Putting Out Old Flames (15 page)

Edith didn't agree. “Did he now?” Steel laced her words, a warning to anyone with half a brain that it was time to back down and placate.

Chief Finnegan loosed a deep belly laugh.

Jane inched backwards. The man might be an expert at saving other people's lives, but he obviously didn't know how to protect his own. Her mom was an easygoing, live-and-let-live kind of woman—to a point. When pushed over a certain threshold of aggravation, one that teenage-Jane had tried many times to pinpoint, her mother changed from a peace-and-love flower child into the harpy from hell.

Chance tucked Josh into his side. “I said fixing your wiring
could
save your life.” He frowned down at his son. “And you weren't supposed to be listening to that. I was talking to your Aunt Katie.”

Jane squared her shoulders and leaned close to her mother. “Don't blow with Josh standing right here. He doesn't need to see you yelling at his father.”

Edith patted Jane's cheek, a little harder than necessary. “Don't worry. I wouldn't waste my breath arguing with our fine fire department.” Bending down so she was at eye level with Josh, she said, “I have to go right now, but come back later if you want a tour. There might even be a cookie or two in the cookie jar upstairs with your name on it.”

Josh hopped up and down at that information. Chance grimaced. He must remember her mother's cookies. Jane shook her head. It was so sad to disillusion such a young boy that all cookies were not created equal. But everyone had to learn that lesson someday.

“Look!” Josh pointed across the street. “There's my friend Tony with his mom and dad and grandma and granddad.” He looked from his father to Jane to Edith and the Chief. “Looks like us.”

The adults all gaped, eyes wide like deer caught in headlights. “Not like us,” Chance said quickly.

“Completely different situation,” Finnegan said gruffly as Edith repeated, “Not like us.”

Jane shook her head but kept her mouth shut. Something pinched behind her breastbone, and she rubbed her knuckle against it. Of course that happy family across the street was nothing like the motley group around her. But Jane saw what Josh did. Potential.

And that potential scared the crap out of her.

J
ane folded her umbrella and climbed into Chance's SUV. This was the last day of his three-off, and she was determined to collect all the outstanding auction items while he was around for the heavy lifting.

She wasn't surprised to see Josh in the backseat. On Chance's days off, he and Josh were practically attached at the hip. “Hi, Josh. How was school today?”

“Miley has chicken pox. Noah said she had big spots all over her face.” He drew his brow down in a look that left no doubt that he was Chance's son. “Noah said 'cause I played with her I'll get it, too.”

Jane reached back and felt his forehead as Chance slid behind the wheel. “Do you feel sick at all?”

He shook his head.

“And you're not hot. I'm sure you'll be fine.”

“'Kay.” Josh went back to playing with his ninja turtle.

“Okay?” Chance flicked on the blinker. “When I told you you'd be fine, you didn't believe me. But Jane says it and you take it as the Bible's truth?” Shaking his head, he pinned a stern look on Josh through the rearview mirror. “Not cool.”

Josh giggled. “Jane knows more than you.”

“What?!”

“Have I ever told you how much I like your son?” Jane asked. “He's the smartest kid I know.”

Chance shot her a dirty look.

“That's what momma says,” Josh continued. “That girls know more than boys.”

“Is that so?” Jane fought her smile. She wasn't a self-esteem expert, but that probably wasn't the best thing to tell a little boy. But considering the man she was sitting next to, Jane wanted to echo that sentiment wholeheartedly.

Chance scowled. Yep, he thought that fell under the heading of crap parenting, she could tell.

She tried to be diplomatic. “I think it depends on the girl and on the boy. Between your father and me, you're right, I know more. But I bet you know more than a lot of girls in your class.”

Chance's eyes turned dark. She shifted away in her seat. Diplomacy wasn't her strong suit.

Pulling into the driveway of a split-level ranch house, Chance turned in his seat. “Well, tonight, just remember that Mrs. Harper knows more than you. You do what she says, and remember to say please and thank you.”

“'Kay.” Josh unsnapped his seat belt and wriggled from his seat. Chance picked up an overnight bag and led him to the front porch, giving him a big hug when a woman and young boy opened the doors. The boys bounded inside, and Chance and Mrs. Harper laughed about something.

Jogging to the SUV, Chance opened the door and got in. He stared at the house.

“Problem?”

“No.” He turned the ignition but still didn't back out. “It's his first sleepover. He might get scared tonight in a strange house.”

“Ah.” She didn't have many friends with children. She didn't know if she should tell him not to worry or sympathize. “He can always call if he has a problem, right?”

“Yeah.” Looking over his shoulder, he backed into the street. “He'll be fine. So where to first?”

“There are four shops on Main that are donating items, and two more on Thurgood and King.” She consulted her list. “Why don't we start on Main?”

“Got it.” Chance turned on the radio, and they drove in companionable silence for the five minutes it took to reach downtown. Parking in front of the address, he looked at the pink awning with the words Glam and Glow written in elaborate italics. “What's this?”

“A spa. You can stay here. I'm just picking up a gift certificate.”

He looked relieved not to have to go into the feminine store, a haven for Pineville's women. And some men, too. It wasn't everywhere you could get a massage, wax, facial, and haircut.

Jane hurried back out ten minutes later. “Sorry. Janine's chatty. Also, I set up an appointment for the morning of the ball.” Looking at her list, she chewed on her lower lip. “My mom's store is up next.”

“Okay.” Chance pulled into the street. “So. You're going to get all girlied up for the ball?”

That
sounded
like a casual question, but Jane wasn't buying it. “Yeah. Why?”

“No reason.” He tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel. “I've been meaning to talk to you about that.”

Jane shifted her butt on the upholstered seat, turning to face him. “About what? My personal grooming habits before a ball?”

“What? No.” He cleared his throat. “I was just thinking that since we're the cochairs and we're both going alone, it would make sense for us to go together.” He blew out a breath, as if that was a weight off his shoulders.

“I'm not going alone.”

“So if you want, I can pick you up at—” He snapped his head around. “Wait. What?”

“I'm going with Leon.” Crossing her arms over her chest, she narrowed her gaze. “And it's a little insulting that you'd assume I didn't have a date.”

“Leon.” Chance spat out the name like it was Bozo the Clown. They approached a stop sign and he stomped on the brake harder than necessary. “But it's not game night. Whatever will Leon find to entertain himself?”

“Don't mock him. He's a nice guy who just happens to like games.” He'd given her a giant book of sudoku puzzles for Valentine's Day. “Okay, he
really
likes games. But Leon and I have been dating for a while now”—
Jesus, did Chance just growl?—
“and when we decided to hold the ball, of course I asked Leon to go with me.”

“Of course.” A muscle throbbed in his jaw.

“Hey.” She grabbed his arm. “You're driving past my mom's place. Stop up here.” She tapped her small notebook against her thigh. “Although I wouldn't mind having to pick up her donation another day.” Or not at all.

“Why do you sound like that? You two get in a fight?”

Jane rolled her eyes. “What am I, ten? No, we didn't get in a fight. I'm just worried about her contribution to the auction. She's donating a gift certificate for a free feng shui consultation, and I don't think anyone in Pineville cares about that sort of thing.”

“Yeah.” He shot her a sympathetic smile. “Can you convince her to give away some of that smelly stuff she sells? I think people would like that better. I know I enjoy the way you smell with her stuff.”

She didn't quite know where to go with that one, so she remained silent. Did he prefer the aromatherapy oils to her normal perfume? Did she smell and he was encouraging her to cover it up with layers of oil? And why was she being so defensive? First the spa question and now this.

“Um. She's really excited about the feng shui consultation.” She pressed herself against the door and took a sniff. She wasn't wearing any oil today. All she smelled was soap, and she sighed, relieved.

Chance waited for a car to pull out of a diagonal parking spot near her mom's store. “I'm sure someone will want it. If for no other reason than to help out the charity.”

Resting her fingers on the door handle, Jane hesitated before climbing out of the SUV. “Can you bid on it? You know, if no one else does? I can't do it because she'll know I have no interest in feng shui and only bid because no one else would. But you just moved into a new house. If you say you don't like the layout of the furniture, she'll buy that. I'll pay you back.”

“Of course I'll bid on it. And no, you won't pay me back.” He opened his door. “Now let's go in. I want to say hi to your mom.”

Jane's shoulders relaxed, and she followed him in. Even her mother's pointed looks between her and Chance couldn't darken her mood. She took the gift certificate, kissed her mom on the cheek, and left the store, her heart so light it felt like it was floating.

For the first time in a long time, maybe since her dad died, she felt like someone had her back. Her mom loved her, but her support came more in the form of burnt sage cleansings instead of solid action. Her father would have gone to the mat for her, and she missed having that. The only other person in her life that she'd known would fight for her was Chance.

A part of her said that she was an idiot, that Chance had only been good at appearing to care. When the chips were down, he'd hurt her more than anyone. But having him back in her life, as a friend, was like being wrapped in a favorite blanket. She was tired of denying herself that comfort.

“What the hell is that?” Chance asked. They were at their last stop, a home furnishings store with an eclectic mix of boho chic and country casual. He toed the cast-iron sculpture and cocked his head.

Jane elbowed him in the side. “Shh. Mr. Cranston might hear you.” Waving at the old man behind the register, she said out of the corner of her mouth, “His son's an artist. He made this. Just smile, tell him thank you, and let's get it out of here.”

Following orders, Chance stretched his lips across his face. He spoke through gritted teeth. “Why are we talking like ventriloquists? Mr. Cranston is as deaf as a bat. He can't hear us.”

Speaking normally, she bent and grabbed one side of the sculpture. She assumed it was a concept piece, because the five waving tentacles curling out from an oblong mass looked like nothing Jane was familiar with. Maybe a stylized sun? “Let's just get this into the SUV.”

With a grunt, Chance hefted the sculpture, taking most of the weight. The iron was smooth beneath Jane's fingers, and she had to keep switching her grip to keep hold of it.

Chance pressed the sculpture between his thigh and the side of the SUV and reached for the keys in his back pocket. “Just a sec and I'll get the back door . . . hold up, wait . . . son of a—!” Chance loosed a torrent of curse words, hopping up and down on one foot.

Squatting beside the fallen artwork, she ran her hands along its side. “Thank God. I didn't dent it.”

“You dented my foot!” Leaning against the side of his car, Chance cradled his left foot and glared at her.

“Big baby,” she muttered.

“What was that?” He put his injured foot down, took two limping steps toward her. He must have been trying to look intimidating, but he was about as terrifying as Boris Karloff's mummy, dragging his leg behind him. At least he was putting some weight on his foot. It couldn't be broken.

“If you wore grown-up shoes instead of those loafers, this wouldn't be a problem.”

Squatting next to her, Chance lifted the flap on his canvas sneakers. “I see blood!”

For a firefighter, the alarm in his voice was a little sad. She rolled her eyes. Men could be such whiners. “Look, we're not far from my apartment. Let's go and I'll patch you up.” She put her hands under the sculpture. “Get that side and—”

He brushed her hands away. “I'll get it. Just open the door for me.”

She wasn't going to argue if he wanted to break his back instead of hers. After he settled the piece in the back, she held out her hand. “Keys. I'll drive. What with your horrible injury and all.”

His eyes narrowed and she could almost see the wheels turning in his head. He didn't want her driving him around for some stupid reason only known to men, but he also didn't want to let go of the righteous indignation that limping around on an injured foot could give. He smacked the keys into her palm and hobbled around the hood to the passenger's side, playing it up, she was sure.

She didn't object, however, when Chance tossed an arm around her shoulders and leaned on her going up the stairs to her apartment. His muscles were hard beneath his thin T-shirt, and when they pressed against her, heat swept through her body. Who had ripped muscles in their side? What were those muscles even called? Lats?

“Here we go.” Jane kicked open the door, sighing when an orange blur streaked into the bedroom. Cy had yet to warm to Chance. Pushing Chance onto the couch, she picked up his left leg, his calf muscle firm and warm even through the denim. She dropped it on the coffee table.

“Gentle,” he warned.

She ignored that and strode to the bathroom for the first aid kit. Taking a look at her flushed face in the mirror, she wet a hand towel and placed it on the back of her neck. How young could early menopause set in? Surely that was a more logical explanation than her getting all hot and bothered over his leg. And his side, she reminded herself. The side of his chest had pressed against her breast, which was, she had to admit, more action than she'd seen in over a year.

She threw the washcloth into the sink with a wet smack. Wasn't that just frigging pathetic?

“Did you get lost? I'm bleeding out here,” he bellowed from the living room.

Pulling the plastic kit from under the sink, she huffed out a disgusted breath. It was a good thing he was a whiny baby or else she'd be on him like fudge sauce on ice cream. She walked back into the living room. Chance leaned back on the couch, his hands linked behind his head, exposing a strip of tan midsection and a trail of dark hair that disappeared into his jeans.

A sexy, whiny baby.

She squared her shoulders and sat on the coffee table. Her knees encased his uninjured leg, and she widened her legs so as not to brush against him.

Chance had taken off his loafer, and she examined his foot. An inch-long stretch of skin was scraped, but only a quarter of that scratch was deep enough to draw blood. A thin trickle ran down the arch of his foot.

“Wow. I think you'll need stitches. Do you feel light-headed?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Smartass. Are you going to use those Band-Aids before I bleed on your table?”

Tearing open an antibacterial towelette, Jane dabbed at his foot. God help her, even his feet were sexy. Long and narrow, with neatly trimmed toenails.