All Fired Up (Hometown Heat 1)

But as Jamison turns to face me—a miserable expression on his face— uncertainty drifts through my chest, as cold as the winter air seeping through the coat of my rented tux.

Chapter Twenty

Faith

I watch Jamison and Jake step outside with a sinking feeling in my stomach.

Great.

Just when I’m in desperate need of a little brotherly support, my surrogate siblings decide to take a walk. Why they’re going outside when it’s barely above freezing, I have no idea—they don’t smoke, and it isn’t that loud in here yet—but I guess this is just my luck lately.

My bad luck.

“Are you sure you want another cookie?” Neil asks, glancing dubiously at my midsection, making me see red as bright as his cheesy bow tie.

I have rock hard abs, ran seven miles this morning, and have more than earned a few cookies. But even if I hadn’t, where does Neil get off trying to police my food intake?

My body is mine, and I don’t appreciate Neil or any other man thinking he has the right to tell me what to do with it. Even Jamison gets on my nerves when he teases me about how much I eat sometimes, and I know he’s totally kidding.

But maybe I’m overly sensitive to stuff like that.

When you grow up watching your mom give the loser men she dates power over every aspect of her life, it’s hard not to be.

Ugh. I don’t ever want to be that person.

I want to be my own person, and I don’t care if I have to do it alone.

Hell, I’m happier alone than Mom ever was with her string of losers, and my dates with Neil have only solidified my intentions to stay that way.

Alone. Happy.

And safe from the kind of blood-pressure-spiking antics of guys who think it’s acceptable to tell me my triceps are “too big for a girl’s” when my job necessitates upper body strength in order to save lives.

Saving lives, blockhead—because there are more important things than being weak and fragile so that insecure jerks like you can feel big and manly.

“I mean, that cider probably had two hundred calories,” Neil continues, oblivious to that fact that I’m daydreaming about punching him. Hard. “You don’t want to carbo load on top of that.”

What I want is to drown Neil in the punch bowl, slowly, so he has time to think about what a waste of flesh he is.

Instead, I force a smile. “It’s a special occasion. I think the food police should take a night off.” I point a finger at the refreshment table. “I’d like one of the chocolate chip ones with walnuts, please.”

“But I’m allergic to walnuts,” Neil says.

“Then it’s a good thing you won’t be the one eating the cookie, isn’t it?” I ask in a syrupy voice, pushing on before Neil can offer any more feedback on my request. “I’m going to run out to my friend’s car and get my purse. Be back in a second.”

I aim myself at the door Jamison and Jake exited a few minutes before. I didn’t bring a purse—purses are a pain in the ass, and I only carry one when I absolutely have to—but I figure that’s as good an alibi as any to explain my disappearance as I go hunt for the boys.

I need an escape plan—ASAP.

I’m never going to make it through a single dance with Neil, let alone the three I promised myself I would. Nine hundred dollars on the line or not, I can’t stomach another night with him. If he wants to complain to his gram and have her ask for a refund, then they can go right ahead. I’ll make up the difference to the firehouse fund myself if I have to.

I’m stick-a-fork-in-me-and-get-me-out-of-here-before-my-head-explodes done.

With any luck, Jamison will be feeling the same way, and I can sweet talk him into leaving now. If all goes well, I’ll be back at my apartment in my cozy flannel pajamas with my cat, Captain Snugglepants, cuddled in my lap before the clock strikes nine.

I emerge into the frigid air and cross my arms, huddling against the cold and cursing women’s fashion. The guys get toasty tuxedo jackets; the women get sleeveless gowns. It’s ridiculous, and yet another item on my long list of “Reasons It Would Suck Less to Be a Dude.”

“Jamison? Jake?” I call out, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness before picking my way along the paving stones to the single gaslight burning at the center of the garden. I keep going past the pool of warm yellow light to an arbor covered with dormant grape vines curling up and over its sides, but there’s still no sign of the Hansen brothers.

“Shit,” I mutter, shivering under the arbor. It blocks most of the wind, but it’s still freezing out here.

I can’t stay out long without a coat.