Catching Fire (Hometown Heat 2)

“I don’t mind. I know how guys are,” she says with a flirty wink.

A few weeks ago, I would have been eating that flirt up with a spoon and asking for seconds. Now it only makes my stomach churn.

“Seriously, I just moved in. Half my stuff is still in boxes.” I glance at the firehouse across the street, wishing Faith were working so I’d have a chance of spotting her silhouette through the window. “Maybe some other time?”

“Sure. No worries,” she says. “Walk me to my car, then? I get nervous walking by myself.”

“Totally,” I say, though I don’t see why she’d be nervous.

I can see her car from here. She’s parked on Main Street, less than ten feet from the bakery’s front door, under a streetlight, across from the fire station where five of Bliss River’s biggest and burliest are keeping watch over the firehouse. She couldn’t be much safer, and I can’t help thinking about what Faith would do in a situation like this.

She’s as fearless as she is irresistible. Even when we were kids, Faith was the kind of person who could take care of herself and anyone else who had the poor judgment to mess with her. She’d probably tell me to scram and jog home alone down Bliss River’s darkest streets, spooking bad guys as she went.

The thought makes me smile as I stop beside Nina’s car.

I know some men aren’t into strong women, but I love that Faith doesn’t take shit from anyone or anything. I can’t imagine anything sexier, actually, than knowing the woman I’m with can totally take care of herself but is choosing to let me take care of her instead.

Take care of her in bed specifically.

For the last twelve days, I’ve been fantasizing about Faith’s strong legs wrapped around my waist and the sounds she’ll make when I make her lose her well-maintained control.

Twelve days…which means only two more days until she’s back in town.

Two more endless, impossible days…

“So, do you have a date for Melody’s party?” Nina asks, fidgeting with her purse instead of unlocking her car. “If not, maybe we could go together.”

I cringe inwardly.

I really hate this part. Hate letting girls down easy.

Once upon a time, it wouldn’t have been such a big deal—Nina and I have only been out once, and we didn’t make each other any promises—but Bridget taught me that breaking up isn’t always easy.

It can, in fact, be absolutely fucking miserable.

The first time I tried to end it, Bridget got so drunk she ended up in the hospital having her stomach pumped. The second time, she cried in front of my apartment building for four hours straight, making such a scene I finally gave in and went downstairs to carry my tragically fragile ex-girlfriend up to my room and tuck her into bed for a nap while I slept on the couch.

The third time, she threatened to kill herself.

I tried to get her help, but she refused to talk to the college counselors. She simply promised to slit her wrists if I didn’t agree to be her boyfriend again and knowing her the way I did, I believed her.

Trapped, I agreed to get back together, and we “dated” the last two months of our senior year. But the entire time, I felt like a prisoner. By graduation day, I was so miserable and exhausted and sick of being held hostage that I left the ceremony early, loaded my stuff into my truck, and hit the road with my gown still on over my jeans and T-shirt.

Ten hours later I pulled into Bliss River with a new cell phone number and a new lease on life, determined never to look back, and never to be sucked into a destructive relationship like that again.

So even though it would be easier to tell Nina “sure” I’ll be her date and pick her up on the way to the party—keeping my emotional distance until she gets the hint—I shake my head. “I think I’ll go solo,” I say gently. “You’re gorgeous and fun, Nina, but I think we’re better off as friends. If that’s okay with you.”

“Oh, yeah, totally.” Nina laughs and rolls her eyes, scrambling in her purse for her keys, clearly a little embarrassed. “So, I’ll see you New Year’s Eve.” She tosses the words over her shoulder as she slides into her car, already fitting the key in the ignition before I can close the door behind her.

“See you then.” I slam the door and step back up onto the sidewalk.

When she peels out into the street without bothering to check her rearview mirror—nearly colliding with a beat-up white pickup truck cruising down Main—I wince and congratulate myself on following my instincts with her. Poor driving is fairly low on my list of deal-breakers, but it’s on there. Along with girls who talk in baby voices, girls who talk trash about other girls, and girls who communicate solely in emojis.