One woman caught his eye. Long, dark brown hair cascading down her back, a great ass hugged by fitted jeans. One hip was cocked, radiating impatience, like she had somewhere better to be and didn’t want to waste another second outside.
She was talking to someone else, her hands gesturing in frustration, shoulders tight with tension.
He might need his hose to put out the fire in her.
The person she was talking to moved away, and the smoking body inside those jeans turned to look toward the firetrucks.
Fuck.
That was Jocelyn McCarthy.
Holy hell. How had he not noticed just how good she looked when she walked into the pub yesterday?
He’d looked. Just like he had when they were in high school.
She had a stellar body back then, but to a horny teenage boy, anything walking with some curves on it turned him on. He was only being honest. Didn’t mean he touched it all.
Not like he would have loved to with Jocelyn, who was so far out of his league she might as well have been from Venus.
He still looked. And wished. Nothing wrong with that.
Now, she had the body of a woman who took damn good care of herself.
The jeans she had on hugged her around the hips and ass, giving her a nice bubble. He’d love nothing more than to slap his hands on each cheek, grip her hard, and yank her forward to his body.
She’d probably be appalled and slap his face.
Or maybe she’d laugh.
Her chestnut eyes softened, a lightness in them and something else too, an attentiveness he rarely got from women. Especially not from women like her. Not back then. Now, most only looked at him for a good night, nothing more.
He learned to read silent messages well.
She was staring at him. Maybe through him to the action around. With his helmet on, she’d have no way of knowing he was the same man who had handed her lunch the other day.
Voices were speaking over the radio that the building was clear, and everyone was coming out.
The building manager announced that the residents could return to their homes. Jocelyn turned and walked toward the entrance like the rest.
“Let’s go, Drummond. All clear and back to dinner. Might not even have to heat it up too much.”
“It won’t take long to pop it in the oven,” he said.
“Fuck that,” Justin said. “I’m sticking my plate in the microwave with everything on it. Got to say I love it when it’s your turn to bring dinner in. Not that you cook it.”
He snorted. “How do you know I don’t cook it?”
“Because it comes in too fancy,” Justin said. They climbed into the truck. “Been like that for years. You never cook and buy it. Do you even know how to cook?”
“I know how to cook,” he said.
But for years he had bought it from the pub he now owned. His grandmother would make it and he’d get it at a discount. It was the same price half the time as if he’d bought all the ingredients, then had to come here and cook it.
“When was the last time you cooked anything for us?” Justin asked.
“I cooked the chicken. Not bad, huh?”
“Seriously?”
