Black Flame (9 page)

The seven-year-old scrambled up onto his lap with ease. He leaned in close and whispered in Jimmy’s ear with breath scented with syrup and chocolate milk.

“I know it’s you, Jimmy,” Terrence said.

“Er, how did you deduce that?”

“Your beard is fake. And you’re too skinny. But don’t worry, I won’t tell the other kids.”

“Thanks, Terrence.”

“Also, I know it was you who came by last night. Mom cried when she saw what you left on the porch.”

Jimmy’s heart stuttered. Poor Nan, he’d been so careful to come by when no one would see. He knew firsthand how hard it was to accept charity, especially if anyone knew about it; his biggest gift to Nan was anonymity. He would never embarrass her by revealing it was him who occasionally dropped off groceries or household items, athletic shoes so Terrence could join the track team, or a warm winter coat for Terrence’s little sister Belle.

Jimmy had been drawn to skinny Terrence because the boy reminded him of himself. Keeping to himself at the back of the tangle of kids at the after-school program where Jimmy helped out between hitches, Terrence was never without his notebook and mechanical pencil. He had confided to Jimmy that he planned to be a detective when he grew up. Terrence’s mother Nan had drawn him aside to thank him, saying that since Terrence’s father left, he’d withdrawn, and Jimmy also knew how easy it was to find solace in one’s imagination when you were a kid.

But he also hoped that he could help Terrence make friends, so that grade school wouldn’t be the lonely experience it had been for Jimmy. To that end, he’d been teaching Terrence to throw a football, encouraging him to take part in the math club, and getting him to play kickball at the after school program.

Making his mother cry, however, probably wouldn’t advance his cause.

“Thank you for your discretion,” he said. “But I’m very sorry I made your mom cry.”

“No, it’s a good thing,” Terrence reassured him. “Sometimes girls cry when they’re happy.”

“Oh.”

“Is that your girlfriend?”

Jimmy followed Terrence’s gaze to where Deneen was unrolling white paper on a table for some of the littler kids to color with crayons. Her pale hair was in danger of escaping her red velvet headband, and Jimmy had a good view of her breasts as she bent over the paper. The lace peeking out from the sweater really was a provocation. “Er, no.”

“Do you want her to be?”

“I, uh…”

“Because you’re going to have to do something big to make her notice you. She’s super hot. You know, like maybe you could ask her out on the scoreboard at a Muskies game?”

“Thank you, Terrence, but I’m not sure she’s a hockey fan. Besides, she’s from Arkansas.”

“Do they even have hockey there?” Terrence wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Oh, well. Does she have any hobbies?”

“Hmmm. Taking baths, apparently. And decorating cakes.”

“Huh. Well, I guess you could get her a cake.”

“I tried that, sort of,” Jimmy admitted. “It didn’t go that well.”

“Then maybe you should just get her flowers.”

“Duly noted. Wish your mom a merry Christmas,” Jimmy said as the kid scrambled down off his lap. “And thanks for not blowing my cover.”

“You bet,” Terrence said, racing toward the cookie table.

Jimmy watched him go, an idea forming in his head. He couldn’t get Deneen a cake, but maybe he could do the next best thing.

When Jimmy disappeared into his workshop when they got home, Deneen put on Matthew’s apron and rolled up her sleeves. She wasn’t sure if he was actually working or just working out again, but she was counting on Jimmy staying gone long enough for her to get a few things done in the kitchen.

The dressing Jimmy had made didn’t look too terrible, if a little boring. Cal and Zane were expected sometime later in the day. Cal had been on duty for a total of forty-eight hours already, catching a little sleep at the station between calls, but soon the Chief would send him home. And now that the snow had finally died down, the road crews would be working all night long, and Zane and those among his coworkers lucky enough to be ending their hitches would finally be able to return home too.

Deneen paused in front of the old wooden shelves that served as an open cupboard in the large kitchen, unable to focus on the cookbooks there. The road crews working through the night. The police officers responding to calls on the one night of the year when people everywhere most yearned for peace. The rig workers, clocking in to ensure that the flow of oil wasn’t interrupted, fueling the cities all over the country.

The hospital workers. The waitresses in the all night truck stops. The janitors and soldiers and convenience store workers and toll workers and every other man and woman whose countless uncomplaining hours were logged tonight just like any other night.

Deneen bent her head, suddenly ashamed. She’d been railing against the unfairness of her situation—broke, without a job or a boyfriend or a place of her own, lacking her family’s confidence.

She hadn’t complained much out loud—Burgesses didn’t do that—but she’d certainly been having a pity party all week. But what did she have to feel sorry for? She had her health, a warm place to stay, a home back in Arkansas where she would always be welcome, and a family who loved her. She was young and strong and every day was a new opportunity, a new beginning.

And there was an incredibly hot man a hundred yards away, who even now might be half-dressed and sweating, pulling himself up by those astonishing biceps, perspiration glistening on those gorgeous, rock-hard chest and abs—

“Oh no I
won’t
,” Deneen snapped. She yanked a cookbook from the shelf at random and started paging through it, her face flaming with embarrassment. The man in the shed had a mystery girlfriend he visited on Christmas Eve, for one thing. For another, he didn’t particularly like her. He certainly didn’t think much of her creative efforts—his response to her Christmas gift had been decidedly indifferent. And he wasn’t attracted to her; if Deneen was an expert on one thing, it was knowing when a man was interested. She ought to write an article—Five Tell-Tale Signs He Wants You. Jimmy didn’t exhibit a single one: no smoldering glances, no gratuitous offers to help her out of her coat or a car, no double entendres or maneuvering her into situations where they could be alone.

On second thought, they
were
alone. On all of Sugar Hill ranch, there was only the two of them, at least until Cal and Zane returned. No one to peep through the windows, no one to hear their conversation…or whatever other sounds might ensue…and not one thing had happened.

Deneen slammed the book down on the counter in frustration, only noticing when she closed the cover that she’d been browsing the Fire Department Chili cook-off cookbook. The problem was that she’d gone too long without a man. Between the humiliating incident at the taqueria, and then trying to excel at her new job at the brow bar, she hadn’t been out in months. And before that…how long had it been, exactly, since she’d had more than a flirty conversation with a man?

Nothing that a vigorous, casual rendezvous or two couldn’t fix. The thought made Deneen feel even gloomier. For the first time in her adult life, she didn’t particularly
want
a casual fling. It was probably because she’d thrown herself into wedding planning; it was hard to focus on happy-hour-leads-to-breakfast fun when her portfolio was full of bridal gowns, bridesmaid dresses, table settings, diamond rings, and reception playlists.

Deneen jammed the book back onto the shelf. Maybe she ought to take a break from the wedding thing. Come to think of it, every conversation she’d had on the subject with Jayne had featured Jayne claiming to want a simple, rustic ceremony, and Deneen trying to talk her out of it. She’d researched every reception hall and venue in a fifty-mile radius, had spoken to pastors at half a dozen churches, had even looked into accommodations for the bridal party she was expecting to be a part of, and the whole time, Jayne had been threatening to elope rather than—

A horrible thought occurred to Deneen. What if that’s what they were doing right now? What if her sister had secretly planned a romantic Christmas elopement, and—oh no, she might already be Mrs. Matthew Jarrett! In which case, when they returned to the ranch as husband and wife, Deneen’s plan would seem not only absurd but pathetic.

The more she thought about it, the more likely it seemed. Jayne had tried to tell her more than once—gently, because Jayne was like that, she had never been a mean older sister—to butt out. Instead, Deneen had pressed harder, until poor Jayne probably figured the only way out was to make an end run and get married before Deneen could take over. As Deneen thought of all the emails she’d sent in the past week, the links to bridal collections, the sample menus and magazine quizzes, her mortification deepened until she wished she could sink into the floor.

Jayne would be kind. She’d pretend to be grateful, she’d make up some story designed to save Deneen’s feelings—“We passed this sweet little church and just couldn’t resist, you understand”—and she’d be forced to return home dragging one more failure behind her. Wedding planner—ha! The absurdity of it all—what had made her think she could succeed at a career for which she had no training, no experience and—perhaps worst of all—no clients except one who had no choice because she was family?

Deneen started to sniffle, toting up the string of failures she’d accumulated since college. So many endeavors that fizzled out—so many jobs she turned out to be unsuited for. The dog walking business. The beauty school stint. The apprenticeship at the artisanal baker. The LSATs, when she’d foolishly thought that law school would impress her parents.

All those dead ends. Each one making her feel a little smaller, her star a little dimmer.

A sound at the back of the house…the door squeaked open and heavy boots stomped on the mat, and then there he was, taking up way too much space in the room—Jimmy, a smudge of something dark on one cheek, a tool belt slung around his hips. At least he was wearing his shirt.

Deneen rubbed furiously at her face. She would not let him know she was crying. She would not admit defeat. Thank heavens he was a thick-skulled lunk when it came to emotions; there was no way he would notice—

“Are you crying?”

He was in front of her in two seconds, his callused fingertips tipping her chin up, his deep blue eyes gazing unblinkingly into her own. He used his thumb to gently wipe the tears from beneath her lashes, and brushed aside a section of hair that had escaped her ponytail.

“I’m—I’m fine,” Deneen said, but to her horror, she was crying harder. Something about his kindness, about the fact that she was so pathetic that even lunk-headed Jimmy Mason felt sorry for her. “I was just, the holidays and all, and Jayne, and they’re probably off getting married right now and I, I just, why did I even come here—”

He kissed her.

Jimmy Mason bent down and brushed his lips against hers, silencing her words, making her heart just about jump out of her chest. Because he didn’t kiss like a Supergeek. Not at all.

He pulled back and looked at her searchingly, unblinkingly, and for a split second Deneen was quite sure that he actually saw her, like really
saw
her, all the way down into the depths of her soul. He saw her and he apparently liked what he saw because he kissed her again, and this time it wasn’t just a mere brush of lips: it was for real.

Deneen kissed back. She kissed like she was dying of thirst and he was the most glorious cold clear water. Like she was a tender new shoot and he was the sunshine that could make her grow. Like she was a panther and—wait, no, that was another fantasy altogether, though maybe one she ought to suggest later; because this man, this crazy, odd, unusual, weird, brilliant, genius of a man was hotter than hot and more delicious than anything she’d ever tasted. Deneen settled back onto the counter with a sigh, and then her legs were around him and they were definitely headed somewhere she very much hoped to go, something besides his tool belt pressing against her in a most encouraging way, and she was just reaching for his glasses, the better to kiss him all over that gorgeous face, when someone cleared their throat.

It wasn’t her. And, judging from the startled expression on Jimmy’s face, it wasn’t him either.

“Excuse me for interrupting,” a tired, scratchy, deep voice said. “All I want is coffee, and then you can get back to, uh, whatever it is you’re doing.”

Jimmy put his arm around Deneen—almost protectively, it seemed to her—and said “Deneen, may I introduce you to Calvin Dixon. Calvin, this is Deneen Burgess, Jayne’s sister. We were kissing.”

Deneen blinked rapidly, clearing the dizzy sensation from her senses. The man standing a few feet away was dressed in the uniform of a police officer, down to the heavy gun belt, the shiny badge, and the smartly creased trousers. But he looked exhausted, with deep shadows under his eyes and a two-day growth of beard, his hair mussed and his shoulders slumped.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, grabbing the coffee pot off its stand. There was still a cup left from the morning, and she snatched a mug from the shelves and poured, but her hands were shaking so badly that half of it went on the floor. “I mean, it’s so nice to meet you.”

She shoved the coffee cup at him, sloshing it on his hand, but he took it politely and sipped. “Oh, that’s heaven,” he sighed. “Thank you.”

“And Merry Christmas,” she added.

“Is that your handiwork?” Cal asked, gesturing at the table with his mug. “Because as talented as Jimmy is, I can’t really picture him making frosting roses in that crazy madman lair of his.”

“Oh! I, um, yes.” Deneen couldn’t help a small smile. The cake
did
look nice, she had to admit, with its sprinkling of crystalline sugar mimicking snow, and the sculpted vines and berries. Maybe she should take a picture—a sideline in custom cakes might help keep her afloat back in Arkansas while she figured out what to try next.

“Please, please tell me you’re cooking the rest of Christmas dinner,” Cal said with mock desperation. “If I eat one more of Jimmy’s meals, I’m afraid I’ll develop a fatal bowel obstruction. Which would be a civic disaster, because we’re pretty understaffed at the moment.”