Light My Fire

I am so fucking glad to be done with work.

Going back after a vacation is always kind of hard, but this time I hated every minute of it.

After being stuck in the cabin with Wyatt for three days, then going right back to work at the firehouse with him, I needed a break.

Because every time I look at him, all I can think about is Brooke.

Okay, that’s not fair. I am thinking about Brooke anyway. It’s not Wyatt’s fault. I’m thinking about her whenever I walk into a kitchen, for fuck’s sake. My own or the one at the firehouse. And that would be true whether I was seeing Wyatt or not.

I can’t see a refrigerator without thinking about how it felt to sink into her hot, wet pussy. Or hear her soft, husky voice begging me to fuck her. Or remember what her face looked like as I made her come.

Fuck.

I shove a hand through my hair.

I have got to get this woman out of my head.

I’ve thought about texting her, just to check in, about a hundred times.

That is so unlike me that I’m actually worried.

She doesn’t need me checking on her. She has friends. She has a family. She has a huge, ex-hockey goalie brother. She doesn’t need a forty-year-old guy who fucked her against the wall, suddenly becoming an overprotective guardian of some sort.

I’m sure she’s fine. She went back to Minneapolis and is taking her exams.

Those are probably going well. She’s obviously bright, extremely dedicated, and she’s going to be an incredible veterinarian.

There is absolutely no reason for me to text her. Ever.

But if I have to sit in my house by myself, I’m going to do it. And ruin everything.

Which is why I am pulling open the door to one of my favorite bars and praying to God that one of the women that I hook up with from time to time is here and in the mood to have some hot fun.

I need some beer, some darts with buddies, and then I need to fuck Brooke Wilder out of my system.

The heat, noise, and smell of fried food and beer hits me as I step into Eddie’s.

The bar is two blocks from my place, so an easy walk after I’ve had a few. Also easy to walk with a “date” after convincing her to come home with me.

I’m relieved to see that Ben, Gavin, and Mitch are all here. We don’t really have a relationship where we text and say, ‘hey let’s meet up’. But I can usually count on them being here a couple times a week. Ben is divorced, Gavin is still single, and Mitch is married to an ER doctor who works crazy hours, so they’re all pretty available and all of them hate sitting at home far more than I do.

Randy, the bartender, sees me coming and opens a bottle of Bud for me and hands it over just as I get to the bar.

“Hey, Cap,” he greets.

“Hey,” I return as I take the bottle and head for the area at the back where the dartboards are. I know he’ll just automatically put it on the tab I pay once a month.

“Damn,” Ben says. “You’re never here this early.”

It’s true. As much as I like these guys and hanging out, I’m not a real social guy, so I’m usually the last to arrive and first to leave.

“Your lucky night,” I tell him.

Tonight is different because I needed distraction, stat.

And I realize this is a problem.

I’m hoping like hell that with time, thoughts of Brooke will not be a twenty-four-seven problem. Over time, surely her memory will fade. I won’t remember her scent, her smile, the silkiness of her skin, how easy it was to make her blush, the tight grip of her body around my cock, the way she begged for me to fuck her…

“Luke,” Gavin says.

My attention snaps to him. “Yeah?”

“You’re up.”

Fuck. Surely with time, this will get better.

It has to.

We play for about an hour before Carrie and a couple of her friends make their way over to us. I noticed them about thirty minutes ago and we made eye contact, but I tried to concentrate on the game.

I was also trying to work up enthusiasm over seeing her.

Carrie is a beautiful, thirty-four-year-old divorcee who I’ve had three very hot nights with.

She likes things the way I do—a little rough, a lot dirty—and she doesn’t expect a phone call the next day. She also doesn’t need a lot of sweet talk and flirtation ahead of time.

She is exactly what I need tonight.

And I don’t feel one single stir of desire.

I’m pissed about that.

“Hi guys,” Carrie greets, as she sets new beers down on the high top table for all of us.

Ben, Gavin, and Mitch all know Carrie and her friends.

“Ladies,” Ben says with a grin.

The other women, whose names I cannot remember, start chatting with my friends while Carrie turns to me.

“How’s it going?” she asks, smiling the smile I know is actually an invitation.

She looks great. She’s also very nice and I know that I could simply say, “let’s go to my place,” and she would say yes. And I could have some great sex and wake up tomorrow with zero guilt about leading her on.

But as I am standing here in my favorite bar, even having slept with her three times before, I find myself comparing her smile to the one that enchanted me this past weekend. I find myself thinking about Brooke holding the newborn puppies. I think about Brooke making snow angels and how she drowned her pancakes in syrup and how her big blue eyes took in every detail of everything going on around her.

And of course, I think about much less sweet things.

How her nipples look behind the thin cotton of a T-shirt. How she looks warm and wet from the hot tub. How her neck gets pink from whisker burn. How she sounds when she comes.

Fuck.

I can’t take Carrie home.

If I can stand in a bar, trying to have a conversation and failing to keep Brooke out of my head for five fucking minutes of small talk, there’s no way I’ll be able to keep from thinking of her when I’m trying to kiss or fuck another woman.

Has Brooke Wilder ruined me for all other women?

Is it possible that spontaneously fucking a woman who was practically a virgin against the wall could end up making me a damned monk for the rest of my life?

I am going to be very pissed if that’s true.

But looking at Carrie, who is now watching me with confusion, it feels true.

“It’s not going well,” I finally answer. And that definitely feels true.

“Oh,” she says with a small frown. “I’m sorry. Do you want to talk about it?”

Carrie and I are not friends. We are not friends with benefits. We’re not even fuck buddies. We’ve hooked up three times. But she is a nice woman, and we’ve had some pleasant conversations over coffee the next morning. We’re not that far apart in age and we’ve both been through a nasty divorce.

Maybe that’s why I shock us both by saying, “I think I’ve fallen in love.”

Her eyes go wide. “Oh.” Then she laughs. “I was not expecting that.”

I nod and blow out a breath. “Yeah. You and me both.”

“Not with me, right?” Carrie looks amused.

I shake my head slowly. “No.”

Just a sweet, beautiful, intelligent girl I have no business falling in love with.

“Phew.” She puts her hand to her chest like she’s relieved, though she’s obviously just teasing me. “You honestly had me scared for a second that I was going to have to let you down easy.”

I sip my beer. I don’t want to think about Brooke or her rejecting me. I don’t want to consider what it means to open my heart back up and allow a woman to own my emotions. Though I strongly suspect I’m not going to have much choice.

The only one letting me down is myself.

“I’m going to head out,” I tell her. “Have a good night.”

There’s nothing at the bar that is going to distract me from Brooke.

Might as well go home.

I’ve already decided to hell with it.

I’m texting Brooke.