Firefighter's Virgin

In fact, I was convinced that she’d only had dinner with me that first night to piss off her father.

The thought made me, I don’t know, uneasy maybe? But I was sure that her hanging out with me wasn’t about that anymore. Now it was something else.

“So you’re telling me that you’re potentially sacrificing your spot on our team for a fling?”

“What are you talking about?” It was my turn to stop and stare, though I knew exactly what he meant.

“You know what I’m fucking talking about. Don’t play dumb, Jamie. Not with me, cause I ain’t falling for your bullshit.” He was full-blown annoyed if his twitching jaw and harsh tone were anything to go by.

“Come on. Richard might not be happy about it, if he even finds out, but he’s not going to kick me off the team.” I’d dialed down my own irritation.

“No, maybe not. The restructuring of your contract, on the other hand, that might be in trouble.” His jaw c

lenched, and his dark eyes radiated a seriousness that he didn’t display too often. “I’m not going to say anything, but shit like this tends to get out. You said yourself that you’re not serious about this Gabrielle. So is it really worth it to risk your future over a fling?”

“If I agree to think about it, can we drop it?” I huffed. I was done with his shit.

He cast a last worried look my way, then broke out a grin. “Sure, man. Let me spot you.”

We grunted through our workout, hit the showers, and were out the door without another word about Gabrielle.

Thoughts swirled around in my head as I drove around, not wanting to head home just yet. Harper’s eyes flashed in my mind, as did the kind of life that I wanted for her.

Next was the Super Bowl and how shitty I had felt watching it on Ryder’s flat screen when it should’ve been us on that field. The ring that had eluded me for so long.

As much as I liked spending time with Gabrielle, maybe Ryder was right. Maybe she wasn’t worth risking my future.

Chapter Twenty

Gabrielle

“That’s it. I’m calling it a day.” I snapped my copy of the professional code of ethics shut and leaned back on Heather’s couch. I ran my hand over the cool leather of the armrest and let my head fall back, closing my tired eyes.

“Thank God. I’ve been rereading the same paragraph for the last 20 minutes.” Heather groaned from her perch at the ex-dining table.

“I think we made enough headway for today. There’s no use in carrying on when my brain feels like a sieve.” If my brain had been a bucket of water, it would have been leakier than a broken tap by that point.

“Try a rusty sieve with nothing left but frayed edges, in my case.” Heather pushed her textbook back and stretched her arms above her head. “I’m in serious need of more caffeine. You want some?”

“Is the Pope Catholic?” It was lame, but it was the best answer I could come up with. I had thrown myself into studying more and more that week, trying to ignore the fact that the man I was falling in love with was inexplicably pulling away from me.

I had known that he would, of course, but after last Saturday, I had allowed myself to believe what he’d said. Believed that he wasn’t going to get bored of me. That maybe he felt something, too.

He hadn’t only stayed the night, but had woken me in the early hours of the morning with an erection that meant business. Twice. He’d whispered about how he hadn’t gone bareback with a girl in years, and then proceeded to whisper all kinds of sweet nothings to me in the pre-dawn hours.

In the morning, we’d cooked breakfast together, bantering back and forth like an old married couple before he finally had to go.

We’d texted almost the whole of the previous Sunday, ending it with a phone call so hot that my sex still clenched when I thought about it. We had made plans for Monday night as he was headed to the gym that morning.

After that, things changed. He changed. First, he called to tell that he couldn’t make it to our dinner, citing that “something had come up.”

There were pictures of him in the entertainment section of the paper on Tuesday morning, apparently taken at some club the night before with the infamous Ryder. At least I finally had a face to put to the name.

I had expected him to call when he finally returned to the land of the living. He didn’t. He returned one of the texts on Tuesday night, saying that he’d been busy with the team.

No shit. I didn’t tell him that I’d seen the pictures. Or how deeply it had cut me.

He didn’t call or text on Wednesday, so I didn’t either. I’d received a text from him the night before with a picture of a parachute. No words.