Torch (Take It Off) (6 page)

Temporary was just a word—a state of being that really just meant nothing was mine. It was like I was borrowing something that didn’t belong to me.

I was tired of that.

I wanted permanent.

Some action movie was playing on the flat screen and I turned my attention toward that, trying to distract myself. I was only tired. Tired and upset. A combination that always made me feel slightly grouchy and, tonight, kind of sad.

Tomorrow I would feel better.

Holt snorted at something on the TV and I turned my head to look at him. He was so solid looking—wide shoulders, strong jaw, and rock-hard biceps. The stubble on his face was soft, setting off some of the hardness he projected. His presence was reassuring; somehow he made me feel like everything was going to be okay.

The blurry vision of him stepping through the fire to rescue me arose in my head, and I tried to see more of him, but a memory was just that—a memory. I couldn’t really pull more detail out of that moment even though I wanted to. If I were able, I doubt I would notice how good-looking he was in his fireman’s gear. If anything, I would notice the way the flames devoured my home.

I closed my eyes, willing myself to stop thinking altogether. I took a few deep breaths and positioned my arms so my wrists wouldn’t get squished beneath my body. It didn’t take long to drift off into soundless sleep. Every once in a while, the TV would break into my slumber, but I found the sound comforting. It made me feel less alone.

I don’t know what time it was when I felt myself being moved. Alarm slammed through me—my instincts thinking someone was somehow taking advantage of me in my sleep. I jerked awake, flinging my arms wide while my body went rigid.

“Everything’s fine. You’re safe.” Holt’s voice was a soft rumble beside my ear.

I blinked, looking up. I was in his arms. He was cradling me against him and my cheek brushed against his T-shirt-clad chest. “What are you doing?” I mumbled, my eyes drifting closed again.

“You’ll be more comfortable in a bed.”

He carried me like I weighed nothing, and his body gave off a delicious heat that my skin just soaked up like a flower on a sunny day. Then he was laying me in a bed with soft sheets and tucking a blanket up around my shoulders.

6

Something was burning. I shot up in the center of a very large bed. The first few moments, I sat there disoriented, trying to remember where I was.

I remembered the fire. The hospital. I remembered being carried to bed by Holt.

Something was on fire.

Again.

Acting swiftly, I threw off the covers and jumped down, barely noticing how chilled the wooden floors felt against my feet. I looked for signs of the fire as I rushed out into the hallway, ducking slightly low in case of rising smoke.

A loud piercing beep assaulted the quiet morning and went off with an enthusiasm that could only be produced by a really good battery.

“Holt!” I shrieked, my voice straining to reach the volume I wanted. “Fire! Get out of the house.”

My heart was beating so fast I thought it might collapse in my chest. My knees began to shake with adrenaline as I bolted into the living room and rushed toward the front door.

I had to get out.

I did not want to burn.

“Holt!” I screamed again, tearing open the door, preparing to rush out into the yard.

Something caught me around the waist and pulled me back into the house. My feet were lifted off the floor, but they continued to make a running motion, kicking whatever was holding me.

“No, please!” I yelled, trying to squirm free.

“Katie!” Holt said, his voice loud against my ear. “It’s me. There is no fire.”

I stopped struggling, going limp in his arms. He reached around us and shoved the door closed, spinning around and facing us toward the kitchen.

“I was trying to make you breakfast.”

It took a moment for his words and their meaning to sink in. I stared dumbfounded across the room and past the island. There was smoke billowing up from the stove and the window above the sink was wide open.

Bowls and spoons littered the island and there was a carton of eggs sitting out.

He was trying to cook.

He was really bad at it.

I started to laugh.

The kind of laugh that shook my shoulders and bubbled up hysterically. My heart rate was still out of control, and I took in a few breaths between laughs to try and calm it down.

He said something, but I couldn’t hear him because the fire alarm was still going off. I had no doubt half the neighborhood was now awake from the sound. He didn’t bother to put me down, instead hauling me along with him, where he finally set me down, dragged a chair over near the alarm, and climbed up to remove the battery.

The noise cut off and the kitchen fell silent.

“Well, shit,” he said, staring at the battery in his hand.

A giggle escaped me. “Does this always happen when you cook?”

He shrugged. “The only time I ever cook is when it’s my turn at the station.” His forehead creased and a thoughtful look came over his face. “The guys are never around when it’s my night to cook. Now I know why.” He snagged a towel off the counter and began waving away the rest of the lingering smoke.

I clicked on the vent fan above the stove. There was a pan with half a melted spatula, something that may or may not have once been eggs, and a muffin tin with half-burned, half-raw muffins (how was that even possible?).

“Well, this looks…” My words faltered, trying to come up with something positive to say.

“Completely inedible?” he finished.

I grinned. “You did all this for me?”

“I figured after a week of hospital food, you might like something good. Apparently you aren’t going to find that here.”

I had the urge to hug him. I kept my feet planted where they were. “Thank you. No one’s ever ruined a pan for me before.”

He grinned. “I have cereal. Even I can’t mess that up.”

I watched as he pulled down a bowl and poured me some, adding milk. He looked so cute when he handed me the bowl that I lifted the spoon and took a bite. “Best cereal I ever had.”

“Damn straight.”

I carried it over to the counter and sat down. “After we eat, would you mind taking me to my car? I hope it’s still drivable.”

“What about the keys?”

“I have a security deposit box at the bank. I keep my spare there in case I ever need them.”

“Pretty smart.”

“I have a few good ideas now and then.”

“Contrary to the way it looks, I do too.”

“Thank you for trying to make me breakfast. And for the cereal.”

He walked over to the stove and picked up the ruined pan. “You died with honor,” he said, giving it a mock salute. And then he threw the entire thing into the trashcan.

I laughed. “You could have washed it, you know.”

He made a face. “No. Then I might be tempted to use it again.”

“I should change my bandages and… uh…” I looked down at his button-up. “My clothes.”

I noticed his gaze linger on my legs before he spoke up. “I’ll help you with those.”

For a minute I thought he was talking about my pants, and the memory of the last time he “helped” me with them crept up on me. Heat suffused my system as my body recalled what his touch felt like and how his fingertips lingered on my skin.

He cleared his throat and my attention jerked back to the present, and I realized he wasn’t talking about my pants. He was talking about the bandages.

It was official.

I was turning into a pervert.

I retrieved my sack of belongings from the living room and pulled out a few of the medical supplies the nurse at the hospital gave me and spread them out on the kitchen island. Then I sat down on a stool and began unwrapping one of my wrists.

“Here, let me.” His voice was gentle as he ushered my hands away and brought my wrist closer to him. He worked quietly, completely unwrapping the wound and then staring down at it with a somber expression. “How’s the pain?”

“Manageable,” I said, offering him a smile.

“I should have gotten there sooner,” he said to himself.

Was that blame I heard in his tone? I brought my free hand up and covered his arm. “Holt, I’m alive because of you.”

“But you still got hurt.”

“It would have been a lot worse,” I murmured, thinking back to that night. “I thought you were just a hallucination,” I confided and he looked up, listening to my words. “I’d been trying desperately to get to my feet, to run toward the back of my house, but my ankles were crossed, it made it hard to stand. When I did manage, I fell over.”

He didn’t say anything, but he did flip his arm over and slid it down so his fingers could grasp mine.

“I’ve never been so afraid in my entire life. The heat, it’s so intense, you know?” He nodded and I went on. “It was getting really hard to breathe, and I could feel my consciousness slipping away. And then there you were. Stepping through the flames like some kind of superhero.”

“Maybe I should get a cape,” he quipped.

I laughed lightly. “Maybe. We were lucky the fire hadn’t spread to the back door.”

“You know I didn’t actually walk through the flames. We aren’t supposed to do that.”

I tilted my head to the side. “It sure looked that way from where I was sitting.”

He nodded. “The flames were close. Closer than we would have liked. We were actually told to fall back, to go around the back of the house. But I knew if I left, if I did what they said, you would have died.”

The enormity of what he did overwhelmed me. He continued forward even after he was told he shouldn’t. He literally risked his own life for mine. I wasn’t going to bother telling him it was a reckless choice, that he shouldn’t have done it. Because I was glad he did. And I certainly wasn’t going to make less of what he did by telling him he was wrong.

“Did you get in trouble?”

His smile was lightning fast. “Nah. The chief loves me.”

I bet he did. I couldn’t imagine anyone not loving him.

He went back to working on my wrist, applying the creams I was given and rewrapping the wound like he was handling a newborn puppy or something equally as precious.

It hurt, but the pain was overshadowed by his nearness, by the sound of his even breathing, and by the looks of concern those incredible blue eyes bestowed upon me.

“Breathe,” he reminded me, pausing in his ministrations.

I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath. I took a breath and he went back to work. He probably thought I was holding my breath because of the pain. It wasn’t the pain. It was him. He was unlike any man I had ever known. It took a truly strong man to be so gentle. And he was selfless, too, putting my life ahead of his own that night.

Of course, I wasn’t about to tell him that.

He flashed me a small smile, almost like he could read my thoughts, and then lifted my other wrist and he began the process all over again.

I glanced over at my cereal, long forgotten and turned to mush.

“You can make another bowl after I’m done,” he said, the words rumbling out of his chest as he worked.

“I can just stop on the way to the motel and get something.”

His eyes flashed up to mine. “Motel?”

I nodded. “I’ll stay at one until I’m able to get another place.”

“You can stay here.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

I opened my mouth to give some kind of reply when he demanded, “Do you have a boyfriend?” The anger in his tone was surprising.

“No!”

He fell silent again as he finished up bandaging me. When he was done, he grasped my forearm up above the burns. “Katie, please stay here.”

I felt my insides caving. I looked away. If I couldn’t see the persuasion in his eyes, I wouldn’t be tempted. After all, I did feel safe with him and after everything that happened, feeling safe seemed really important.