Free How to Seduce a Fireman: HarperImpulse Contemporary Romance by Vonnie Davis

if this young whipper-snapper can deliver, though.” He smirked and his pigeon chest puffed out. “Maybe you’d be better off with an older, more experienced gent.”
    Shit, as if this old man could be as experienced as I am.
    She plucked a piece of toilet paper off Milt’s chin. “Did you cut yourself shaving?”
    “Yeah, I’ve got four electric razors tucked in a drawer somewhere that the kids got me over the years, but I like the close shave a sharp razorblade gives me.” He rubbed his gnarled fingers over his cheek. “The wife always preferred a smooth face. Said it made kissin’ nicer.”
    The neighborhood dogs quieted since Cassie had stopped frantically pounding the instrument’s keys as if she were typing a letter to Santa.
    She leaned against Milt’s bony shoulder. “I’m going to marry this young whipper-snapper. I don’t care how much facial hair he’s got.”
    Milt narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips while he petted Killer. “Don’t look like the marrying type to me.”
    Quinn folded his arms and widened his stance. “That’s because I’m
not
the marrying type. I’m more the one-night stand type.” This whole conversation was totally bizarre. He glared at Cassie. Thanks to her shenanigans, he’d have to repack everything.
    “Oh, you can make book on this, Milt. Hot lips here is mine. His ass is grass and I’m the lawnmower.” Cassie sucked a bucketful of air and blew four sour notes at one time.
    Quinn jammed his index fingers into his ears and cursed.
    Milt farted, jerking his hearing aid out of his ear.
    And Killer pissed on Milt’s shirt.
    “Dammit, Cassie!” Quinn reached to snatch the saxophone from her grasp; she swung it out of his range and laughed. What he wouldn’t give to lay her over his knees and paddle her ass. “Look, that horn belonged to my late Uncle Matisse. He used to play in jazz clubs in New Orleans. It’s all I have left of him. Now give it here.”
    Although Quinn Matisse was not a blood relative, he had been someone very important in his life. Uncle Mat taught him how to throw a ball, to fish and toss rocks in a stream to make the most circular ripples. In short, the smiling man spent time with young Quinn until a bullet ended the musician’s life.
    “You know Matisse is a nice name. We’ll name our first child in his honor. Matisse if it’s a boy or Mattie if it’s a girl.” She placed the brass instrument in his outstretched hand. “I think it’s time we take this conversation upstairs, don’t you?” She smiled so sweetly it looked pure evil.
    “First, you repack my belongings.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “When all my things are safely locked away, we’ll talk.”
    Milt flapped his urine-soaked shirttail away from his body. His dog stood at his sandaled feet, his tail tucked between legs. “Go on inside, Quinn. Killer and me will pack up your stuff. Looks like you and Cassie have some things to work out.” Milt shot a worried glance at Quinn’s motorcycle. “Don’t know if I want to move your Harley though.”
    “Don’t worry about the bike. If you’ll just cram my clothes and trophies in boxes and secure them away in the trailer, I’d appreciate it. I think the bike and grill will be safe enough sitting where they are for a few minutes.” His gaze swept to the feminine pain in his ass standing next to him. “I’d like to say it won’t take long to pound some sense into her head, but any woman who would dye a swath of her hair stoplight red can’t be too bright.”
    “Hey!” She poked a finger in his side.
    “Your hair was perfect before, peanut.” He smirked at Milt. “See, that’s the difference between men and women. Men don’t diddle with their appearance. They know perfection when they see it. Am I right, Milt?”
    The old guy extracted a small black comb from his back pocket and skimmed it over the seven grey hairs plastered to his scalp with some kind of hair goop. Nodding, he slipped the comb into