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I turn into his driveway, eager to see him again after his twenty-four-hour shift. He’s nowhere to be seen, but the lawnmower sits outside the open garage.
Climbing his porch steps, I knock on the storm door, stealing a glimpse through the glass into Shane’s house. I can’t see much save for a few pairs of shoes lying haphazardly by the front closet and a long, narrow hall.
“Come in!” Shane hollers from somewhere inside.
The door creaks as I pull it open. “How do you know I’m not a stranger?” I call back, dropping my heavy satchel onto the modern-style charcoal-gray tile landing by the door. It’s my first time inside.
“Because you always come home around this time. Plus, a stranger still wouldn’t just walk in.”
I pause to survey the living room—a plain, white-walled room with plush leather furniture in camel tones, a sizable flat-screen TV mounted on the wall, and the enormous bay window that overlooks the front yard. While Shane’s house is an older bungalow, it appears the interior has been remodeled. The planks of dark walnut hardwood floor gleam, the moldings are wide, and pot lights line the ceiling throughout.
I find Shane at a deep kitchen sink, scrubbing a pot.
“They would if they’re a murderer,” I counter, quickly dismissing the enviable custom cabinetry and subway-tile backsplash to admire Shane’s sculpted arms and the way his track pants hug his ass.
He casts a smirk over his shoulder. His hair is an untamed mop, with wavy tendrils around his ears and at the nape of his neck. It’s incredibly sexy. “Murderers going door to door in Polson Falls, looking for unsuspecting six-foot-two firefighters?”
“Exactly.” I ease in behind him to press my chest against his back and slip my hands around his taut waist. “You cut my grass.”
He turns his upper body to lean down and kiss me. It’s a slow, sensual greeting that momentarily steals my ability to breathe. “It needed cutting,” he whispers when he finally pulls away.
My heart is racing. “That was sweet. Thank you.”
He tosses the sponge into the sink and hastily dries his hands with the dishcloth lying nearby before turning to face me. He stretches his heavy arms over my shoulders and pulls me into him until we’re chest to chest. He smells of soap from his shower and clean sweat from working outside. The intoxicating mix only stirs my blood more. “How was school? Was my kid good today?”
“He’s always good. And school was … interesting.” I relay the conversation with Wendy.
He bites his bottom lip in thought. “So, she’s okay with it?”
“I wouldn’t say that. But she seems more concerned about Penelope causing trouble than anything else.” I pause. “Is she right to be worried about that?”
The muscle ticks in Shane’s jaw. “Penelope does not get a say in my life.”
Her meddling is clearly a sore spot. She must have put him through hell with the custody battle.
“You’re right. She doesn’t.” I stifle the urge to point out the more likely issue—her say in who’s in her son’s life—and smooth my palms over Shane’s chest. It feels tighter than usual, likely from a long workout in the station gym.
He sighs, as if trying to expel the tension that mounted with mention of his ex-girlfriend. “I know you were worried about your job. Do you feel better now that your boss knows about us?”
“Yeah. Lighter, anyway. I didn’t realize how much hiding this from Wendy was weighing on me.” But now it’s in the open and that lingering shadow that I’m doing something wrong has faded.
“Good.” He threads his fingers through my hair.
I imagine him gathering that hair in his fist and gently pulling it. That thought has the muscles between my thighs clenching. “I like your house,” I say, my voice huskier than a moment ago. “Did you buy it like this?”
“No. It was a dive when I bought it. I’ve been fixing it up over the last three years.” His eyes graze over the cupboards on the wall beside us. “This room was the most work.”
“You did all this on your own?”
“A lot of it. Not all. There’re a lot of guys at the station who do renovations on the side, so I got a bit of help. They taught me a lot.”
Thoughts of a sweaty, dirty Shane tearing apart the room makes my pulse quicken. “You really aren’t just a pretty face.”
He grins, his dimples appearing in full form.
“What do you want to do tonight?” Just being with him is enough for me, but Shane always was the type to keep busy with friends and plans, and that doesn’t seem to have changed.
“I don’t know. A couple people were talking about Route Sixty-Six for the band. I was thinking we could head there a bit earlier and grab dinner on the patio. Should still be warm enough.”
