No Damaged Goods Read online

  Why, Blake? I can’t help wondering.

  But I think I get a little hint of an answer as he turns, striding toward me.

  He moves like a man who knows how powerful he is.

  Slow and controlled, smooth ripples of chiseled musculature trailing down from broad shoulders, over the sweat-darkened pull of pecs against his clinging black shirt. The tight line of his abs and narrow hips switch in a rhythm that’s as sensuous as a hunting panther’s slink.

  But he also moves like a man who knows what hell is.

  Somehow, I don’t think it’s just firefighting that taught him.

  He’s favoring his left leg. Some kind of injury, the kind of walk that says he’s learned how to hide it, but he can’t always keep it down.

  His strength fights against his own weight. He’s built to support that wall of a body, but every ounce of well-crafted muscle is also another ounce of pressure crushing down on the invisible wound, making him list just slightly to the left with every stride.

  I probably wouldn’t notice if I wasn’t used to searching for pain.

  That’s what massage therapists do.

  Learn people’s pain, so they can tame it and chase it away.

  But he’s stoic, withdrawn, as he stops in front of me, scanning my body with a critical eye that makes me feel kind of like one of those dummies they teach you first aid on.

  Eep. So much for all those flutters. My butterflies just iced over.

  “You Peace?” he growls.

  I smile faintly, pulling my frozen fingers from my pocket to wiggle them at him in a little wave. “Only person out here with a burning wreck. Blake, right?”

  He only grunts, giving me another one of those looks. “You’re not hurt?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “I jumped out and got away as soon as I had the van parked on the side of the road. I’m just cold.”

  “Lucky it’s not quite cold enough tonight for hypothermia, but you’ll still catch a chill.”

  He takes a step back then, retreating to the fire truck, and digs out one of those massive, thick fire jackets from a side compartment. It’s deep grey with reflective yellow and orange bands on the sleeves and back.

  Slowly, he returns to me and swings it around my shoulders.

  For a moment, I’m almost wrapped up in his arms. He reaches around me to pull the jacket tight, draping it over my shoulders and then drawing it in to bundle me up.

  Now, my butterflies are thawed.

  And it’s definitely not the jacket leaving my face so hot my ears burn against the cold, the contrast bordering on painful.

  Oh, no.

  Why did he have to be so...so...

  That.

  All of that, including the faint whiff of cologne and Goliath I get as he straightens, still looking at me with this fierce, unmovable gaze.

  “Thanks,” I say faintly, curling my fingers in the jacket, drawing it closer. “For coming out here.”

  “It’s my job.”

  “Right.” I’m really playing it smooth here.

  So I bite my lip, searching for something to say, then glance past him at the other two men who have shut the hose off and lifted the hood of my van to see inside. “You doused it out fast. I’m a little amazed. It’s not every day I see—”

  “A dude with a leg as fucked as mine doin’ this kind of work?” he cuts me off. “Heard it a thousand times, darlin’.”

  Oh, crap city!

  Wrong tack.

  Absolutely the wrong tack.

  He can’t possibly think I meant—

  Ugh. He caught me staring like a deer in the headlights.

  I realize it the instant his eyes go practically black, savage and dark, and his mouth tightens. There’s no other hint I’ve hit the wrong button, but it’s enough when the air around us drops a hundred degrees as he turns away, giving me his broad back.

  The lines of his shoulders, his trapezius, are so tense.

  Like he’s carrying boulders around inside him.

  “Blake, I’m sorry,” I fumble out. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Forget it. Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says flatly, and that empty, detached voice sounds nothing like the gentle man who’d reassured me over the phone.

  He stalks over to my van, reaches in the open driver’s side window, and snaps off the radio that’s been babbling in the background the entire time.

  I trail after him.

  I feel lost, unsure what to say. This is definitely in the top ten most surreal nights of my life.

  “Hey, I’m sorry,” I offer again to his back. “I wasn’t trying to be rude or nosy. I’m just—you know, I’m a massage therapist and—”

  “I heard about you!” One of the other men—the one with the mess of dark Grecian curls—looks up from under the hood with a grin. “You set up shop at the inn, right? Trying to get the snowbird crowd?”

  I smile slightly. “Yep. Figured if I was going to put down roots for winter, settling in with the tourists wouldn’t be a bad way to make a living.”

  He laughs, straightening and pulling one of his big bulky gloves off to offer me his hand. “Not just the tourists. We get more stress in this town than we have any right to. Hell, we’ve probably got collective PTSD by now after all that Galentron—”

  “Justin,” Blake growls, snapping a look at him, dark with warning.

  “Sorry, Chief.” Justin winces, but he keeps grinning, his big hand still outstretched. “I’m being unprofessional.”

  “It’s fine.” I shake his hand, quickly and warmly. “I’m not real big on professional. Most hippie kids aren’t.”

  “Figured you had some punk in you. Nice hair, by the way.”

  He’s talking about the ombre purple tips dyed in my hair. Most people usually are. It gets me looks in small towns like this, but I’m used to it and don’t mind when it’s a good icebreaker.

  I smile at Justin. “Thanks, dude.”

  Then his grin broadens.

  “Hey, you mind if I snap a few photos? I like keeping albums, and uh...this is my first burning van in the middle of the night around these parts. It’s not too far from the old Paradise Hotel ruins, might even be able to get them in the same shot off in the distance...”

  Hotel ruins? Hmm.

  I groan out a laugh but wave toward the van. “Knock yourself out. Just promise you’ll send me the pics for insurance purposes. I’ll even trade you a massage.”

  Justin laughs, already pulling his other glove off and fishing in his pocket for his phone.

  While Justin lines up shots on his screen, the flash snapping in sharp bursts over the night, I glance at Blake.

  He’s ducked under the hood of the van, glaring, but he doesn’t really look like he’s seeing much of anything. I shuffle my feet together.

  “So, if anybody on the fire crew wants to stop by, I’m happy to give a big discount for my daring rescuers.”

  Blake might as well not have even heard me.

  Justin perks, saying, “Yeah? Sweet.”

  Meanwhile, the other guy, the sandy-haired one, lifts his head, his expression clearing to focus on me.

  “What kind of discount do you give for vehicle repairs?”

  I laugh. “Why? Think you can get me a lower rate?”

  “I’m only a part-timer on the fire crew. Rest of the time I work at Mitch’s Autobody.” He grins. “Just ask for Rich.”

  “Will do.”

  For some reason, that seems to get under Blake’s skin.

  His shoulders ripple, and his hands go hard against the edge of the hood, knuckles ridged. He pushes himself up, flinging me a look. “Get anything you need out of your van. We’ll give you a lift back to town and send a tow truck for the van in the morning.”

  I blink.

  I don’t know why I feel so oddly deflated.

  Maybe because for a few seconds I’d built up a schoolgirl fantasy around that coaxing, growling voice, the feelies it gave me, wondering how i
t might feel to have that voice purring against my ear, sweet and dark and jagged.

  Meh.

  Gruff Jerk: 1.

  Lonely Girl: 0.

  You win this round, Blake.

  My name may be Peace, but I don’t go down without a fight.

  If Mr. Snarly-saurus doesn’t want to play, it’s his loss.

  * * *

  I’m less thinking about fighting and more about sleep by the time I dig my stuff out of my van.

  I keep a lot of supplies in there since I often use my van to travel to clients, instead of them coming to me. Justin, Rich, and Blake help, though. It’s a pretty weird look with my folding tables and gear and crates of massage oils stacked on the back of the fire truck by the ladders, but it works.

  No obvious smoke damage to my stuff, thank gawd.

  The whole time Rich and Justin gab at each other and me, warm and friendly and joking, and it’s not hard to tell they’re trying to make sure I stay calm.

  Blake, on the other hand, is completely silent.

  It feels almost like he’s trying to disappear.

  But I can’t help watching him.

  Except for the one time he catches my eye, I linger on the way his limp grows deeper while he hauls my stuff, and a pang of guilt builds inside me when it’s my fault he’s out here hauling my junk.

  Another dark flash goes through his gaze again, as if I’d done something wrong by seeing his weakness, and I look away quickly.

  It’s not hard to see he’s one of those men who builds walls out of pride.

  It’s only my own pride that keeps me awake, though, as the three men bundle me into the front cab of the fire truck. Good thing I’m small, or it’d be a snug fit with all of us.

  Rich has me sandwiched up against the door, and it’s hard for me not to fall asleep against his warmth while the cab’s heater melts the icicles under my skin. He kind of reminds me of my dad, especially when he talks about getting home to read his kids a bedtime story, words traded in murmurs with Justin while they leave me to drowse.

  It’s like they’re a sandwich of good company, caught between the silence of me against one door and Blake behind the wheel.

  But it’s kind of endearing.

  Honestly, it’s the first time I feel like I’m close to a group like family, ever since I cast myself into the wind.

  I’m nice and toasty, almost asleep, by the time the fire truck pulls up outside the Charming Inn—this quaint touristy spot I really love—with its white-columned plantation house for the main hotel and a field full of cottages leading off to the gorgeous cliff-front views.

  I perk up as the fire truck eases to a halt, the engine still running, all three men looking at me in silent question.

  “That way,” I say, pointing to a side lane that runs along the fence enclosing one side of the property. “I’m staying in one of the cottages back there. I don’t want to wake anybody up at the main house. I think the owners have a kid.”

  “Warren and Haley,” Blake grunts softly. “They’ll have just put their kids down.”

  Oh.

  Oh, no.

  I don’t know how I developed a crush this hard, this fast.

  Maybe it’s damsel in distress syndrome.

  But there’s that tick of warm, husky affection in his voice when he says Warren and Haley.

  That hint tells me the owners of the inn are important to him. Friends. Maybe family.

  Lucky them, when I just want to hear him say Peace in soothing baritone again, with that same gentle heat.

  But he doesn’t say anything else as he cruises the fire truck forward to take that little turn-off and head down the lane, the dirt and twigs cracking under the wheels.

  The first flakes of a snowstorm, thick and fat and heavy, are just beginning to streak down from the clouds by the time I get out, adding to the small, half-melted dunes that cling here and there around the property. I’m sure the deeper, burying snows won’t be far behind this dusting.

  I’m lucky I didn’t get stranded in a blizzard.

  It’s quiet as everyone helps me offload things from the fire truck. We carry them into the wooden slat cabin with its tall floor-to-ceiling windows and glass doors.

  As the last crate rattles down on the coffee table, though, I turn to Blake, offering my hand. “Thanks again for—”

  I’m looking at his back.

  His back, and the tight clench of his left fist, pressed against his thigh. Clearly trying to knuckle out the pain and walk straighter, his spine stiff.

  Yeah.

  I know that habit.

  There’s a clear wound, maybe something he got as a firefighter, maybe something else. He’s got that kind of dense corded muscle that says ex-military.

  Maybe he’s been in physical therapy, maybe he’s recovered, but it’s never going to fully heal.

  And he looks like the kind of man who doesn’t really listen when people try to talk to him about pain management.

  “Hey,” Justin says with an easy smile, just as the door slams shut behind Blake. “Don’t mind him. He’s just...not good with attention. Too many people staring at him already around town, so add one more pretty stranger and he’s going to clam up.”

  I frown. “Why are people staring at him?”

  Justin laughs and sucks in a deep breath.

  Rich snorts, rolling his eyes. “Oh, don’t get him started. It’s his favorite story. The—”

  “Heroes of Heart’s Edge!” Justin finishes. His eyes are bright.

  I lift a brow.

  He can’t be more than a few years older than me, maybe close to thirty, but there’s definitely a case of fanboy hero worship in his boyish smile. “That’s what they call ’em in the papers. They just keep making all the headlines. Making some folks believe in heroes again.”

  “Headlines about what?” I blink, leaning around Justin to peer past Blake’s silhouette, slowly melting away into the falling snow and the shadows of night, barely visible through the glass.

  “Um, let’s see...” Justin ticks off his fingers, tilting his head, screwing his mouth up thoughtfully. “Got rid of a big-time drug runner, stopped an evil research company from killing the whole town, stopped them again from burning us down...”

  I stare, my heart skipping just a little faster. “Okay, wow. The tourist guidebooks did not warn me about any of that. I thought this place was just a sleepy, peaceful little place?”

  Justin grins, clapping me on the shoulder. “Aw, don’t worry. We’re back to being a sleepy small-town nothing again since autumn. Nothing’s gonna happen to you here.”

  “Except a terminal case of boredom,” Rich adds. “The only big shindig for the next few months is the winter carnival. Besides that, it’s just socialites wanting to play at being rustic for a month or two, until they get sick of the crappy Wi-Fi connection.”

  I laugh. “I’m not really worried as long as Netflix works.”

  “Might cut out a little with everything else when the first big snow hits,” Rich says. “For some reason, the underground internet cables get weird this time of year. But it’s usually fine after a day or two.” He nudges Justin’s arm. “C’mon. Little lady’s had a rough night. Let her get some rest.”

  He pitches his voice to me again. “I’ll get your van in the morning and tow it into town. You can come by Mitch’s when you’re up. Warren or Hay will give you a lift into town, I’m sure. Ask for me.”

  I kind of wish I could ask Blake to give me a ride.

  It’s hard to resist a mystery.

  That friendly warmth when he’d been on the radio, and then the soft, almost intimate way he’d spoken, coaxed, reassured me. The way he’d said my name like it was a musical note rolling off his tongue.

  Only to go cold and gruff and withdrawn the moment I’d noticed his pain.

  He makes me think of a song, wrapped up in the shape of a man.

  Melody in his movements.

  Raw lyricism in his every breath. />
  I haven’t had a good muse in a long while. Maybe he could be my spark.

  So even as I wave Justin and Rich off with my thanks, my thoughts are hooked on Fire Chief Blake.

  On the discord of pain in his music, and what I could do to tease them out until he’s in harmony again.

  I should pick up a rental car while they’re working on my van at the garage, if it’s even salvageable.

  Pick up a rental, settle in, explore the town a bit more...

  And hope maybe I run into my dark knight in fire-retardant armor one more time.

  We’ll just see if we can start over on the right foot.

  2

  Off Note (Blake)

  Goddamn, I’m an idiot.

  Had a pretty gal right there, gunning to do something about this damn bum leg of mine.

  And I just had to go baring my teeth at her like a rabid dog and run her off.

  I mean, fuck.

  It’s her frigging job, and if she’s any good at it, I’d have to be a card-carrying fool not to take her up on it.

  Guess I’m dumb.

  ‘Cause I ain’t quite sure how I’m not gonna crash this fire truck trying to park it when my leg’s so locked up it won’t even unbend.

  Shit.

  At least I can manage the gas and brake with my right foot, but I’m exhausted. Not just tonight. The last couple years have been one round of serious business after the next. First old Warren and the drugs, then Doc and Galentron, then Tiger—I mean, Leo—and Galentron again.

  It’s enough to drive a man under the covers in the comfort of his own bed and make him stay there. Only, seeing how I’m the guy who keeps Heart’s Edge from burning down, I don’t have that luxury.

  My thigh is chewing me up by the time I ease the truck in its bay and kill the engine.

  I’ll have to do the maintenance check tomorrow.

  Right now, I need my bed, plus a Vicodin or twelve.

  Mostly, I need home, and my daughter.

  Not another starry-eyed single girl dumped on this town like it’s some kind of fucking chick magnet and some naked little cherub just decided it was my turn.