“You not gonna watch the end of the game?” his dad asked, his arm around his ever-swearing lady and his feet perched on the ottoman.
“I think the Cowboys have it in hand.” They were up by twenty-four with less than ten minutes remaining. “Gonna start cleaning. You people made a mess.”
Dylan tossed a wadded-up napkin at him and slid another piece of cheesecake onto his plate. “I’d help you but I’m still eating.”
Nate waved him off. He wasn’t in the mood for company anyway.
Thanksgiving was usually one of his favorite holidays, but this year, something was off. Not something, someone. Him. He knew the reason, and he hated it. He was sitting around pining the fuck away for a woman who wanted nothing to do with him.
It pissed him off because, first off, he wasn’t that kind of guy. He’d never cared enough about a woman before to get bent out of shape. Second off, he was still upset that Sophie was too scared — of who knew what — to give them a chance. So close and yet … so over.
Shit. What a waste of a Thanksgiving. Since when did he need more than a fried bird and a football game to have a good holiday?
As he soaped up the overflowing dishwasher, he heard a knock at the front door. Probably some of the guys from the station stopping by on their way home from a family celebration.
“Hey, Sophie,” he heard Dylan say from the other room, and Nate poured about twice as much soap in the receptacle as necessary.
What the fuck?
Heart hammering, Nate closed the dishwasher and pushed the appropriate buttons, his ear tuned in to the other room. It was entirely possible Dylan was messing with him. He wasn’t going to go in unless he heard Sophie herself.
And there was her voice, saying hello to his dad, greeting Elsa as she was introduced.
Nate froze. What was she doing here? He blew out a breath and went to the doorway to the living room.
Without a word, he feasted his eyes on her. She looked more beautiful than ever — or rather, more dolled up than ever, because she was always beautiful, whether covered with black soot or just rolling out of bed — with her hair cascading in wide curls down her back and over her shoulders, shimmery copper eye shadow that deepened the brown of her eyes, a soft-looking pale pink skirt that hit her midway up her gorgeous, toned thighs, and a sexy, gauzy cream-colored shirt. She wore knee-high brown leather boots and a jacket that matched.
Nate had to remind himself how they’d left things. How she’d kicked him out of her condo. “What are you doing here?”
“I…” She took a few steps toward him, looking unsure. “I baked brownies. By myself, this time, so don’t get too excited because apparently there’s a learning curve. But they should be edible. Sort of.” She held out the covered pan, and Dylan swooped in. “Eat at your own risk,” she said.
“Stomach of steel,” Dylan told her and helped himself.
“No idea where you’re putting all that food,” Nate said to his friend, and to Sophie, “I’ll put them in the kitchen.”
He didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing and went to the kitchen. Sophie excused herself from the others and followed him in.
Nate set the pan of brownies down and frowned. The ones she’d brought to the station had had a trail of caramel artfully twisting over the top. These … well, artful wasn’t the word he’d use. They were dark around the edges. Definitely well done. But the aroma of fudge — and a little bit of burnt sugar — wafted up to his nostrils.
“As I told you,” she said, “my first time. They’re not perfect.”
“I was just wondering how I could fit any more food in. So…” He tossed the dish towel draped over his shoulder to the plate-covered counter, leaned against the oven, and crossed his arms. “I thought you didn’t do Thanksgiving.”
“I… Yeah… I haven’t in the past.” She raised her gaze to his, and he felt it deep in his gut. “I … think I’ve been missing out.”
“A holiday of eating. Doesn’t get much better than that. How’d you find out where I live?”
She looked at the floor. “I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Firefighters are a sorry lot. They’ll do just about anything for a pretty face.”
“Are you saying I’m pretty?”
Was she flirting with him? He resisted the impulse to flirt back because then he’d feel like an idiot if she shot him down again and walked out the door in five minutes. “You know I think you’re pretty, Sophie. Why are you here?”
“I… I’d like to talk to you.”
He looked closely at her and saw fear. Insecurity. And any reluctance he’d had to hearing her out trickled right on out the door. Coming here to talk to him was hard for her.
