A Firefighter in Her Stocking

Because the man sitting beside her looked completely comfortable in his tuxedo. Completely and utterly breathtaking, too.

No more so than he’d been in his jeans and T-shirt the other night.

Or in his towel.

Or even in his dirty uniform.

She might even prefer the dirty uniform look because it had been one she could relate to, one that had cracked through the preconceived ideas she’d had about him.

A look that made him real, human, vulnerable.

Vulnerable?

Ha! The man sitting next to her looked about as vulnerable as a double zero agent from a British spy flick.

“This is the quietest you’ve been since we’ve met.”

“That’s not true. I didn’t say a single word on the morning you were telling Brandy goodbye.”

Why did the memory of him kissing the woman sting so deeply? Why did she always revert to throwing other women between them?

Because she needed something to keep her from forgetting none of this was real, that she didn’t want it to be real.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“THAT MORNING DOESN’T COUNT.”

At his comment, Sarah glanced toward Jude.

“You and I hadn’t met,” he clarified. “I didn’t even know your name, despite the fact that I had said hi to you a couple of times.”

He had. Sarah had ignored him, pretending not to hear, or had just mumbled a reply without looking his way.

Why was that? She wasn’t a rude person, wasn’t unfriendly. She’d made friends with other tenants in the building. But for some reason she’d felt the need to keep a safe distance from Jude.

Because he was a womanizing playboy.

Only she couldn’t say he’d been anything other than a gentleman to her. At the hospital. When he’d rescued her from her screaming alarm. When he’d cooked dinner for her and shared his magnificent view of the city.

When he’d kissed her goodnight.

When he’d surprised her with presents, shown up at her door with flowers, arranged for a limousine for their date, and promised the best night of her life.

He’d been pretty close to perfect since they’d met, which made him about as unsafe as was possible.

Unable to stop herself, she faced him, stared at his mouth. She didn’t question whether or not he’d kiss her tonight. He would.

He wouldn’t push or force himself upon her. He’d be just as he had been the other night. He’d give her control as to how far they went and seemed to have no issue with relinquishing that power to her.

She was in control of what happened between them.

Her.

As long as she remembered that, held onto that control, she was fine.

“Can I?”

“Can you what?” she asked, wondering if she’d been so lost in her thoughts that she’d missed his having said something.