Free Rekindle the Flame by Kate Meader Page A

a rare laugh, a glorious sound. He snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her so closethey shared their next breaths. Life-giving, yet making her weak.
    “Can’t get mad at you, Darcy. You’re the only one who can take me out of myself.” He tightened his hand over hers and entwined their fingers in a target over his heart. “I did not deserve you.”
    That was not what she wanted to hear, talk of the past invading the pleasure of the present. Much too serious.
    “I’m glad you’re not dead, Beck,” she clarified, aiming to cut the tension thick as the lump in her throat. “Better, baby?”
    He flashed a so-help-her-God smile. “I’m glad you’re glad, querida .”
    The intense heat of him along with his masculine scent intoxicated her, and she drew back to get a much-needed influx of Beck-free oxygen.
    “How about you give me the tour?” she asked. And give her a chance to catch her breath.
    “Step this way, m’lady.”
    He squired her around the quarters, mostly empty except for a too-cute-and-blond secretary in the back office and a couple of firefighters playing cards at a table out in the truck bay. After stifling her giggles at the hose tower ( where they dried their hoses ), followed by the equipment room housing couplings ( for hand jacking hydrants — um, dying here ), profound disappointment set in when she learned she could not take a slide down the fireman’s pole. ( We don’t have one. No, really, Darcy, we don’t. )
    Watching him walk ahead of her in his damp shorts and tee, his powerful legs making her light-headed withdesire, she was reminded of the first time she had seen him in that dingy boxing gym nine years ago. The place had scared her breathless with its floor ossified with decades of loogies, its walls propping up granite-faced men who stared right through her. And the smell! Like someone had dipped sweaty sneakers in a fondue of sewage and offered them up for their dining pleasure.
    She was only there because her best friend, Shaz, had it bad for Darcy’s brother and wanted to see him in shorts. At seventeen, Jack was almost as tall as Darcy’s dad, and had at least six inches on the other guy standing in the boxing ring, who hopped back and forth like a bunny playing with an invisible jump rope. Darcy found her gaze magnetized to those feet before it slid north over the rest of him. Strong, gleaming, cocoa-skinned legs maintained her interest on the upward journey until—
    It was the first time she had noticed a guy’s butt.
    Tight and trim, it filled out his shiny black shorts in a way that brought heat to her cheeks. Turn around, her blitzed brain urged. Turn. Ah. Round.
    He obliged, fighting the air with jabbing punches as he went. Posturing, she would have assumed if it were anyone else, but this was different. He was different. This was a boy who played sports, not games. CFD was stamped in large letters on his broad chest. The Chicago Fire Department. The boy, his shock of black hair already damp with exertion, stared at Jack, his opponent for the upcoming bout. Barely leashed rage radiated from every dark pore.
    Then he turned, his burning blue focus rewired on her.
    The floor dropped beneath her feet, her heart plummeted into the void. Every moment in her sixteen years on Earth had been building to this. A malodorous gym and a serious boy’s blue gaze. He saw into her, through her, out the other side, and she felt like one world ended and another began. Teenage dramatics, she knew now, but at the time it had felt so important. So cell-shockingly real. On the germ-ridden chair where she had planted her butt, she squirmed, the chill of the metal a bite on the underside of her soft thigh, and all she could think was: I want him to win.
    That’s when Jack coldcocked him with such force he dropped like a stone to the mat.
    Oh crap!
    It took every inch of her willpower to hold on to the rim of the chair with her clawed fists. Shaz jumped to her feet, cheering her