Chapter 13

The landscaping of Luke’s lakeside home was basic but intentional. There were no fussy flowers, no manicured lawn, but there was a relatively tidy path marked by gravel zigzagging up the small slope.

Her footsteps faltered a little at the sight of a wide two-person swing, nestled off to the side between two trees. It was an unexpected bit of whimsy for a man who was all beer, grunts, and stubbornness.

Probably the previous owner, she figured, turning and jogging up the last few steps.

He’d left the door open for her, and she rapped a knuckle lightly against the wood to announce herself before stepping inside.

Frantic barking greeted her.

Luke had a dog. A big one, judging from the sound of the bark.

“Winston,” he shouted irritably, a second before a golden retriever launched himself at Jordan.

Luke came into the doorway, looked at her as he tugged his hat off, and ran a hand through his messy hair. “You okay with dogs?”

“Definitely,” she said, bending to pet the very friendly Winston, whose tail was wagging in happy, soft swishes.

When Jordan glanced up, Luke had disappeared back into the kitchen, a white cat in his place.

She blinked. The big friendly dog she could see. The small white cat? Not so much.

“Hey there, pretty,” Jordan cooed, holding out one hand, as she continued to pet the dog with the other.

The cat gave Winston a disdainful look but made her way over to Jordan. At least, Jordan was guessing she was a girl. There was a haughtiness to the cat that seemed distinctly feminine.

“Aren’t you beautiful,” she said, as the cat rubbed her face against Jordan’s fingers.

Winston huffed as though dismayed to have competition. “You too,” she said, giving the dog a kiss on the head before standing, picking up the cat as she did so.

Jordan glanced around, didn’t see any sign of Luke’s shoes, but she kicked hers off just in case, because they were a bit muddy and his home was…

Lovely.

Again, not fussy, not fancy, but clean and well designed and lovely.

And masculine. Very, very masculine, from the enormous TV over the enormous fireplace, right down to the enormous leather sectional. There were no throw blankets or area rugs to soften the room, but the space worked.

The wood floors led to wood walls that led up to wood-beam ceilings. The fireplace was made of stone, the mantel holding exactly zero knickknacks.

Save for the Kindle on the coffee table and the TV, the house could have been built yesterday or fifty years ago.

The sound of a coffee grinder jarred her out of her snooping, and she headed toward the noise.

The kitchen was larger than she would have expected for a single man. Though its floor plan wasn’t open to the rest of the space, it was roomy and welcoming in its own right, with a table tucked against the window, and a wide counter covered in granite.

Jordan ran a hand over the smooth surface before leaning on her elbows, as she watched him pull down two mugs from a cabinet.

He froze when he turned and saw her holding his cat. “Seriously, Luna? Traitor much?”

Jordan bit her lip to hide the smile. “You have a small white cat named Luna and a big friendly golden retriever named Winston. You do understand why I at least have to try to recruit you, right? It’s too much.”

He merely pointed at the cat. “She barely lets me pet her, even though I rescued the homeless wench from a fire.”

Jordan went still. “Please tell me you’re joking. You saved Luna from a fire? And then kept her?”

He shrugged as though it were no big deal. “You wouldn’t know it from the way she treats me.”

“What happened to her owners?”

“They moved into an apartment a few towns over after their house burned down. No pets allowed.”

“And you took her home,” Jordan mused, stroking the purring cat.

“Oh, shut up,” he muttered, opening a back door toward a garage. “Hold on, have to grab the extra bag of coffee beans from my truck.”

“Not gonna lie,” Jordan said, when he came back in. “I sort of had you pegged as an instant-coffee kind of guy, although the truck’s spot-on with expectations.”

He shrugged at her comment, running a hand over hair that was too short to really get properly mussed by the hat. “One of the side effects of nearly being married three times to three coffee snobs. It rubs off on you.”

She widened her eyes in mock surprise. “Are you actually discussing the events with…the enemy?”

“Figure you might as well hear it from me,” he said. “Wouldn’t put it past my blushing former brides to embellish for the sake of a good story.”

She opened her mouth to ask more, but he cut off her off. “Milk or cream?”

“Splash of milk, if you have it. And are you finally ready to tell me why you left those poor women at the altar?”

“Nah,” he said, pulling a milk carton and water filter out of the fridge. “Think I’ll just hold on to that one for a while.”

“Just to be difficult?” she guessed.

“Leverage. Information’s a valuable currency, City.”

“You know I could ask just about anyone and get an answer.”

“You’re assuming anyone else actually knows the answer. And even if they did, I didn’t see a cellphone in those tight pants,” he said, pouring them each a glass of water and downing his even before she’d reached for hers.

“A gentleman wouldn’t comment on the tight pants.”

“He would if he had the pleasure of being behind you during your run.”

“Pervert,” she muttered, but she smiled into her water glass as she said it.

The coffeepot’s happy Done! beep sounded, and he filled two mugs, handing her one and nudging the milk across the counter, along with a spoon.

She set down the cat and added milk to her cup—he took his black—and then there were a few moments of companionable silence as they enjoyed their first few sips of caffeine.

“Your home’s gorgeous. How long have you lived here?” she asked, wandering to the window and looking out at the early morning sun glinting over the lake.

“Few years. Bought the property a while back for way less than I should have. Planned to build a house, live here with Stacey. The relationship didn’t work out, but the house did.”

“Whoever designed it knew what they were doing,” she said, turning back to him. “It’s got a very timeless feel.”

Something flickered across his face, an emotion she hadn’t yet seen from him. Sadness? Regret?

“My best friend, Gil, drew up the plans. I wanted something custom, but firefighters aren’t exactly known for their big paychecks. Gil always said if firefighting wasn’t in his blood, he’d have been an architect, so I told him to practice with me. He came up with this. We had a licensed architect review the blueprints, and then I had it built.”

Gil.

The same name the girls had mentioned at the bar the other night.

Jordan took a sip of coffee. “He’s very talented. He still designing houses, or did he stick with the firefighting thing?”

“He’s dead.”

Luke’s harsh announcement echoed through the kitchen.

“I’m sorry,” Jordan said softly.

He lifted a shoulder. “We all know it’s a risk.”

“He died while working?”

Luke took a sip of coffee, stared absently over her shoulder. “Last year. There was a fire at an abandoned house outside town. Some kids using it as a place to smoke. Ceiling caved in, and…”

Luke’s eyes came back to hers, cool and distant. “He didn’t make it out.”

Jordan swallowed at the raw pain he tried so hard to disguise.

“Luke, I—”

“Don’t bother,” he interrupted. “Just file it away for my big TV debut. Better if I have a tragic backstory, right?”

“Don’t be an ass,” she snapped, walking toward him. “Just because I think you’re a great candidate for the TV show doesn’t mean I’m an inhuman monster who sees someone else’s personal tragedy as my professional gain.”

“You—”

“Shut up,” Jordan said impulsively. “Just shut up. I’m not perfect, but at least I don’t offer someone a cup of coffee only to lure them closer as a punching bag.”

“That’s not—”

“It is,” she said, setting her mug on the counter and moving closer to him, until she could push a finger against his chest. “It’s absolutely true. You’re miserable and you’re hurting, and you have plenty of reason to be, but find someone else to take it out on.”

“You’re hardly a victim, Jordan.”

“No, I’m not. But I’m also not acting like one. I’m acting like an ambitious thirty-year-old woman whose boss has given her a job to do. And more than that, I’m smart, with good instincts, and I can tell you right now that me thinking you’re the right man for the job is as much about you needing to start living your life again as it is the fact that half of America’s likely to fall in love with you.”

He leaned into her, chest pushing hard against the finger as he glowered. “You don’t know me, City.”

“Well, that makes two of us, Small Town. Because you don’t know yourself either. Enjoy your solitude and your attitude problem.”

She pressed once more with her finger against his chest for emphasis, before whirling away and marching toward the door. Jordan had thought her body was spent after their race, but she was wrong.

It was thrumming again, her blood pumping, fists clenching.

“Damn it. City!”

His voice was a loud command, clearly one he was accustomed to people adhering to.

Jordan had no intention of listening.

In fact, she wanted nothing more than to be out the door and away from this man and all the frustration she couldn’t explain, but unfortunately she’d given him the courtesy—undeserved, by the way—of taking her shoes off.

Cursing under her breath, she bent, reaching for the orange sneakers.

A second later, a large male hand smacked the shoe out of her hand, sending it thudding pathetically against the wall.

She reared up, ready to tell him exactly what she thought of his caveman tendencies.

But before she could get a word out, she was against the door, sandwiched between the cool, hard wood and his hot, hard body.

Luke leaned into her, one hand braced above her head, the other coming to circle her throat. Not threateningly—she had zero fear that he’d hurt her.

But her heart was pounding all the same, at the anger in his eyes, at her own answering anger.

His thumb brushed along her collarbone. In warning? In promise?

Jordan’s hands lifted to his chest, intending to push him away—to tell him that she had no intention of being manhandled.

But the second her fingers brushed against the soft fabric of his running shirt, she sucked in a breath, her intentions shifting.

Soft as the shirt was, the man beneath was anything but.

His chest was a solid wall of sculpted muscle, and her mouth was watering at the thought of having him pressed against her.

Jordan managed to stop short of caressing him—barely. But neither did she push him away. Instead, she stayed perfectly still, eyes squeezed shut, her palms against his pecs, his thumb continuing its taunting caress along her neck.

The dog barked, but they both ignored him.

Slowly, Jordan opened her eyes. Lifted them to Luke’s.

The anger was still there, but it was no longer the dominant emotion. Somehow, mad had tangled with desire, and judging from the pissed-off confusion on his face, he didn’t know what to do with it any more than she did.

“I should go,” she whispered.

“Yeah.” His voice was husky.

There was a moment of stillness, and then they both moved.

His mouth came down on hers, and Jordan was more than ready for it, her lips welcoming his as though she’d waited a lifetime for exactly this moment.

There was nothing shy about Luke’s kiss. His hand slid behind her neck, tilting her face up so his lips could nudge hers apart, his tongue claiming hers in an intimate assertion that had a breathy moan escaping her throat.

Luke answered by pushing closer, his body pressing hers to the door as her arms went around his neck.

His hair was too short to hold on to, so Jordan gave in to the urge to scrape her short nails against his scalp, and she felt his growl of response from head to toe and all the most sensitive places in between.

Luke pulled back just long enough to utter a harsh damn it against her mouth before kissing her again, slower this time, as though if he took his time they could somehow get control of the situation.

They couldn’t. The more they touched, the more they wanted, the longer they kissed, the harder it was to stop.

And it had to stop. This was…

Luke’s mouth moved from her lips to trail down her neck, and her head fell back with a gasp.

Madness. This was madness and irresponsible, and…

Career suicide.

Luke’s hand was on her waist, sliding up over her rib cage….

Jordan grabbed his wrist. “Stop.”

He let out the smallest of groans, forehead resting on her shoulder for a moment, but he did as she asked, pulling away slowly until his hands dropped to his sides and there were a few inches of space between them.

Enough for her to clear her head. Sort of.

“I should go,” she whispered.

Translation: We are so not talking about what just happened.

Luke was apparently in agreement, because he simply nodded and stepped back even farther, giving her the space to retrieve her shoes.

After she’d hurriedly tied the knot on the second one, she reached for the door handle, wanting nothing more than to run away without having to say a single word.

Then she remembered she was an adult.

Jordan fixed a smile on her face and turned back to him. “Thanks for the coffee.”

The corner of his mouth tilted in amusement. “You’re welcome.”

There. Perfectly civil, as though they hadn’t just devoured each other.

Jordan was out the door before she could do what she really wanted to—kiss him all over again and beg him to show her to the bedroom.

She didn’t look back until she’d reached the running path, but when she did, Luke Elliott was on his deck, leaning on the railing as he watched her.

She didn’t wave. Neither did he.

Perhaps because they both knew this was hardly goodbye.