CHAPTER 1
IKE
The high school parking lot is almost empty when I pull in, which means I'm early.
Story of my life. Fifteen years as a fire captain has drilled punctuality into me so deep it's practically a personality disorder.
I kill the engine and check my phone.
Wade sent a text ten minutes ago.
Thanks again for picking up Riley this week, man. I owe you a six-pack.
I'd texted back a thumbs up, but he knows I’d do anything to help him out. And I wouldn’t leave his fourteen-year-old stranded after soccer practice. Wade's going to have a hell of a week—dispatch has him running hauls that don't get him home until eight most nights.
So I'm on Riley duty.
Pick her up, feed her, and make sure she’s safe until her dad's done for the day.
It's not a hardship. I like the kid. She's smart, funny, gives me shit the way only a teenage girl can. She calls me Uncle Ike eventhough there's no blood between us. It started when she was six and couldn't figure out what else to call her dad's best friend who was always there, showing up for birthdays and school plays.
I could wait in the truck…scroll through emails, answer the texts from Aiden about the meal he's planning for the next station dinner this weekend.
But I'm restless, my skin tight in a way I can't explain. Probably too many hours behind a desk today, and not enough getting my hands dirty.
So I get out and walk toward the soccer field.
The afternoon sun is doing its best to cut through the February chill—one of those rare mild days where Montana pretends spring might actually come on time.
The golden hour light makes everything look softer than it is, but I can hear the coach's whistle, the thud of cleats on grass, girls shouting to each other across the field.
I spot Riley first. She's running drills on the far side, her dark ponytail whipping behind her as she cuts around a cone.
She's gotten good. I feel a weird swell of pride at that, like I have any right to claim credit for her athletic ability.
Then my gaze drifts to the sideline.
And every coherent thought in my head just...stops, throwing everything into slow motion.
The coach is pacing along the edge of the field, blowing that whistle, shouting instructions I can't hear over the sudden roar of blood in my ears. She's wearing dark, form-fitting leggings that cling to legs that go on for-fucking-ever—lean and toned, the kind of legs that make a man trip over himself. Underneath a tiny unzipped hoodie, she has on an athletic tank top that hugs her body in a way that makes me sweat. She's fit, but soft in all the right places with curves that her athletic wear only accentuates.
I'm looking at the sweet swell of her breasts under the fabric, and I'm officially going to hell.
She's got this tawny blonde hair pulled back in a high ponytail that bounces when she moves. Even from here, I can see she's pretty. More than pretty, fucking stunning in that effortless way that young women are before the beauty industry convinces them otherwise.
Young.
The word hits me like cold water.
She's way too young.
I'm forty-six, standing here like some dirty old man, staring at a woman who's probably closer to Riley's age than mine.
She's got to be mid-twenties at least, old enough to be coaching high school. But still.Still.I'm old enough to be her…nope, not finishing that thought.
I force my eyes back to the field. To soccer practice. To the girls running drills.
But my gaze keeps drifting back to her like she's magnetic north and I'm a compass that's lost all sense of direction. She moves with such confidence and athleticism, completely in command of her domain. There's authority in her posture. A natural presence that has nothing to do with age and everything to do with who she is.
