Page 9 of Feastin' with Fire
I glance at Lily, who looks equally surprised. "Thank you," she says to Mike. "That's very kind."
"It's nothing," he waves off her thanks, then gives me a look that says we'll be talking about this later. "Sullivan's got a good track record of saving things. People included."
With that, he heads back to the kitchen, leaving us alone again.
"Looks like I'm free to take you home now," I say, then wince at how that sounds. "I mean, to my house. To get you settled."
She smiles, and I'm struck again by how beautiful she is: how a woman like her is so far out of my league it's not even funny. But for a few days at least, she'll be under my roof, and I'd be lying if I said that didn't send a thrill through me, inappropriate as it might be.
"Let me just grab my things," I add. "And then we can go."
This is going to be a long few days, and my self-control is already being tested. But I meant what I said. This isn't about anything except helping someone who needs it. Someone who reminds me too much of myself at my lowest point.
Still, as I glance back at her standing there in that yellow dress that seems to capture sunlight itself, I can't help but think I might be in way over my head.
Chapter 6 - Lily
Jimmy disappears to gather his things, and I'm left standing alone in the massive bay, feeling completely out of place. This yellow dress is too bright, too cheerful for someone who's lost everything. But it was the nurse's kindness—Diane, with her motherly smile—that made it impossible to refuse.
"You take this," she'd said, pressing the dress into my hands. "Yellow's not my color anyway, and honey, you look like you could use something pretty right now."
Pretty. I almost laugh at the thought. With my bandaged hands and the bruise on my cheek, I'm a mess. But at least I'm a living mess, which is more than I could say if Jimmy Sullivan hadn't pulled me from that fire.
I glance around the station, taking in the massive trucks, the gear hanging in precise rows, the scuffed floors that have seen countless emergency responses. This is his world, a world of danger and heroism that couldn't be further from my quiet existence among flowers.
My mind drifts back to the moment he appeared in the doorway earlier. The sheer size of him had made me clench my thighs. Broad shoulders stretching his uniform shirt to its limits, the fabric clinging to arms corded with muscle. When he'd reached up to run a hand through his hair, his bicep had flexed in a way that made me swallow dry. Those intense blue eyes seemed to see right through me, set in a face that's lived enough life to earn every line.
But I’m still me. The man offered me a place to stay out of kindness, not because he's interested in me.
Still, I can't help the warmth that spreads through me when I think about those scarred hands of his. How would they feelagainst my skin? Rough, probably, from years of fighting fires. Strong enough to carry me from a burning building without strain.
I shift uncomfortably, suddenly aware of the dampness between my thighs. Fuck. I'm actually getting wet just thinking about him. This is ridiculous. A man like Jimmy Sullivan—mature, established, heroic—wouldn't look twice at a younger woman like me, especially not with these curves that my mother always said made me look "unprofessional."
Men like him probably date those tall, athletic types. Not short, curvy florists who can barely make eye contact during a conversation.
"Ready to go?"
I nearly jump out of my skin. Jimmy's back, changed into civilian clothes. Worn jeans and a simple black t-shirt that does absolutely nothing to hide the thick muscles underneath. God, he's even more imposing out of uniform, if that's possible.
His chest stretches the cotton, and the short sleeves reveal arms that clearly weren't built in a gym but from years of actual hard work. There's a small scar running along his right forearm, and I find myself wondering how he got it.
"Yes," I manage, my voice embarrassingly breathy. "Thank you again for this."
He shrugs, that casual movement making the muscles across his shoulders and back ripple visibly beneath the shirt. "Like I said, it's nothing."
Nothing to him, maybe. Everything to me.
He leads me outside to a truck that's nearly as imposing as he is. An older model pickup meticulously maintained. Of course he drives a truck. It suits him—practical, strong, reliable.
"Need help?" he asks as I hesitate at the passenger door, suddenly aware of how high the step up is and how short this borrowed dress is.
"I've got it," I say quickly, not wanting to seem completely helpless. I grab the handle and hoist myself up, the dress riding dangerously high on my thighs. I tug it down hastily, feeling my face burn.
Jimmy clears his throat and walks around to the driver's side, giving me a moment to adjust. The interior of the truck is surprisingly clean. No fast food wrappers or random clutter like I'd expect from a bachelor. Just like the man himself, the truck is orderly and unpretentious.
His scent fills the space—something clean like soap, mixed with a hint of smoke that seems permanently embedded in his skin. It's intoxicating in a way I'm not prepared for.
"Seatbelt," he reminds me, his voice low.
