Putting Out Old Flames (2 page)

She stared at those hands, and swallowed past the lump in her throat. As a teenager, his hands and feet had been too large for the skinny kid they'd adorned. When they'd met freshman year in tennis practice, he'd reminded her of a Great Dane puppy, all paws and clumsiness and potential. By the time he'd left for college, he'd grown into his shoe size, no longer gawky and awkward.

But the man he'd filled out to be left her mouth dry. The fabric of his trousers strained across his hard thighs, and his exposed forearms were corded with muscle.

She picked up her mug from the coffee table, gulped down some tea.

“I'm sorry, Jane. You don't know how often I've thought—”

“What part of not catching up didn't you understand?” She bobbed her foot up and down. “Can we please just pretend we don't know each other and get this done?”

Chance clenched his jaw, breathing in deeply through his nose. After a moment's pause, he agreed. “Fine. Just fundraising business. I can do that. Where do you want—”

“I can't believe you'd show up here without giving me any warning.” She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward. “You didn't have any suspicions when you were told to go to Jane Willoughby's apartment that it could be me?”

“The chief gave me the address of ‘Dispatch Jane.' That's what everyone calls you. I had no idea you were a dispatcher in backwoods Michigan.” His nostrils flared. “And even if I had been told your last name, how was I to warn you? I don't have your phone number.”

Jane bit down on her tongue. That made sense. She knew of her nickname, knew most of the guys at the fire station called her that. And of course Chance, the evil defiler of virgins, as he'd come to be known in her head, wouldn't have her current phone number. He laid out a very sensible defense.

All that sensibility just ticked her off even more.

“Like I said, I don't want to talk about us. Let's just get to work.” She reached for a yellow notepad and pen at the corner of the table.

“Fine.”

“Good.”

They glared at each other. Jane started out the staring contest digging deep, hoping for a heretofore unknown superpower of setting people on fire with her mind. How deliciously ironic would that be? The fireman who burned her nine years ago getting a taste of his own medicine.

The edges of his gorgeous brown eyes tilted up the smallest bit. Humor chased out the annoyance that had sparkled in their depths. She remembered how he could always find comedy in any situation, damn him. It had made him irresistible to her stupid teenage self, the way he'd laughed through their first awkward fumblings, helping her shed her self-consciousness as they learned about making love.

It had been so good between them.

And suddenly she was the one on fire. One look from Chance and she still melted into one big pile of goo. God, she was an idiot.

The body that betrayed her came back to save her. She sneezed, breaking the eye contact, breaking their connection.

Chance rose to his feet. “Look, a day or two won't matter. Why don't we meet up again after you feel better? Give me your phone number.”

She hesitated.

“We're going to be working together for a month,” he said. “We need each other's phone numbers.” He settled his hands on his lean hips. “I promise not to prank call you in the middle of the night.”

Jane ground her teeth. When did Chance become the reasonable one? She used to be the voice of sanity, trying to rein in his silly pranks and adventures.

She rubbed a knuckle into her eye socket. She was being an idiot. It had been almost a decade. Of course he'd grown up. She didn't know this Chance McGovern at all.

She gave him her number.

He punched it in, waited to hear her phone's muffled ring come from the bedroom, and slid his phone into his pocket. “Okay, now you have my number . . .”

An unearthly howl stopped Chance's words. A streak of orange rocketed through the living room, into the kitchen, and out the open window above the sink. A bowl in the sink rattled, and a paper towel Jane had left on the counter drifted slowly to the floor.

“What the hell was that?” he asked, eyes round.

“Cyclops. My cat.” She took a sip of her cool tea. “He doesn't like the sound of my phone ringing. Or strangers in the apartment. Or people in general, really.” She smiled at Chance, the first genuine one to cross her face since opening the door on her teenage mistake. “You're lucky all he did was run away. Usually he's more . . . aggressive in showing his displeasure.”

“What does he do?”

Her smile widened. “We have a month of meetings ahead of us. I'm sure you'll find out.”

Chance narrowed his eyes. “Call me when you feel better. We can meet, uh”—he shifted on his feet—“maybe downtown somewhere.”

The grin on her face didn't quit, even after she'd shut the door on the man. It probably didn't say much about her as a person, but it was deeply satisfying that her little one-eyed cat could instill fear in a six-foot-something fireman. All in all, if she had to meet up with the man who'd broken her heart years ago, this reunion had gone down as a win for her. Even with her red nose and sloppy robe.

Still, for their next meeting, she'd make sure to wear something tight and sexy. Not too slutty. She didn't want to look like she was trying to make an impression. Wandering into her bathroom, she gathered her hair at the nape of her neck to see if a loose chignon would be the way to go.

A moan escaped her mouth at her reflection.

“No, no, no, no, no,” she wailed. Raising a shaky hand, she brushed her fingers through her hair. And she knew what Judge Nichols had been trying to tell her with his weird hand gestures. Because there, near the crown of her head, was a used tissue. Stuck to her hair.

She pulled the crumpled white square, tugging a couple of strands of hair off with it. She didn't even want to look at what had cemented the tissue to her head.

Shoulders slumped, she tossed it in the trash can. Perfect. Just perfect. Chance hadn't seen her in nine years, and the first time he did, she had a used tissue stuck to her head.

Her win had been imagined. Chance had stood before her, all muscly and oozing testosterone, and she'd been . . . She looked in the mirror again and sighed.

Nope. It was definitely fifteen-love, advantage all to Chance.

T
he scents of lavender and rosemary enveloped Jane when she opened the door to her mother's store. A small space tucked between a deli and a real estate agent's office, the Apothic Garden sold an eclectic mix of soaps, herbal remedies, and garden supplies.

Her mother lifted her salt-and-pepper head from the
Pineville Gazette
. “Hi, honey. How's it going?”

Jane set her messenger bag on the counter beside an old-fashioned cash register. “I'm fine.”

“Your color looks better.” Her mother eyeballed her critically. “I see my rose hip tea worked.”

Jane just barely contained her sigh. She loved her mother. She really did. But she'd never use one of her mother's herbal remedies when over-the-counter cold and flu medicine was available at the local drug store.

Edith Willoughby was a product of the sixties, and a firm believer that positive thinking and good energy could cure most ills. When her husband had been diagnosed with cancer, along with chemotherapy he had tried every ancient Chinese herb, healing yoga practice, and Native American prayer ceremony that Edith could find.

Jane's father had lived five more years than his doctors had expected. While Jane believed it was the advances in modern-day medicine that had made the difference, she'd still driven him to many of the alternative treatments. Just in case.

Edith dug into the pocket of her flowing tunic and pulled out a pair of eyeglasses. Perching them on the end of her nose, she examined her daughter. “Your color may look better, but something's still off.” She reached out, grabbed Jane's earlobe, and tugged her head to the side.

“Mom!” Jane yanked her head away.

“Your chakras are funky. What's wrong?”

Jane poked at a bundle of dried lavender hanging from an exposed wood beam. “Nothing's wrong.”

Pinching her lips tight, her mom stared at her over the top of her glasses.

“Well, nothing's
wrong
wrong.” Jane blew out a breath. “Just had a bit of a bad surprise.”

“Well?” Edith asked. “Unfortunately, I'm not a mind reader. You're going to have to tell me.”

“Chance showed up at my apartment. He's the new assistant fire chief.” Just saying the words made her stomach twist and her heart pick up its pace. A man she hadn't seen in nearly a decade shouldn't have such an effect on her.

“Chance?” Her mother widened her amber eyes. Her eyes were the only trait she'd passed on to Jane. “Your Chance, from high school?”

“One and the same. Although it's debatable whether he was ever my Chance.” Good God, was she sulking now? Bring back an old high school boyfriend, and she started acting like a teenager.

“Is he still as good-looking as he used to be?” Edith asked.

Jane sighed. “Better.”

“Mmm.”

Jane rolled her shoulders. “Mom, that's gross.” She didn't want to think about her mother lusting after the same man she did.

“It would have been gross if I'd done it when he was a teenager, but not now that he's an adult.” Edith peered at her over the rim of her glasses. “I may be older than you, but I'm not dead. I can still appreciate a good-looking man.”

“You haven't even seen him.”

“So bring him around so I can see him instead of just imagine him. It would be nice to talk to that boy again. He was always so sweet helping your dad with the composting.” Her mother's voice took on the wistful tone it always did when she spoke of her deceased husband. Jane had grown up embarrassed by her parents' overt displays of affection. Now she was just envious. She didn't think she'd ever find a love like theirs.

“We're not friends, Mom. I'm not going to bring him around after school. But Chance is my cochair for the fundraiser so you'll get the opportunity to drool over him. You're still on board to be a member of the committee, right? We're going to need all the help we can get.”

“Of course. I love our boys in blue.” Edith's cheeks turned pink.

Jane tilted her head to the side. Her mother rarely became embarrassed. “I think that's supposed to refer to the police.”

“Firefighters wear blue uniforms, too.”

Jane waved a hand in front of her face. “Regardless, can we get back to the problem? I'm supposed to work with Chance on the charity ball. I can't work with him for a month!”

“Honey.” Her mother covered Jane's hand with her own. “It happened a long time ago. You need to get over it.”

“I'm over it.” At her mother's raised eyebrow, she said, “I am. That doesn't mean I want to work with the man.” Have to spend time looking at his broad shoulders, smell his spicy aftershave. Nope, she didn't want that at all.

“I'm sure you'll rise to the challenge.” Edith turned to the aromatherapy bar on the wall behind the counter. “But to help you out, I'll make up just the thing for the funk you're in.” Stretching, she pulled a bottle from the top shelf, one from a middle shelf. “I think a mix of lavender, chamomile, and eucalyptus will fix you right up.”

“Mom, I don't think aromatherapy is going to help.” Still, she plucked an empty amber stopper bottle down from a shelf and placed it next to her mother. Her mother's tinctures didn't solve any problems, but Jane had to admit her mom brewed great-smelling oils.

“Remember, just a couple of drops on your pillowcase at night.”

“Yes, Mom.” Jane tucked the bottle into her bag.

“And if you want to perk up for your date tonight, you can put a drop or two behind your ears.” Edith wiped down the reclaimed wood counter where she mixed her oils. She had a sixth sense about what aromas worked well together. When the two of them had first moved to the small town in central Michigan, her mother's hippie clothes and attitude had turned a few heads. But each trip Jane made home from college, she saw more and more people in her mother's shop. The aromatherapy bar was the most popular draw.

“I forgot about Leon tonight.” Jane sniffed, still heard a slight congestion. “Maybe I'll call and tell him I still feel under the weather.”

“Your only social life is your Sunday and Thursday night dates with Leon.” Her mother shook her head like that was the biggest disappointment a parent could have in her child. “You don't want to go backwards.”

To the dark days when Jane spent her evenings reading mystery novels, childless and alone.
That thought was clearly implied.

Jane blew out a breath. “Fine.” With a kiss to her mother's cheek, she breezed out the door, the bell above it tinkling a goodbye.

Game night at the American Legion was usually fun. It probably was a good idea that she go out. Take her mind off things she shouldn't have her mind on. Like dropping a quarter on Chance's butt and seeing how high it'd bounce off the hard muscles. That part of his body had really filled out. She'd spent the better part of yesterday afternoon lying in bed thinking about that, much to her shame.

And Leon was perfectly nice. Dependable. A good friend.

Strolling to her car, her steps grew shorter and shorter.

And not nearly interesting enough to keep her mind off Chance.

Jane groaned. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

Chance pulled his SUV into a parking space at the American Legion and cut the engine. He should be at home. There were still boxes to unpack, and a free night was better spent playing games with his son rather than with adult men. But his new chief had thought it would be a good way for Chance to meet the members of the community he now served.

Chance didn't want to start off his new job ticking off his boss. Creating a stable life for Josh was his primary concern.

Still, he had a plan for the night. Get in, shake some hands, get out.

Wind slapped his face as he stepped from the car. The night air held a bite, a warning that although winter was over, this was still Michigan, and it didn't tolerate sissies. Shrugging into a windbreaker, Chance strode to the entrance.

A dimly lit bar lay off to the right. Its walls were adorned with sports pennants, and a few old-timers scattered the barstools. Straight ahead, double doors opened onto a large meeting room. The fluorescent lights made Chance blink. Fold-out tables filled the area, their surfaces covered with cards, board games, and poker chips. The room was full. People sat at the tables, smiling and laughing, attesting to the fact that they at least enjoyed playing games with other adults. Others stood, congregated in groups, chatting and drinking.

Chance muffled a grunt, and headed for the fun and games. Searching for his chief, he spotted the man easily. A head taller than anyone else in the room, the leader of the Pineville Fire Department reminded Chance of the Brawny paper towel model. A flash of red standing in front of Chief Finnegan made Chance pause. All he could see of her was her back, but he recognized Jane instantly.

There was nothing overtly sexy about the red blouse, jeans, and low pumps she wore, but Chance's body reacted just the same. Her hips had filled out since high school. Where she'd once been slim as a boy, she now had the rounded curves that begged for a man's touch. Her thin robe hadn't done much to hide the ripe swell of her breasts the day before, and that flash of smooth leg had made a frequent appearance in his head for the past twenty-four hours.

She tilted her head back to laugh at something the chief said, the ends of her hair brushing the collar of her blouse. The hair was different, too. His Jane had worn her hair down to her waist, pulled back in a thick braid.

The new Jane kept her hair short, wisps just curling at her collar. Chance didn't usually like short hair on women, but Jane's whiskey-colored locks looked soft and feminine, and framed her delicate face beautifully. It was just long enough for a man to dig his fingers into and grab hold.

Shoving his hands in the front pockets of his jeans, he shifted. Jane was no longer his to think about that way. In fact, Jane was downright pissed off at him. Not that he could blame her. When he'd left that card on her front porch years ago and taken off without her, it had been a dick move. But they'd both been stupid kids. She couldn't hold that against him forever. Could she?

In three long strides he was behind her.

The chief smiled at him over Jane's head. “McGovern. Glad you could make it.” He extended a hand as Jane whipped around, her eyes flaring.

Chance gripped Finnegan's palm. “Glad to be here.” He leaned a little closer to Jane, enjoying the heat from her body. She smelled earthy, different. Was that . . . eucalyptus? Weird. But somehow it worked on her. Anything would.

She took a quick step back, putting space between the two of them. “I didn't know you'd be here.”

“Oh, that's right,” Finnegan said. “You two have met for the fundraiser.”

Chance must be a sadistic bastard. Why else would he enjoy the flush that crept up Jane's neck and the tense set to her shoulders? “We met a long time before that. Jane and I are old buddies from high school.”

“Yeah, buddies.” Jane spit the words out like they were bullets from a gun.

Chance smiled. He'd forgotten how much fun he used to have riling her up. She'd always been too serious. He'd needle her until she'd finally shake her head in exasperation, unable to stop the smile from spreading across her face.

It would take a lot longer to wheedle a smile from her now.

Finnegan raised his eyebrows. “Where'd you go to high school?”

“Lansing.”

“So you're a local boy, or near enough. I thought you were an import to Michigan, like me. Though not from so far away.” If Chance listened hard enough, he could just hear the trace of the man's Irish accent that attested to just how far away he'd come from. The chief clapped his hand on Chance's shoulder. “Still, I knew I liked you too much for you to be from California.”

“The West Coast isn't full of crazies like you've heard. And the guys on Cal Fire are some of the best.” Turning to Jane, he said, “I just moved here from Northern California. I was a firefighter there for five years.”

“And one of the best, from what your old chief told me. You moved up the ranks quickly. He was sorry to lose you.” Finnegan took a sip from the beer in his hand. “But his loss was our gain. We're lucky to have you.”

A furrow appeared between Jane's eyebrows. “You became a firefighter after college? That wasn't part of your plan.”

His plan. His set-in-stone life plan that he'd spent hours talking to Jane about in the backseat of his father's Jeep. College, med school, then becoming the youngest neurosurgeon in US history. The plan he'd outlined in obnoxious detail, trying to impress the sweet girl in his arms, but always knowing he was keeping a couple parts of it from her.

Like where he intended to go to college. And that he didn't plan on having her by his side for his meteoric rise. His teenage heart had loved Jane, but even then he'd known that at eighteen he was too young to plan a life with someone.

“Plans change,” he said. Did they ever. After getting his college girlfriend pregnant junior year, he'd done the right thing. A small wedding. A new plan. No more dreams of medical school, with crushing debt. He'd had a family to take care of. And once he'd held his squirming, blotchy baby boy in his hands for the first time, he hadn't regretted the changes for a second.

A man sidled up next to Jane. His short hair was pale blond and thin enough to reveal glimpses of his pink scalp. He slung an arm around Jane's shoulders, and she smiled up at him.