Four Weddings and a Fireman Read online

  Cherie was always innocently making comments that others could interpret as lascivious. Then she’d realize it, and two spots of pink would appear on her cheeks and . . .

  Vader didn’t want to look back at her, fought not to do so. He fixed his gaze on the orange and black swirls of the photo backdrop, but damn it, when it came to Cherie, his willpower evaporated faster than mist in the August heat. He gave in and let his eyes travel back to her. She was digging in her little silver purse, the one that was shaped like a dog bone. She triumphantly held up a twenty-dollar bill.

  “And now I’d like a photo with San Gabriel’s sexiest fireman.”

  “You’re going to pay twenty bucks for a picture of you and your ex?” Soren laughed.

  Nick chimed in. “Maybe he’ll make his pecs do a little jig for the camera.”

  Vader clenched his hands into fists so tight, they could have broken through steel. Sure, he played the clown sometimes. He liked to bring a smile to people’s faces. That didn’t give them the right to—

  A soft hand on his forearm interrupted his train of thought. “Ignore them,” Cherie whispered. The scent of lilac, her favorite, surrounded him, making him feel as if he’d just lain down in a spring meadow, with Cherie beside him. “They’re just being jerks. Because they can. Now come on, let me make it up to you. Twenty dollars for a photo.”

  He pulled his arm away from her touch. “I don’t think so, Cherie.”

  “Why not, for mercy’s sake? It’s for charity. Think of all those widows and orphans.”

  He pulled her aside, well out of earshot of her housemates. “Why did you come here?”

  Her lips parted, as if he’d taken her off guard. They were distractingly curvy, just like the rest of her. She studied him with serious gray eyes. They weren’t really gray, he knew. One afternoon, during a picnic, he’d spent a long time studying them, noticing concentric rings and identifying their colors. The shimmery green of dew-covered grass, the deep gold of an antique picture frame, the gray of evening fog over a lake. “Vader, please. I support the fire department just like everyone else here. I support you. And I wanted to see you. I . . . I missed you. Vader, you’re . . . well, you’re very dear to me. You know you are.”

  He groaned out loud. No freaking willpower. “You turned me down, Cherie. Twice.”

  “I thought we were going to erase all that. Besides, I wouldn’t put it like that. What I said was that I wasn’t interested in getting married. Lots of people aren’t.”

  “Yes, but your eyelid twitched.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Don’t you know that your right eyelid twitches when you’re not telling the whole truth? I’ve really got to get you to a poker table one of these days.”

  Her hand flew to her right eye. “It does not.”

  “Fine. Five-card stud, dollar a point.”

  Just then Fred came back and flipped the sign back to “Open.”

  “Hey, Cherie.” He glanced at Vader, clearly looking for a cue as to how friendly he should be to her. Vader shrugged, and Fred’s smile broadened. “Great to see you. Ready for your close-up?”

  “You know it. Now, Stud, I’m paying extra for this baby, so make it good.”

  He handed her a helmet. “Why don’t you put that on? It’d be cute.”

  Vader knew plenty of girls who wouldn’t have wanted to mess up their hair with a clunky, heavy old fireman’s helmet. But Cherie was game for anything. She grinned at Fred, then gave Vader the helmet. “Hold it for a sec, please.”

  She reached into her pile of hair and pulled out the pins that were holding everything in place up there. A torrent of spicy, sun-spangled hair came tumbling down over her bare shoulders.

  Vader ground his teeth against the inevitable hardening of his body. Did she have to be so damn sexy? She planted the helmet on her head, and he lifted his eyes to the heavens, wondering just what he’d done to make the Almighty torture him like this. She looked . . . adorable. And he adored her. That’s all there was to it.

  And that’s all there’d ever be. Him, adoring her. Her, back and forth about him.

  He took a deep breath and stepped toward her. He could suffer a little more, for charity. Widows and orphans. Widows and orphans. “Come on. Let’s get in front of the backdrop.”

  Cherie glanced at the sheet of plywood behind them. It featured dramatic flames and billowing smoke taken from a close-up of an apartment fire. “The photo’s going to show a fire raging behind us?”

  Hopefully it wouldn’t also show the fire raging inside him. He wondered if she felt a fraction of the lust scorching through his veins.

  Soren hooted with laughter. “That’s called the fire down below, babe.”

  She shot her housemate a scathing look. “Shut up, Soren. You’re acting like an idiot.”

  Instantly, the guy piped down. Vader rolled his eyes. Cherie loved to mother people, and in the case of her housemates, that included trying to correct their rude manners. Maybe he should let her boss him around too. But no. He had too much leader-of-the-pack, take-charge, tough-guy in him. He’d tried to tone it down, but what was the point? He’d never be the emo type. He’d never be Nick.

  Which gave him an idea. In one swift motion, he swept Cherie into his embrace, one arm under her legs, the other supporting her back. The breath whooshed out of her in a gasp of surprise. Her hands clutched his shoulders. Cherie was tall and she was all woman, an overflowing armful of warm flesh. He’d bet anything not many men would try to carry her like this. He, on the other hand, barely noticed the weight. Those workouts sure paid off when he wanted to sweep a woman off her feet.

  He stepped in front of the backdrop, where he braced his legs apart in a heroic stance and bent over her. She stared up at him, her pupils widening until her eyes were storm cloud gray. He knew this look. He’d seen it many times, in the throes of arousal. It meant she wanted him. It meant if they weren’t in the middle of a crowded charity event, they’d be on each other in a millisecond.

  That look made hope pound feverishly through his veins. She still wanted him, no matter what she said.

  He leaned his head close to hers, so mere fractions of an inch separated them. At this distance, he saw the tiny pulse that beat at her temple, the glimmers of moss green in her irises, the dimple by her chin, the hint of sunburn at the peak of her cheekbones. He felt her heart skitter, her body tremble. Deep satisfaction settled in his gut. No doubt about it. She felt the pull just as much as he did. She might try to hide it or deny it or laugh it off or any of the other wacky things she’d done since they’d met. But he knew their crazy chemistry worked both ways.

  Mutual knowledge hummed between them. Both were attracted; both were aware the other was attracted.

  Cherie splayed her hand on his chest, as if to push him off. But the hell if he’d let her. He was tired of that inevitable arm’s length she kept putting between them. She’d come here, into his territory, and she could damn well deal with the consequences. He tightened his grip.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered fiercely.

  “Giving you your money’s worth,” he growled. “Now smile for the camera.”

  She started to look toward the camera, but he shifted her so she was angled his direction. “For the camera, not at it. Look at me. I’m the one rescuing you from certain death.”

  She regained a bit of her usual bravado. “Certain death? My, my. That does sound dire.”

  “Oh, it is. You see, we were making love in the third floor bedroom. We were a little distracted.” He adjusted his grip so one of his hands cradled her head. He knew how much she loved his hands.

  “Let me guess. Things got so hot there was a spontaneous combustion.”

  “As soon as I saw the flames, I leaped into action.”

  “And put a helmet on me?”

  “Sure. And some clothes. That part was a mistake.” He let his eyes rake down her body and caught her shiver.

  She swatted him on the chest, e
xactly how the other girl had, but with completely different results. Under his padded firefighter’s pants, he went rock-hard and aching. If only they were alone, if only he could turn this little scene into something real, something that involved nothing but their two naked bodies and lots of moaning.

  He bent his forehead to hers, fighting to get a grip on his hot need for her. “What is it? Why do you keep running away from me? It’s like you’re afraid of something.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Are you afraid of someone?”

  “Of course not,” she said quickly.

  Her right eyelid twitched.

  The camera clicked.

  “Awesome shot,” said Fred. “We should put this one in the calendar.”

  “No,” said Cherie quickly. “It’s strictly personal.” Her eyelid twitched again.

  Vader knew he was on to something. Cherie was afraid . . . of something or someone.

  As Vader let her slip back to her feet, he decided that one way or another, he was going to get the truth out of Cherie Harper. Once a man had been turned down twice, he deserved some answers. It was time to haul himself out of his funk and take some action.

  He was damn tired of being underestimated.

  Chapter Two

  By the time they reached the Muster Games, which were being held at the small park at the end of the street, Cherie finally managed to get her breath back. Every time she stole a look at the photo Fred had taken, her breathing did more funny things, like make her voice sound strange and her cheeks go hot.

  Vader had that effect on her. Every single time. It was the most impossible situation.

  In the photo, he looked like a cartoon image of male hotness, like an old weight-lifting advertisement a scrawny kid might gaze at longingly, wishing he could someday look even a little like that. Cradled in his strong arms, she looked positively tiny. No mean feat.

  She tucked the photo into her purse. It had cost her twenty dollars, a fight with Optimal Doom, and two weeks of trying to forget Vader. If she was smart, she’d use it as a reminder to avoid him. But she’d probably just drool over it like a lovesick idiot.

  One whole section of the park had been set aside for the Muster Games. Firefighters in San Gabriel Fire Department T-shirts were yelling and clapping for the daring civilians who were trying to pull an old-fashioned wooden cart with a hose coiled inside. Everyone was laughing and hooting and hollering.

  “This is weird, man,” said Nick, aiming his iPhone at the scene. “I didn’t know they did this shit anymore.”

  “They don’t, that’s the whole point,” said Cherie, more sharply than she’d intended. “That’s old-school equipment. That’s how they did it back in the old days.”

  “Check you out. Been boning up on firefighters? Or just boning ’em?” Soren snickered.

  Cherie set her jaw. Soren and Nick were at their most irritating when it came to Vader. “Leave it alone, why don’t you? Can’t you just enjoy the sunshine and the pretty park and all the families having fun?”

  They both looked at her as if she was nuts. “We’re creatures of the night, Cherie,” said Soren. “If we could be vampires, we would be.”

  Nick added, “Too bad that kit we ordered on the Internet didn’t work. Or did it?” He bared his teeth, Dracula-style.

  She shuddered. “You guys are weird enough without going supernatural.”

  “That’s why you love us, right?” Soren winked.

  Right now, she wasn’t so sure. Soren and Nick were friends with her brother Jacob. When Jacob had enrolled in Santa Cruz College, he’d insisted she find suitable housemates to take his place. For six years, ever since they’d left Arkansas, they’d stuck together and protected each other. He refused to let her live alone. But then he found a problem with every candidate she interviewed. Female housemates might bring unvetted guys around; male housemates might come on to her. Finally Jacob had solved the whole dilemma by picking Soren and Nick, who inhabited a sexually ambiguous, body-pierced, spoken-word gender nether land.

  For sure, it wasn’t safe for her to live alone, though she wasn’t sure how much help Soren and Nick would be if the man she still had nightmares about—Frank Mackintosh—showed up.

  “I think I’ve had enough for one day. You guys ready to roll?”

  “No, wait. I can’t leave until I see how many people that dude manages to spray with the hose.”

  The hose had now been dumped off the cart, and an older man was aiming it at an orange cone. Water sprayed everywhere, but the cone remained stubbornly standing. To the side, a couple of firemen—she recognized Vader’s friend Ryan Blake—laughed so hard they had to bend over and rest their hands on their knees. The sight gave her a pang; Vader laughed like that too, with wholehearted joy and fun, the life shining from his eyes.

  Forget about Vader.

  She checked her watch.

  “I have to get going, guys. Tango class. And Nick, you promised to help me.”

  Every Saturday, she taught a Singles Tango class at the Move Me Dance Studio. So far, the class had produced three engaged couples and countless successful dates. Word had spread, and her classes had gotten bigger by the week.

  “Oh fine,” Nick grumbled. “Pick on the one-sixteenth Colombian guy. We don’t even do the tango.”

  “I’m from backwoods redneck-ville. If I can tango, anyone can.” She often said that exact same thing in her classes. It always made the students relax.

  Nick spent the entire drive to the studio harping on her relationship with Vader. He didn’t stop even once they pulled up outside Move Me.

  “Jacob left us in charge. He said to watch out for you. Especially when it comes to men. He said you’re naïve and not cynical enough. Lucky for you, I have extra cynicism to spare.” Nick was the quieter, more angst-ridden of the duo. He wrote the lyrics of their painfully morose songs. Generally, she preferred Nick’s company to Soren’s more abrasive personality, but not if he was going to talk about Vader.

  “Don’t be such a Nosy Nellie. I don’t need you guys getting in the middle of anything.”

  She stalked out of the ancient Mercedes she’d converted to run on veggie diesel. Nick slouched after her.

  “Oh, believe me, I don’t want to get in the middle. I hear the noise you freaks make at night. I’m not touching that.”

  Cherie felt her face go pink. Despite her six years in California, her strict upbringing still made her blush over certain things. Nick followed after her. “Seriously, what is it with you two? You ought to either cut him loose or marry him.”

  “Excuse me? You’re telling me to marry Vader? I thought you hated him.”

  Cherie hurried toward the entrance of Move Me. Of her many jobs—she had a patchwork quilt of them around town—teaching tango was her guilty pleasure. She loved the provocative music and the way the dance suggested all sorts of naughtiness without ever getting too blatant about it. Move Me had become a haven to her, a place where she could lose herself in music. She also practiced her self-defense moves here, the one thing that gave her a small sense of security.

  “You don’t get a vote. Vader and I are none of your business,” she told Nick over her shoulder. “So how about you guys back off?”

  “Can’t. Jacob told us to—”

  “Well, I’m firing you from whatever Jacob thought he was telling you to do. Vader and I . . . we’re cool. We understand each other.” She opened the glass studio door, knowing that if Vader were there, he would have opened it for her. Cool, lemon-scented air rushed past her face. The cleaning people must have come in last night.

  Nick followed her down the hall to Studio A, where her class would take place. “What I don’t get is why you’re so different with him.”

  Cherie frowned as she struggled with the persnickety studio door. Lord forbid that Nick help her for one second. “Different how?”

  “Normally you’re like everyone’s mom. You know, a sexy mom. MILF type. The young, hot mother of the kid
next door, who makes cookies for you and gives you haircuts and always smells nice. And spreads a blanket over you when you’re cold, and lets you pick the movie, and doesn’t mind if you play your music a little loud and—”

  “Is there a point in here somewhere?” Cherie finally got the door open and plopped her dance bag in the corner of the studio. Light glowed from the freshly polished hardwood floor and bounced off the wall of mirrors. Her students would be arriving any second. She needed to focus on preparing for the class, not listen to Nick babble.

  She searched through her bag, looking for the twirly, parrot-print skirt she’d brought to teach in. Maybe if she ignored him, Nick would stop talking.

  No such luck. “The point is, you’re not so motherly with him. You don’t seem like super earth mother with her hand on the pulse of the universe anymore. You’re more like a regular girl. You get kind of flirty and fluttery around him. And you forget about everyone else.”

  Cherie straightened up, her hands filled with her dance outfit. “Let me get this straight. You don’t like Vader because when I’m with him, I forget to cut your hair and rub your feet?”

  Nick smirked, hands in the pockets of his tight black jeans. “You’ve never rubbed my feet, and Vader’d probably rip my throat out if I asked you to, and that’s my point. He acts like he owns you. So that’s why Optimal Doom is taking a stand. If you’re not getting married, and he doesn’t own you, then why doesn’t he hit the road, toad? Don’t look back, Jack.”

  Cherie felt the tips of her ears burn. Uh oh, not a good sign. She took a deep breath, but it was too late. A wave of heat traveled from her ears all the way down to her toes. She threw her dance clothes onto the floor. A student opened the door, but Cherie put up a commanding finger that made the girl snatch her head back and close the door.

  “First of all,” she told Nick furiously, “you have no ‘stand’ to take. It’s my life. I do what I want. I’ve come too far to let any man, even a pretend one in a lame black T-shirt that says ‘Suck My Blood,’ tell me what to do.”