All Fired Up (Hometown Heat 1)

The boys must have decided on a longer walk or circled back around to the front door to rejoin the festivities. Either way, I’ve apparently missed them. And now I have to go back inside and make nice with Neil for another ten or twenty minutes. Maybe even thirty.

Ugh!

Rationally, I know that isn’t that long, but the irrational, Neil-chafed part of me rebels at the thought of another second in Mr. Simpson’s company.

And so I’m still here, shivering under the arbor, torn between the lure of the comforting warmth of the ballroom and the comforting lack of Neil out here in the cold, when a masculine shadow emerges from the house and steps out onto the garden path.

I know instantly the man isn’t Neil—the shadow has much broader shoulders and a clearly defined neck, whereas Neil looks like his head’s fused directly onto his body. The shadow also has narrow hips, long, strong-looking legs, and a hint of a swagger. Neil doesn’t swagger, either. Neil’s so muscle bound that he waddles like an arthritic bulldog. This man lopes like a professional athlete, someone with such confidence in his body’s ability to perform that he glides through life, oozing sex appeal and high self-esteem.

As he starts down the path in my direction, awareness flickers in my blood, warming my chilled skin and surprising the hell out of me.

I can’t remember the last time I was attracted to a guy.

Like…honestly can’t remember. It’s not something that happens to me with any regularity and not at all recently.

Yeah…it’s been at least a year. Or more. I broke up with my first and only boyfriend, Eli, at the station Halloween party year before last and haven’t dated anyone since.

But that’s okay!

I have high standards—impossibly high to hear my mom talk—and I refuse to compromise them. Why should I? I know what I want in a partner and I’m not willing to settle for anything less. I get that I might spend the rest of my life alone because of it, but I’m okay with that, too.

Mostly okay anyway…

I mean, yes, I have urges like anyone else, but I’m not the type to get stupid over a guy because he has broad shoulders or a nice body or a sexy swagger.

Or all three…

I’m especially not the type to get flustered and tingly in places I shouldn’t be tingling before I even get a look at some stranger’s face. I don’t like strangers! And faces are really important. No amount of nice body or personality can make up for a creepy face.

I warn my libido that this guy could have chewing tobacco sores in his mouth or chronic body odor. He could be a repellent mouth breather, or a sociopath, or a cocky jerk every bit as obnoxious as Neil.

But the mental simmer-down talk does nothing to cool my flushed cheeks. I’m still warm all over and buzzing in embarrassing places when the man steps into the gaslight’s glow and the shadows concealing his features fade away.

“Mick Whitehouse?” His name bursts from my lips in a tone every bit as incredulous as I feel.

I slap a hand over my mouth, mortified by my outburst, but it’s too late to escape.

Mick is already looking my way.

“Faith Miller,” he echoes in a tamer imitation of my spazz attack. He laughs before ambling across the grass. “There you are. Naomi saw you head out and asked me to come check on you. You doin’ okay?”

Am I okay?

No, I am not okay! I was just feeling frisky feelings about a guy I’ve known since I was in kindergarten, a boy I used to pound on in second grade when I was going through hell at home and he was the only person in class smaller than I was. These days, I’m a respectable five-eight and one-hundred-and-sixty pounds of pure muscle, but back in elementary school I was the runt of the litter.

Except for Mick Whitehouse, who was the shortest boy in class, all the way until graduation five years ago.

Mick Whitehouse, who has obviously done quite a bit of developing and lifting of heavy things since then. Mick, who’s grown into his big, goofy grin and whose smile now makes me flutter in mortifying ways.

But I can never say any of those things to him.

Never ever ever.

“I’m f-fine,” I say, doing my best to keep my teeth from chattering. “Just hiding from Neil. Needed a little break from…all that.”

“Ah, I see.” Mick nods, casting a glance back at the ballroom as he stops in front of me, close enough for me to smell the sugar cookie and clove scent clinging to his tux. It’s a homey smell and shouldn’t make my flutters any worse, but it does, ramping up my awareness of the man Mick has become until my body is in a state of full-out rebellion.