a finger in the bowl with leftover bits, the raw pastry coating her tongue before the chocolate goodness hit her throat. The smooth process went on until the pan was in the timed oven and she was well into washing the dishes, where her humming turned into a song as a character formed in her mind.

  A pastry chef, someone who often got lost in her thoughts while she baked out of comfort and passion. But the baker had a secret, hidden beneath a façade of sweetness. Maybe a superhero? Or a vigilante who had superpowers and struggled between putting it to good use and doing less nice stuff like, say, robbing a bank.

  “Antihero. Steal money from the corrupt, give to the poor. Keep some for herself.”

  More whispers later, she had the background at hand, imagining a scene where the baker-vigilante would slip into her first jewelry store, all cocky after her successful bank heists. That would be her downfall as it would take her a while to realize that something had been off from the very beginning, a silent alarm in the form of hidden lights, then some smoke…a lot of smoke.

  The smoke transferred to real life as Hattie blinked, her kitchen was full of smoke, its source coming from the oven and the cake pan that was definitely burning.

  “Shit!”

  The smoke alarm that followed activated the sprinklers and a ringing blare that drowned her curse, encompassed the space—and her—and didn’t stop anytime soon.

  “It’s nice to see you again, Hattie.”

  Bruce’s words were friendly and professional as if they hadn’t had a confrontation on his porch the other day. She regretted her behavior now, but Hattie had long ago come to terms with regrets and knew that the best way to get through it was to move forward. Recognizing the sincerity in his tone, she nodded.

  “Thanks for coming so fast.”

  “Of course. That’s how it works. Otherwise, lives would be on the line. I’m glad that yours wasn’t.”

  “I can’t say the same for my kitchen,” she mumbled. They both eyed the stove area, now charred. “Although Mr. Whitman’s investment on a fire alarm sprinkler helped.”

  “Or didn’t… its kind of overboard and now my kitchen is soaked.”

  “Do you want to get changed while we inspect it and clear out the smoke?”

  She shook her head, wrapping the towel tighter around her wet clothes. He smiled.

  “I want to see how much damage has been done. It’s nice seeing you on the scene, Bruce.”

  “It’s nice seeing you, too, even if that wasn’t directed at me—holy shit. Jesus. What the hell did you do, Jones?”

  The second voice caused both heads to swivel as Rafe sauntered into the scene, dressed just as Bruce was: standard black fireman’s uniform with yellow lining, the helmet hiding most of his hair. But the confident, cocky gait was the same, and so was the sheer physicality as he stopped beside her. Dark eyes landed on hers after the assessment, bringing his words back into focus.

  Her back turned rigid. “I was baking. Maybe you should check the oven before accusing me, Delgado.”

  The cockiness toned down, his expression going sober. The hint of apology took her aback…drew her in.

  “I wasn’t accusing you. I’m sorry if it sounded like it. Bruce is right. It’s best if you take a step back until we can assess the space. Is your bedroom upstairs?”

  She shook her head, pointing. “It’s down the hall. Upstairs is workspace and storage.”

  He nodded, never taking his gaze off her. The intimacy heated her skin, tingles formed in her belly that made it hard to take in air.

  “You’re wet,” he said gently. “Why don’t you go dry off so you don’t get the chills?”

  The same sparks that she’d felt before returned, a visceral blast that she had to step back from. “I am not chilled,” she returned. “But fine.”

  Hattie turned, close to racing to her bedroom, when she felt his strong gaze following her until the door was shut. Inside, she shivered despite her clothes already drying, then stalked to her closet, rummaging until she found underwear and a dress to shimmy into. A few minutes of alone time led her back outside, calm and in control, as she watched two men—Rafe and another guy who looked his age—work in tan
dem in her kitchen. Her eyes followed Rafe’s fluid motion before she spotted Bruce by the front door, so she walked over to him instead.

  “Any news?”

  “I’m assuming it’s fixable, but I’m letting Ian over there find that out for himself.” He winked, humor in his small smile while he pointed with his chin. “He’s new in town. He was a fire inspector in Miami but moved here after he got hitched to one of ours.”

  “Oh. And I’m assuming that you’re the veteran out of the three?”

  “You make me sound old,” he joked, ruefully shaking his head. “I just turned forty.”

  “So did I,” she shot back, grinning.

  “I’m a fire inspector, and so is Ian. He’s dogging most of my shifts to observe how we do it here. Rafe’s a fireman with some inspection training, too. As for Rafe, I wouldn’t call him a newbie, not when he’s been in the department since he was a teenager tagging along with the old guys…not me,” he added. “The chief.”

  “I got that, Bruce.” The man was charming, and she was soft for him. Normally it would have her backing off, but instinct told her that she was safe with this one, the lack of any weird vibes between them indicating that he wouldn’t be calling on her beyond the standard neighborly friendliness.

  “Inspection’s done.”

  The same couldn’t be said about the other neighbor, who put her back up the moment he stepped out to join them. Ian offered a hand and warmly introduced himself.

  “It’s nice to know that someone other than myself is new around here,” Ian said.

  “What’s the verdict, Mumford?” Bruce asked, mildly directing the topic.

  “Faulty wiring, triggered when you turned on the oven. That area’s damaged for now, so you might want to check with your insurance on what they can replace and what can be renovated. Make sure the wiring is fixed.”