Seducing the Fireman (Risky Business) (3 page)

Chapter Three

Becca wiped down the bar at Mancini’s, thankful for the Sunday afternoon rush. She didn’t mind helping out her parents at the restaurant on the weekends, and the frenetic pace of the early dinner crowd allowed her to mute her guilty conscience, if only for a couple of hours.

Sort of.

She’d spent the last week trying to justify what she’d done to Jax, and
try as she might, she couldn’t stop thinking about that stupid kiss. Or how she’d stood him up on Saturday night. What the hell had she been thinking? It was so unlike her. And that kiss. Sweet Jesus. She’d felt his lips on hers the rest of the night. Had fallen asleep thinking about them. Had found herself a sweaty, aroused mess as she thrashed around in bed, unable to get him out of her head as
the throbbing between her legs intensified, demanding release.

It was a mistake. Pure and simple. Okay, maybe not so pure. Or simple, for that matter. But kissing him? She hadn’t meant to do that. Impulse had taken over and, well, she just had to know what it was like. Just once.

And damn if it didn’t live up to ten years of unfulfilled fantasies.

No, actually, it was better.
The real life Jax was all hard lines and sex appeal, something the sixteen-year-old kid she remembered couldn’t touch. The way his tongue had mated with hers? There was no doubt the man knew how to take a woman and claim her as his own.

She sighed. Not the point. Jackson Hart wouldn’t be claiming her.
Ever
.

Too bad they still had the same old chemistry, which had shocked the hell out
of her when their lips touched. If anything, it seemed to have intensified, burning hotter than it had when they were kids. And that ticked her off even more. After all, how could she possibly be attracted to such an ass? Clearly her ovaries were not a good judge of character.

To make matters worse, the radio station had actually aired his voicemail, kicking her Catholic guilt up to a whole
new level of self-loathing.

Only, he had deserved it, hadn’t he?

She groaned and dropped her rag in the sink. Time to focus on something else. Jackson Hart was not getting one more second of her time. Besides, what was done was done. Not like she’d ever see him again anyway, right? Quinn would just have to find a new place for happy hour. No big deal.

Exactly. Ten years from
now, the whole scene at Stout
will be a distant memory…just like the broken date.

Grabbing an empty tray, she headed to the kitchen for more glasses. Was it her imagination or were they going through more than usual? She ran her eyes down the bar, noting that nearly every stool was filled, most of them with women. Single women. Single women who were no doubt there for the sole purpose of
flirting with Christopher.

How many of them had he hooked up with? He was her brother, and she loved him dearly, but he was a manwhore if she’d ever seen one. At least the women knew the deal. It would be hard not to, since he made no secret of it. Although she wasn’t crazy about his lifestyle, she respected his honesty. Given the choice between Heartbreak Hotel, population one, and the
cold, hard truth, she’d take the latter any day of the week. After all, there was nothing worse than getting swept up in romance only to be left out by the curb while your boyfriend—the one who said he’d always be there for you—eloped to Niagara Falls with his lab partner.

Sadly, getting stood up on her first date by her big brother’s best friend wasn’t even the worst of her craptastic luck
with the male species. No, it was a just a fitting start to a dating history that would be almost comedic if it weren’t her real life. She’d figured out a long time ago the Mancini men were the only men in her life who would stick.

And that was why she never went on more than three dates with the same guy. Well, that and the fact that date number four inevitably ended in disaster.

Grabbing two trays of glasses from the dishwasher—there was no such thing as too many glasses when Christopher was at the bar—she shuffled back to the front, cursing her unused gym membership. Using her backside, she pushed the kitchen door open.

When she looked up, Jackson Hart was standing at the bar looking right at home.

Shit. Shit.
Shit
.

This could not be happening. But,
yeah, it really was. There stood Jax, in all his god-like glory, with that strong jaw and sexy grin, giving Christopher a run for his money with the ladies.

Hastily swinging back around into the kitchen, she crashed into one of the servers, nearly dropping the trays in the process.

“Sorry,” she muttered, keeping her head down as if Jax’s x-ray vision could spot her through the swinging
door. She slid the trays onto a prep table and wiped her hands on the front of her apron.

In the ten years since he’d blown town, he hadn’t called, emailed, or visited Christopher. Hell, they weren’t even Facebook friends. So what was Jax doing at Mancini’s?

Only one way to find out. She tiptoed up to the door and peeked through the window. He and Christopher were doing some weird
dude handshake and chatting it up, apparently making up for lost time.

Men.

Christopher pointed to the kitchen, and she leaped away from the door, pressing her back to the wall and desperately hoping they hadn’t seen her.

“Eh, Frankie!” he yelled. “Get your butt out here. You’re never gonna believe who just moved back to the old neighborhood!”

Double damn.

Trapped
. She was trapped. Her pulse thundered in her ears, drowning out the raucous sounds of the kitchen staff as they plated lasagnas and baked ziti and chicken scallopini. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.

No.

That wasn’t true.

Becca marched straight to the walk-in and locked herself inside. It was the only place to find privacy in the cozy restaurant. It was also the only
soundproof place to vent.

Sucking in a deep, chilly breath, she let it rip, screaming out her frustration at the top of her lungs.

Much. Better.

When her throat had gone hoarse and her heart rate had settled from imminent cardiac arrest to what felt like a normal rhythm, she paced the tiny cooler, eyeballing the white chocolate parfait. Dessert made everything better. Maybe she
could find the answer to her problems at the bottom of a nice Tiramisu cup. Her hand reached for the sweet treat of its own volition before she yanked it back with a frustrated sigh.

No spoons in the cooler.

Besides, there wasn’t time for dessert. She needed to figure this out.

Fast.

What was she going to do? It had become painfully obvious she hadn’t thought this little
revenge game all the way through. If she had, she might’ve thought to ask Jax where he was living, instead of just assuming it was Manhattan because he’d been drinking at a stupid bar near The Garden. After all, she made the trip across the bridge five days a week herself.

One city. Five boroughs. Eight million people. What were the freaking odds? Clearly they were stacked, and not in her
favor. The assumption that ten years of radio silence proved Jax’s time with her family meant less to him than it had to them? Yeah, apparently that one had missed the mark too.

You know what they say about assuming.

Giving herself a face palm, she leaned against the door of the walk-in, the cold metal sending a trail of goose bumps down her back. There was only one option. She needed
to own this. So she’d played Jax. It wasn’t
that
big of a deal. It was certainly no worse than what he’d done to her. No, it was time to stuff those guilty feelings down so deep they’d never see the light of day.

Straightening her spine and pulling herself up to her full height, she popped the door open and headed for the bar, a fake smile plastered on her face.

“Where you been, Frankie?”
Christopher asked, throwing a towel over his shoulder. “Didn’t you hear me calling you? Never mind. You’re never gonna believe who’s here. You remember Jackson?”

“How could I forget?” She crossed her arms over her
Speaks Fluent Sarcasm
T-shirt and turned a saccharine smile on the infamous Jackson Hart. “The real question is, can Jax say the same?”

Their eyes met, his growing wide as
he realized Frankie and Becca were one and the same. Guilt be damned. The look on his face was priceless. Too bad she didn’t have her camera. His jaw nearly hit the bar, but he snapped it shut before Christopher noticed. The hurt in his eyes? Sure it stung, but if he was tasting even a fraction of what she’d felt those years ago, it was worth it.

Wasn’t it?

“Be right back,” Christopher
said, eyeing a couple of girls taking seats at the other end of the bar.

Jax leaned forward, resting his powerful forearms on the bar. But damn if he didn’t have that pained look in his eyes, the one that said all the things his mouth never would. She knew that well enough. He was too proud. Always had been. The Jax she knew would never ask for help, even when he needed it most. “Well played,
Frankie. Or should I call you Becca? You’ll excuse me if I’m having a little trouble keeping up.”

Francesca Rebecca Mancini.

The family had nicknamed her Frankie long before she could stop them, and when she’d enrolled at Brooklyn College, the first thing she’d done was reinvent herself, becoming Becca Mancini. Of course, she’d quickly learned old habits die hard, when her family refused
to call her Becca. So she hadn’t really lied when she’d introduced herself by that name.

She just hadn’t told the whole truth.

“I’ll tell you what,” she said, digging deep and pulling out that careless attitude again. “Don’t call me anything. In fact, don’t call me at all. We’re even now.”

That was a lie. They could never be even. He’d decimated her self-esteem during the most
fragile time of her life. And there was nothing he could say or do that would change it now.

“Even?” The incredulous look on his face was like a sucker punch to the gut. He grabbed her arm as she turned to walk away. “I came here to find you. To explain.”

Pulling her arm free with a jerk, she placed her palms on the bar, leaning in close so no one else could hear the anger-fueled words
she’d carried for ten long years. “What is there to explain, Jax? You. Stood. Me. Up. You know, I actually thought it would be different with us. That I wouldn’t be just another girl you made out with in the park.” Her lips trembled, the memory of her first heartbreak resurfacing with gut-wrenching poignancy. “Pretty stupid, right? I thought I was in love with you.” Crap. She hadn’t meant to
say that. Open mouth, insert foot. “But apparently, after everything, I wasn’t even worth a goddamned phone call.”

“Frankie. Becca…” He raked a hand through his hair, raw emotion flashing in his eyes. “It wasn’t like that. I wanted to take you out. Hell, it took me three months to work up the courage to ask you. If I’d known we were leaving, well, I—”

“Wouldn’t have asked me out?”

“No.” He looked her dead in the eye, and for a second, the rest of the world ceased to exist. “I wouldn’t have risked hurting you like that.”

She hated that she believed him. This was the Jax she remembered. The one she’d fallen head over heels in love with. Too bad it didn’t change anything.

“When I got home from school, my dad had all our stuff packed.” He frowned, an expression
that, much to her irritation, happened to be just as sexy as his smile. “I never meant to hurt you. After we left, I just…I just didn’t know what to say. I’m sorry.”

He slipped his hand over the top of hers, gently caressing her wrist with his thumb. It was a slow, sensual act, and her stupid breath hitched in her throat, betraying the fact that she was as affected by him now as she was
at fifteen. She stepped away from the bar, giving herself some much needed breathing room. No way in hell was she going to let Jackson Hart back into her life. She was older and more experienced now, and she knew to protect her heart—at all costs.

“Eh, Frankie!” Chris yelled, jerking her back to reality. “We’re outta glasses. Grab a tray from the back, will ya?”

“I’ve got to get back
to work.” Turning on her heel, she stalked back to the kitchen where she’d left the trays, leaving him alone at the bar.

It was no less than he deserved. So why did she feel like such a jerk?

Chapter Four

Mind reeling, Jax sat down at the Mancinis’ table. Tucked in the back corner of the dimly lit restaurant, it hadn’t changed much since his childhood, when he’d eaten every meal he could with their family. Even the red and white checked tablecloth was the same, reminding him of all the good times he’d shared with the Mancinis.

Hell, how many meals had he eaten at
this table, pretending not to notice the way Becca blushed when their thighs brushed? Lord help him, he’d tried to fight his attraction to her, telling himself there was no way they could ever work, that her parents would never approve, that Chris would kick his ass for violating Bro Code, but it was useless. Once the idea had taken root in his brain, he’d been able to think of nothing but Becca.
Her laugh, her smile, the way she looked at him as if she saw something no one else could.

Taking the seat across from Chris, he tried to wrap his brain around the fact that Becca was Frankie, the same girl he’d spent the last ten years dreaming about. The same one he’d come to the restaurant to reconnect with. The same one that had played him. The Frankie he knew was sweet and compassionate.
She never would have done something like that—something so spiteful—on purpose.

Then again, he couldn’t fault her for it. He’d hurt her. Taken the coward’s way out like the selfish son of a bitch he was back then. Leaving the Mancinis was like being ripped from the only family he’d ever known. And if he’d called Frankie when they got settled upstate to say good-bye it would’ve been too real,
too painful. So instead he’d done nothing, telling himself a clean break was best for them all.

He’d fucked things up royally when he left. But he was back now, and one way or another, he was going to make it right. Despite what Becca said, it was clear they still had chemistry, and he had every intention of exploring it.

Starting now.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Becca
demanded, approaching the table with a healthy dose of hellfire and brimstone.

“Your parents invited me to stay for dinner.” Jax smiled, ignoring the way she was glaring daggers at him. He’d faced five-alarm fires, twenty-car pileups, and impossible rescue missions. A pissed off Brooklynite was nothing by comparison. Besides, it was impossible to think about anything but the way those black
jeans hugged her curves when she put her hands on her hips like that.

Tension poured off her like a smoke plume from an egress. “You’ve got to be fuc—”

“Eh,” Mr. Mancini said, pointing at his only daughter. “You kiss your mother with that mouth? Show a little respect, Frankie.”

Mrs. Mancini made the sign of the cross.

Christopher shook his head and plopped a slice of lasagna
on his plate.

Jax stood and pulled out Becca’s chair.

“Sorry, Ma.” Grudgingly, she came around the table and sat next to him, scooting the chair as close to the end of the tiny table as possible, stopping only when Mr. Mancini said grace. Too bad the table was designed for a family of four. It had never been a problem when they were kids, but now there was little she could do to escape
him. Whether she liked it or not, they’d be bumping elbows for the next hour. The thought had his balls tightening. Being this close to Becca, drowning in her scent, but unable to touch her? He wasn’t sure which of them had gotten the worse end of the deal.

“Thanks again for dinner, Mrs. Mancini.” He smiled at the woman he’d once viewed as a surrogate mother. “I sure have missed your cooking.
They don’t make sauce like this in Boston.”

Mrs. Mancini beamed at him. “You’re welcome at our table anytime, Jackson. We still do dinner every Sunday. You join us whenever you can.”

Becca choked on her water, spitting it across the table at her brother.

“Jesus, Frankie.” Chris wiped his face with a napkin. “What’s with you today?”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, answering
Mrs. Mancini. He glanced at Becca, who had fully recovered and was once again giving him the side eye. Good. He liked a woman with a little fire in her belly. “With my schedule, that could be a little tough, but I’ll be taking you up on that offer every chance I get.”

Becca gripped her fork so hard her knuckles turned whiter than the ceramic Deruta plate in front of her.

“What’re you
doing for work?” Chris asked, shoving a hunk of garlic bread into his mouth.

“I’m a New York City firefighter, if you can believe that. Ladder Company One-Three-Two, right here in Brooklyn.”

“No, shit?” Chris held his gaze, as if seeing him in a new light, perhaps wondering just how much his friend had changed over the years. Finally, he nodded, a show of respect. “Good for you, man.”

He shrugged. “It’s an honor. The FDNY is the best in the world.” He glanced at Becca, who was doing her best to ignore him. In fact, the woman was shoveling lasagna into her mouth like she couldn’t get away from the crowded table fast enough.

“You’re not going to be in that meat calendar Frankie’s shooting, are you?” Chris smirked at his sister. “What’s it called again?”

Becca’s
fork froze halfway to her mouth, her face turning the same robust shade of crimson as her mom’s homemade sauce. “It’s the FDNY Calendar of Heroes, and it’s for a good cause.”

Chris grunted. Had she just kicked him under the table? Well, damn. Chris glared at Becca, confirming his suspicions.

Mr. Mancini shook his head and kept eating. Nothing came between the man and his dinner. Some
things never changed. Damn, it was good to be home. He’d missed the Mancinis something fierce. Not just Becca, but the entire family.

“Moving. On.” Becca shot her brother a warning look that suggested he’d have two bruised shins if he kept it up.

Becca was uncomfortable, was she? Time to turn up the heat. “We moved around a lot when I was a kid, but the best time of my life was here
in Brooklyn. It’s always been my dream to come home and put down roots. Been working toward it for the last ten years.”

“Ah,” Mrs. Mancini said, shaking her head. “You want to put down roots, you’re going to need a nice girl to settle down with.”

Jax grinned. Of course Mrs. Mancini would equate roots with marriage. Not exactly what he had in mind, given the dangers of his job. The
last thing he wanted to do was put someone he loved through that kind of hell, wondering day in and day out if he’d be home. Or worse. It was the reason he didn’t do relationships. No, for the time being, he’d just be content with a little stability and maybe a home cooked meal every now and again.

Mrs. Mancini narrowed her eyes at her son. Like his sister, he’d mastered the art of ignoring
the uncomfortable. “Not like my Christopher here. He goes with a different girl every week. What about you, Jackson? Have you met any nice girls since you’ve been back in the city?”

He turned to Becca, speaking directly to her, although it was her mother who’d asked the question. She swallowed, the color draining from her face. “Nice girls? Can’t say that I have,” he said, enjoying the way
she shifted uncomfortably when their eyes met. He stretched, draping his arm over the back of her chair. “In fact, just last week, a woman in Manhattan asked me out and then stood me up.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Becca grumbled, ripping a piece of bread from the loaf at the center of the table.

“Hush!” Mrs. Mancini admonished her daughter. She patted his hand, drawing a snort from Becca.
“What you need is a nice Brooklyn girl.”

“Ain’t that the truth?” Christopher agreed wholeheartedly. “You just let me know when you’re free, and I’ll set you up. You can be my wingman, just like the old days. Plenty of nice, single women in this neighborhood who’d love to meet a firefighter, and who’d have enough class to actually show up.”

Becca blew out a ragged breath, as if tamping
down her fiery temper. She was kind of cute when she was pissed off, but it was time to redirect the conversation. If this went much further, she was likely to blow. And when she came undone, it wouldn’t be like this. It would be in his arms.

“I appreciate the offer, but I’ve got my eye on a girl from the old neighborhood. I just have to convince her to give me a shot.”

“Good luck
with that.” Shoving his arm from her chair, Becca stood, shaking that wild mane of curls over her shoulder as she looked down at him. “You’re going to need it.”

…

Becca cursed her shit luck—and that stupid revenge scheme—as she glared at the man beside her. What had her parents been thinking when they’d made Jax promise to walk her back to her apartment? It was just a few blocks, and
she was a grown-ass woman for crying out loud. Would they ever accept her independence? She loved them dearly, but moments like this were exactly why she’d needed to get her own place.

She sighed. Unfortunately, she had bigger problems. Like a walking, talking, infuriating firefighter who radiated sex. Not that she was thinking about sex with Jax. The man was trouble. Under all those “yes,
ma’am’s” and honorable notions he espoused, he was still the same old Jax.

And he was staring at her like she was the last slice of triple chocolate death cake on the dessert cart.

“You really don’t have to do this, you know.” Mancini’s was half a block back and around the corner. They were officially out of range of her parents’ well-intentioned eyes. “At the age of twenty-five, I’m
perfectly capable of walking myself home.”

“Sorry, shortie. A promise is a promise.” Jax smirked and stuffed his hands in his pockets, drawing her eyes south, to a place she didn’t dare think about. “Besides, you’re only twenty-four.”

Becca stilled, feet frozen to the ground.

Jax slowed, turning to face her, a playful smile on his lips. “What? You didn’t think I’d forget your
birthday, did you? You still have a few weeks to go. Don’t be in such a hurry to grow up.”

She rolled her eyes. He was two years older. It hardly made him her elder. Then again, Jax had grown up fast. She’d known it even as a kid. He’d never talked about things at home, but she’d seen the way he flinched almost imperceptibly when her parents asked about his father. He hid it well, but there
were rare moments when his pain shone through. No, he hadn’t needed words back then. Those soulful eyes of his said it all. And oh how she’d wanted to comfort him, to let him know he was loved.

Once, she’d come close to doing just that, hoping to get her very first kiss from Jackson Hart. They’d been playing soccer in the small patch of grass behind the restaurant. Christopher had gone inside
for a drink, leaving her alone with Jax. They were messing around, running drills like they’d done countless times before.

God, she remembered it like it was yesterday.

Jax was teasing her about being clumsy, and lo and behold, she’d proven him right, tripping over her own two feet, crashing into him and taking them both to the ground. He’d softened her landing with his body, and they’d
had one of those swoon-worthy moments—the kind she’d seen in more rom-coms than she could count—where their eyes locked and her pulse thundered, drowning out rational thought. Common sense told her to get up, but she’d been frozen, secure in the protective embrace of the boy she wanted so desperately to see her. Then he’d brushed her hair back from her face, his gaze fixed on her lips. She’d
been so sure he was going to kiss her…right up until Christopher returned. Then he’d scrambled to put as much distance between them as possible. It had been sort of sweet at the time.

Of course, back then she’d thought everything Jax did was sweet.

But that boy wasn’t standing in front of her now. Before her stood a grown man whose eyes shone with confidence and pride, a man who knew
what he wanted and wasn’t afraid to go after it, judging by his words back at the restaurant.

He reached for her hand, but she dodged him.

Clinging to her independence, she took off down the street, leaving him nipping at her heels. “And don’t call me shortie. No one’s called me that in…
years
.” Ten to be exact, but who was counting? “In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve grown about six
inches.” She shrugged. “Apparently Mancini women are late bloomers.”

“You may have grown,” he said, falling in step beside her, “but you’ll always be a shortie next to me.”

“Yeah, well, that’s probably true of half the population of the borough.” She looked him up and down. “In case you haven’t noticed, you’re kind of a giant.”

When they reached her apartment building, he followed
her up to the door.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked, planting a hand on her hip and blocking the entrance with her other arm.

“Coming up for dessert.” He held up the carryout bag her mother had given him on the way out the door. “Your mom packed tartufo for two. It’s still your favorite, right?”

“Keep it.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m on a diet anyway.”

“Liar. You’re perfect just the way you are.” His gaze slid over her body, assessing her from head to toe and giving her all the feels in her belly. It was clear he liked what he saw. Lust burned bright, flickering in those blue eyes like a flame greedy for oxygen. She squeezed her thighs tight, refusing to acknowledge her own desire. “Besides,” he went on, “I don’t have any spoons at my place,
so if you don’t invite me up, I’ll just have to leave them both here with you.”

Becca weighed her options. Her mom’s tartufo was the best in the borough, and if they stood around arguing about it much longer, there’d be nothing left but a soupy mess. Refusing to forgo a perfectly good dessert, she relented and opened the door for Jax to pass.

Once inside the apartment, she moved swiftly,
making quick work of the carryout package. Then she and Jax settled in at the bar, spoons in hand. Only, the way he was looking at her spoke of an entirely different kind of hunger, one she refused to consider any further before dessert.

Instead, she dug into her ice cream.

“Oh, my God,” she moaned, the dark chocolate coating her mouth with its silky goodness. “This is so good, I could
orgasm right here.”

Good one, Becca.

As soon as the words were out, she regretted them, but what could she do? He seemed to have that effect on her. Every time she was near him she felt like that bumbling kid again, fifteen and clueless.