Free The Wedding Gift by Cara Connelly Page B

over her shoulder, down the back of her slim arm.
    Then he grabbed her bag and tipped it over his mouth.
    Nothing but Cheez-It dust.
    She stuck out her tongue, coated with orange.
    God, he loved this woman.
    T HE RUMORS WERE true: Mick was a sex machine.
    Resting her cheek in the notch of his sweaty shoulder, Jan laid her palm over his galloping heart. “Time out,” she said on a pant.
    â€œRookie.”
    â€œNot a rookie,” she said, justifiably defensive. “I’ve just been benched for a few . . . okay, a lot of years.”
    Mick curled his arm more tightly around her shoulders. “You’re back in the game now, babe. How’s it feel?”
    Great. Amazing. Fantastic. For the rest of her life, nothing would compare to sex with Mick.
    â€œIt’s okay,” she said. “I’m sure you’re doing the best you can.”
    He laughed, not fooled for a minute.
    Then he yawned, a jaw cracker. They’d been going at it for two hours and it was his first sign of fatigue. Which was particularly impressive given that he’d hardly slept in the past month.
    Honestly, the poor guy was exhausted. How had she missed the smudges under his eyes?
    She moved her palm in slow circles, a front rub instead of a back rub. On cue, his lids grew heavy, his blinks got longer, and longer . . .
    Then he pulled out of it, shaking his head as if clearing cobwebs. He glanced at the clock.
    She kept on rubbing, gently. “You should talk to the chief.”
    He shook his head, not bothering to play dumb. “If I tell him, he’ll sideline me. Make me see a shrink.”
    â€œIsn’t that mandatory? It should be.”
    He shrugged. “I got through the required interview.”
    â€œIn other words, you faked it.”
    â€œI need to get back on the horse, not sit around making myself crazier.”
    There was some sense in that, especially knowing Mick as she did. But, “Is it safe? For everyone else, I mean.”
    He forked a hand through his hair. “I’ll let you know on Tuesday.” He paused. “I won’t put the crew at risk. If my nerve’s shot, I’ll . . .” He sighed miserably. “I can always go to law school.” He rubbed her arm. “You’d be happier that way anyhow.”
    â€œWhy would I be happier?”
    â€œYou know. The whole dangerous job thing.”
    To the extent New Jan was still hung up on that, it applied to potential husbands, not to friends, even friends with benefits. “Mick, I want you to do what you love, and you love firefighting.”
    â€œSo it wouldn’t matter to you? I mean, assuming I can get past this stupid nightmare and I’m not a wuss who can’t hold up my end, you’d be okay with me staying on the job?”
    As if he needed her approval. “First of all, you’re not a wuss, except about spiders.” She spider-walked two fingers around his side. He flinched like a girl.
    â€œAnd second of all”—she smoothed her palm over the spider tracks—“you will get past this nightmare, you will hold up your end, and—for better or worse—you will go on and risk your life every day. If you’re looking for my blessing, you’ve got it. You always have.”
    He pulled in a deep breath, let it out on a long sigh. “I love you, Jan.”
    Her heart leaped and swelled, filling every inch of space in her chest.
    Then she talked herself down. Of course Mick loved her. He always had. God knew how many beat-downs he’d handed out on her behalf, warning off the bullies who were drawn like flies to a pale, skinny girl with no father to watch her back.
    She owed Mick for that. For her peaceful childhood, for years of friendship, for always having her back. So if in the dark of this night the tables had suddenly turned and he needed her more than she needed him, she wouldn’t hold back the words of comfort that