CHAPTER ONE
Macey Locke didn’t often wake up alone in a man’s bed. Frankly, she didn’t often wake up in a man’s bed period. But here she was, sprawled across Derek Severson’s mattress, hogging the covers, hugging the pillow as if the man himself were here with her.
Awesome. An awkward “morning after” and she hadn’t even had the pleasure of sleeping with him.
She sat up, cringing as she recalled the night before. She’d driven all day to get to Derek’s bar on San Amaro Island off the coast of south Texas, and though she’d tried to prepare herself for the state he was in, his less-than-enthusiastic reception had cut deep. She’d thought the sight of an old friend—her—would dig through his layers of grief and sorrow and at least warrant a smile.
She’d thought wrong.
Macey helped herself to the connecting bathroom and splashed water on her face, then looked longingly at the shower stall. Maybe later. She’d made herself at home enough already, barging in and stealing his bed while he closed up the bar.
She ran a brush through her hair and pulled it up into a sloppy bun as she returned to the bedroom. Her flip-flops were next to the bed, where her feet had been hanging over the side; she must’ve kicked them off in her sleep. She slipped them on and was about to go find Derek when she noticed the framed photo she’d left among the pile of blankets. Once again, she was compelled to pick it up.
Julie. Derek’s girlfriend who’d died just over a year ago.
She’d known Julie vaguely. Had watched as Derek fell in love with her. It had been the final push for Macey to join the Peace Corps two years ago.
But instead of the cutting jealousy she’d felt toward this woman, now sorrow made her throat burn and her eyes water anew.
Feeling even more like an intruder, she set the photo back on the nightstand and left the room, wiping tears away.
Had Derek even bothered to come home?
The soft drone of the television answered her question as she reached the open kitchen and living area of his beachside condo. There he was. Crashed out on a worn recliner that looked too small for his long, muscled body to be anything close to comfortable. He was still asleep. She should give him privacy but...
Damn.
He wore a pair of black boxers, nothing else. A large tattoo of the Texas Longhorn logo, with flames added behind it, emphasized the size of his biceps. His chest was sculpted with muscles, as was his abdomen. She’d thought six-pack abs were fictional, but they were totally alive and well here. Her eyes tracked slowly, appreciatively downward and eventually landed on strong, solid thighs. She swallowed hard, knowing this private inspection of hers was a bad idea. She watched his chest rise and fall for a few breaths before her gaze traveled up to his face.
That was like having a bucket of cold water poured over her head. Derek looked like hell, as if he hadn’t slept for a month. The stubble on his chin was more than a shadow, making him appear older, rougher than he was. His ash-blond hair was longer than she’d ever seen it; for Derek, normally with military-short hair, that meant maybe long enough for a woman to run her fingers through it. She clenched her hands into fists.
Macey recalled the emptiness in his moss-green eyes last night, and she ached to comfort him somehow. To touch him, to run her palms gently down his arms, to hold his hands in hers.
Derek would never tolerate her sympathy.
What he’d have to figure out was that she was no longer the shy, afraid-of-confrontation girl he’d known. The Peace Corps had changed her, and she wasn’t going to back down from him, former badass firefighter or not, no matter how ugly he got with her.
Derek stirred in the chair, turned his head the other way, and she waited for him to discover her staring at him. But his eyes remained closed, and he exhaled deeply before slipping back into even breathing.
Macey stepped away silently, filled with so many emotions her head felt like it might explode—the least of which was not lust. Bad timing or not, how could she gaze at all that masculine beauty she’d secretly pined away for for years and not feel a stirring of desire? Stirring, hell. A flood.
She belatedly noticed the view out the sliding-glass door and the floor-to-ceiling windows. Waves. Sand. Patches of sea grass. Lots of people. She unlatched the door, glancing toward Derek to make sure he was still asleep. She needed to get her head straight before round two with him, so she slid the door open without a sound and went out.
From Playing with Fire
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ "Reading this wonderful story is a great way to spend a summer afternoon!"
