Reckless (3 page)

Westin measured him with a brows-up frown, the gesture pulling the angry red scar that ran from his neck to the back of his ear into sharp relief. “You may be a good firefighter, but your personnel file reads like an adrenaline junkie's guide to firefighting. Even if none of those sanctions stuck before, your actions today are a clear sign your mindset needs a redirect. McManus is gunning for your job. Now do you want to get your shit together, or do you want to get fired?”

Shit.
Shit.
As much as it ripped at Alex's gut, Westin was right. He needed damage control, no matter how pointless the community service would be. “Okay, okay. How fast can you get me into this . . . whatever. Volunteering thing?”

“I'll call the chief's office to get you into the first placement they have available. But, Donovan? Do me a favor.”

Right about now, he'd name his firstborn kid after the man. At least, he would if he were ever going to have one. “Anything.”

“I run a tight house with even tighter rules, and your blowback ends up on my desk. Don't make me sorry I went to bat for you.” Westin's light brown stare flickered once before turning back to stone, but Alex met it with all the certainty he could muster.

“I won't, Captain. I swear.”

Chapter Two

Zoe Westin hustled from her aging Toyota Prius to the even more aging back entrance of the Hope House Shelter and Soup Kitchen with no less than two dozen thoughts marching an orderly line through her head. She had just enough time to make it through prep for today's breakfast service before she'd have to inventory and organize the color-coded produce bins to get ready for their weekly perishables delivery. Then she'd move on to the dry goods inventory, write up next week's volunteer schedule, oversee food preparations for lunch....

Yep. Just another day in paradise, feeding people and making a difference, one meal at a time.

“Okay. Let's warm some bellies,” Zoe murmured with a grin, turning the heavy-duty dead bolt with a hard
click
. Returning the building keys to their assigned pocket in her messenger bag, she flipped on the lights to illuminate the back of Hope House's kitchen. Her black and silver kitchen clogs echoed a determined rhythm over the floor tiles as she cut a path toward her office, but reality took a swipe at both her mood and her best-laid plans before she could even shrug all the way out of her jacket.

Zoe reached for the note that the shelter director, Tina, had left front and center on her desk, crumpling the oversized purple Post-it with a curse-laden sigh. Her plate was full enough without having to babysit another one of these community service yahoos—she'd already been through three in as many months. They were never serious about anything other than biding their time by doing the bare minimum. Damn it, she was never going to get Hope House's soup kitchen all the way off the ground and make a difference without good, steady, reliable help.

And failure wasn't an option. Not when this soup kitchen was the only truth she had left.

Trying to ignore the watermelon-sized chunk of dread making a new home in her gut, Zoe smoothed out the hem of her fitted black T-shirt and set her sights on the kitchen, grabbing an apron from one of the hooks by the deep-bellied stainless steel sinks. Although they only had the stock and capability for limited breakfast service on most mornings, feeding Hope House's residents—along with anyone else who arrived in need of a meal—was her number-one priority. She'd have to figure out a way to deal with her latest risk-taker-slash-rule-breaker later.

Right now, Zoe had food to prepare.

Recalibrating her thoughts back to the task at hand, she pushed past the twin swinging doors leading from the back of the kitchen into the bare-bones dining room. Pale, early-morning daylight filtered in through the oversized windows at the front of the long, rectangular space, offering just enough visibility for her to make her way behind the dinged-up cafeteria-style counter set up along the rear wall. Not wanting to add injury to the insult she'd already racked up this morning, Zoe hit the panel of light switches by the commercial grade coffeemaker. She turned to grab the filters from the adjacent storage drawer and let the rhythm and the smells and the simplicity of the food soothe her like they always did.

But she wasn't alone in the dining room.

Zoe's heartbeat locked in her throat as she registered the man sitting at one of the tables closest to the counter, although
sitting
was actually pretty generous. His long, jeans-clad legs were kicked out in front of him, crossed one over the other at the ankles of his heavy-soled brown leather work boots. His chin lay tucked against the chest of his navy-blue jacket, just enough for his fashionably tousled blond hair to obscure his face, and the soft sound rising up from his chest doubled the shock pumping through her veins.

Her party crasher was snoring.

“Okay, Sleeping Beauty. Time to rise and shine.” Zoe barked the words in her best drill-sergeant voice, although she kept her Danskos planted firmly on the business side of the counter. This guy was pretty horizontal for someone with bad intentions—not to mention far more well-kept than their average residents—but she was still on this side of the shelter all by herself. Looks could be deceptive as hell, and despite the security measures she and Tina had been scraping to put into place, Hope House wasn't exactly in a pristine neighborhood. No way was she taking any chances by sounding too mousy or getting too close. “I don't know how you got in here, but breakfast doesn't start until seven. You'll have to wait back in the residence until then.”

He woke up all at once, perfectly upright and focused with just two blinks, and holy cheese on a cracker, he was
gorgeous.
“I'm not here for breakfast. I'm—”

“Alex?” Recognition slammed into her senses, working on a five-second delay with her mouth. But this had to be a mistake. No way could Alex Donovan, the cockiest and most reckless firefighter in her father's entire house, be standing here in front of her with shoulders twice as broad as the last time she'd seen him and a smile so sexy, the damn thing should come with a sternly worded warning label.

“I'm sorry,” he said, his Caribbean blue eyes tapering in confusion as they took a slow trip from her face to her feet and then back up again. “Do I know you?”

Zoe's cheeks went hot, although whether it was from the way Alex was focused on her so intently or the fact that she was forgettable enough to go unrecognized, she couldn't be sure.

“Zoe.” She paused, waiting out his continued lack of a lightbulb moment for another few seconds before adding, “Westin.”

Alex's eyes went as round and dark as ripe blueberries in August, and
ding
,
ding
,
ding
. They had a winner. “Holy
shit.
I mean—” He straightened, tugging a hand through his sun-kissed hair as his grin turned decidedly sheepish. “Your father mentioned you'd moved back to town, but I didn't realize you were . . . jeez, didn't you just graduate from college?”

Zoe's defenses prickled to life. “Five years ago.” Two months before the last time she'd seen him, to be exact. Come to think of it, Alex had treated her like a little girl that day, too.

Right. Because just what her blush needed was more fuel.

“Oh. I guess time really flies, huh?” He tried on another smile, this one all sweet talk, and God, some things never changed. “Anyway, you might be able to help me out. I guess I'm looking for your boss.”

“My who?”

Alex pointed toward the painted cinder-block wall that the soup kitchen shared with the shelter. “The only door that was open when I got here was the one to the shelter. The lady behind the desk walked me through the security doors and told me to wait here for the director of the soup kitchen. It's kind of a long story, but I got stuck with this stupid community service assignment because of an even more stupid work thing, and this was the first available placement. To be honest, I just want to get it over with.” He tipped his head at her, sliding his hands into the pockets of his jeans like no great shakes. “What'd you do to land here, anyway?”

Oh, you've got to be kidding me.
Of all the possible community service assignments in the galaxy, this one took the freaking crown. She might not have clapped eyes on Alex Donovan since she'd made a colossal idiot out of herself in front of him at the Fairview Fire Department annual barbecue five years ago, but clearly, he hadn't broken the firefighter mold, and she'd been around Station Eight enough to know his reputation by heart. Alex flew by the seat of his bunker pants twenty-four/seven, taking unnecessary risks the way most people took Motrin.

Not happening in her soup kitchen. She might be understaffed, but she wasn't overstupid.

“The way I landed here was simple, actually,” Zoe said, knotting her arms over her chest tight enough to test the seams of her T-shirt. “I interviewed for the position as director and I got the job.”

The silence extended between them for a beat, then two, before . . . “Wait.
You're
the director of the soup kitchen? As in, you run the whole program? I thought you went to some five-star culinary school.” Alex stared at her over the glass and stainless steel food service counter, and at least she'd found the antidote to his smirk.

“Surprise. But don't worry. You won't be stuck with this stupid community service assignment for long.”

Her pulse kicked into motion along with her feet, and she angled herself toward the darkly shadowed hallway leading to the pass-through to the shelter. With any luck, Tina would get to work early and could send his arrogant ass packing before Zoe served her first cup of coffee.

“Zoe, wait.” Alex's long legs ate up the space between them before she could even make it halfway to the dining room door. “I think we got off on the wrong foot here.”

She gave him a tight smile without breaking stride. “At least being a firefighter has kept your observational skills sharp.”

His shoulders snapped into an unyielding knot, his stare flashing cool blue as he kept up with her, step for step. “You want to know what else I picked up with my keen observational skills? You're in here by yourself, Gorgeous. And that tells me that like it or not, you need all the help you can get to run this place.”

Zoe's gut took a downhill slide toward her hips, and she froze mid-pace on the threshold of the shadow-lined hallway. “Help from someone who isn't serious about being here isn't going to
help
at all.”

“Oh, I'm absolutely serious,” Alex said, triggering a borderline unladylike snort from her lips.

“You fell asleep on the job before you even started, then you called your assignment in the program I started from scratch ‘stupid.' As far as I'm concerned, that makes you about as serious as a tabloid headline, no matter how short-staffed I happen to be.”

One corner of his mouth lifted upward, disappearing briefly beneath his golden-brown stubble before he folded his lips back to neutral-expression territory. “Look, you and I might not see eye to eye on the value of community service, but I can promise you this. I'm as determined to do my job as you are to do yours. The city sent me here for a reason. I can't go back to Station Eight until I do my time, and you need a volunteer. So are we going to help each other out here, or what?”

Zoe opened her mouth, her own personal version of
or what
preloaded and ready to launch from her tongue. But if there was one rule she lived by above everything else, it was not putting what mattered most at risk, and what mattered most was feeding the residents at Hope House. As much as she knew firefighters—
especially
ones like Alex Donovan—were nothing but a great, big recipe for disaster, Zoe needed him.

And that meant she had no choice but to spend the next four weeks with the arrogant, impulsive firefighter in her kitchen and under her skin.

“Fine. But let's get one thing perfectly clear. There's no freelancing on this job. I run a tight kitchen with even tighter rules.”

But rather than argue, Alex laughed long and loud, the sound sizzling all the way through her as he said, “Funny. That doesn't surprise me one bit.”

“Oh.” She swallowed hard, wondering how she'd managed to carve out top honors at one of the most prestigious culinary schools on the East Coast but couldn't come up with anything more intelligent than a single syllable to cover up the heat in her blood or the shock in her chest. “Well, you can hang your jacket in the back. We've got a ton of work to do before the other volunteers get here to serve breakfast, and we're already behind.”

Sixty seconds later, Alex pushed his way back through the swinging doors from the kitchen, and the gray T-shirt hugging his every last muscle did nothing to bump her vocabulary out of the range of pure idiocy. God, had she learned nothing at that barbecue five years ago?

“You didn't grab an apron,” Zoe managed, gesturing to the swath of white cotton knotted around her waist.

“They're not part of the rules, are they?” Although he kept his expression mostly cool, the challenge edging his deep blue stare was just visible enough to blot out the last of the weird shot of warmth she'd felt at his laugh.

“No.” It figured he'd start by pushing his luck. “But the kitchen gets pretty messy. You're probably going to want one.”

“I'll take my chances.”

“I'll bet.” Zoe reached into one of the stainless steel utility drawers behind the counter, unearthing a black three-ring binder and propping it open between them. “This is Hope House's kitchen manual. There's another copy in the back, by the pantry. It's got separate sections for delivery guidelines, kitchen tasks and procedures, and step-by-step directions for breakfast, lunch, and dinner service, with house rules in the front of the book and all the health department regulations in the back.”

Alex's brows traveled up his forehead. “This has to be three hundred pages all told.”

“Welcome to running a nonprofit. We have a lot of guidelines. I'll walk you through most of the work today, but breakfast starts in”—she flipped her wrist to get a glimpse of her watch, and ugh, this was going to take an act of God wrapped up in a winning lottery ticket and sealed with a get out of jail free card. “Fifty-six minutes, so we're going to need to go fast.”

“Now you're speaking my language.” His charming smile made its way back home in less than a breath, but Zoe met it with a frown.

“Right, I forgot. You just want to get this over with.”

Alex shrugged, following her down the main aisle in the dining room and mirroring her movements as she began to flip the chairs from their upside-down perches on the tabletops. “You're not really surprised that I want to get back to Eight as soon as possible, are you? I mean, no offense, but if I had my heart set on doing community service, I'd volunteer of my own accord.”