Page 7 of Up In Flames

Please, God, I’ve been a terrible person, but if you could let me die now, I’ll be better. Promise.

“Well, maybe not completely an accident. Not toward the end.” Sampson leans to the side so his hot breath whispers into my ear. “Next time, it’ll all be on purpose, Jelly Bean. You just tell me when and where, and I’ve got you.”

And then he’s gone. For a guy who stands over eight feet tall, he moves like a cheetah, even in his heavy fireman uniform, which, can I just say, really fits his broad shoulders, narrow waist, long legs, and giant dick like it was made to make him the object of every woman’s desire.

I mean, I presume he has a giant dick. Not that I care.

Fuck. I so care.

“Are you alright?” Nicholas and Mari stagger in just as Pete settles into a chair across the coffee table from me.

“I’m fine. I was just, um, bruised. And, um, the giant…”

Pete and Mari both frown at me.

Right. Giant is not an inclusive term. It’s like calling Mr. Radler from the bank a goblin just because he’s short. And ugly. And looks like a goblin from a fairytale, uglier even than those seven short guys who made that girl keep house for them, and a lot like the ones who inhabit that famous wizard world. But whatever.

“Um, well, I’m fine.”

Pete leans forward. He’s pulled a pad from somewhere and a little sliver of pencil. “Want to tell me what happened?” he asks. “I need to fill out the report.”

As I launch into an explanation of how Mr. Mittens escaped through the window and why, without thinking, I dove after him, Mari unfolds a blanket that I keep draped over the back of the other chair and brings it to me. She carefully removes Pete’s jacket while substituting the spread of pinks that my grandmother knitted for me when I was a girl. My neighbor sends me a knowing look.

“Anyhow, that’s the story,” I say, raising my voice a notch. “Mari, would you mind fetching me a glass of water? I’ve got a pitcher chilling in the fridge. Want a glass, Pete? Nicholas?”

“We’ll be gone just a minute.” Mari grabs her son by the shoulder and turns him towards the kitchen, leaving me alone with the fireman who’s carefully looking anywhere but at me.

Great. Just what I need.

But he keeps things short, and by the time Mari returns with my water, he’s on his feet and shrugging back into his jacket. “Great. I’ll let you know if we need anything else.” He pauses. “Listen, about Sampson, I couldn’t help but notice that there’s some tension between you two.”

Tension? Is that what we’re calling the best orgasm I’ve had in years? Or… ever?

“Um, yeah, maybe a little. So?”

He shrugs. “Look, I don’t know what he said to you to get you so hopping mad that you wouldn’t accept a rescue from him, but whatever it was, you should know that he’s a good guy. I can’t tell you how many lives he’s saved from incredibly dangerous situations that would make most men take a long think first. Not him. He leaps into trouble like he’s got no idea that he’s mortal. That’s courage of a different kind, so I’d be really upset to hear any complaints lodged against him.”

Seriously? I mean, I might temporarily be harboring less-than-horrible thoughts about my worst enemy thanks to the best orgasm I’ve ever had, but I don’t need to be bullied about the evil giant by a man I’ve come to think of as a friend.

“Peter Nerodu, are you threatening me? You do know Darla’s in my yoga class, right? And we’re going to that art exhibit next weekend together?”

The short, dark-haired man with the big nose waves his hand. “Jeez, I’m not threatening you, Nina. That’s that writer’s imagination for you. I’m just saying, it would make me sad to hear that Sampson is catching flak for some odd comment he might or might not have made. Clearly, there’s bad blood between you. Oh. Hey, that’s an idea.”

Someone needs to save me from helpful men who get bad ideas into their heads and think they’re helping.

“No, Pete, that’s not…”

“No, this is great. Come over for dinner tomorrow night, okay? Darla always makes her famous fish casserole on Fridays. Always room for one or two more at the table.” His eyes take on the special matchmaking gleam.

Shit. He’s setting me up with the giant.

“I don’t think…”

“Perfect. See you at six? We eat early because of the kids.”

And before I can capture my wits, he’s nodded his goodbye to Mari, messed up Nicholas’s hair, and walked out the door, whistling.

I hate whistling.