The Woman For Dusty Conrad

If that was the case, then why was it taking every ounce of restraint he had to keep himself from going after Jolie in the back rooms? Not to confront her about their divorce papers, but to rediscover her mouth, relearn her taste, find out if the flame he’d glimpsed in her eyes a short while ago burned just as hot now as it had back when.

He cleared his throat, ordering his coiled muscles to relax, holding his long-denied libido in check.

He glanced behind him, although he knew exactly where each of his former fellow firefighters was sitting at the table without looking. As always, Jones was at the head of the table looking every bit like the chief, while Martinez leaned back, rocking the front legs of his chair from the floor, acting the renegade rookie ready to take on the world. John Sparks was smack-dab in the middle of everyone, his sheriff’s shirt rolled up to his elbows, those same elbows resting against the tabletop, while Sal was snacking on something or other he’d pilfered from the refrigerator. Dusty fell right into the old routine of exchanging verbal jabs with them with far too much ease. Even found himself listening for the old bell alarm that would call them out on a run.

He glanced toward the doorway again, only this time Scott Wahl blocked his view. Dusty looked back to the cooktop, not wanting to compare how similar the young man was to his brother, Erick. Not wanting to think about the chair at the other end of the table that was left empty because Erick was no longer there to fill it.

“You were the cook?” Scooter asked, propping a too skinny hip against the counter next to the stove.

“Yeah.” He tested the boiling potatoes with a fork.

“I always thought cooking was a sissy chore.”

Dusty hiked a brow.

“Not to say that you’re a sissy or anything,” Scott said quickly, his spine snapping flagpole straight. “Actually the guys have been telling me how, you know, you are the best and everything—”

“Was,” he absently corrected the boy. “I was the best.” At least up until the point when he’d caused the death of his brother. “How old are you, Scooter?”

The kid looked relieved that he’d changed the subject. “Eighteen.”

Eighteen. Dusty nearly burned himself on the skillet handle. Erick had been eighteen when he started hanging out at the fire station, not content to do other things until he turned twenty-one and qualified for being a firefighter. No, Erick had automatically expected an exception to be made for him. Of course, none was. But that hadn’t stopped his younger brother from dogging their steps when they went out on runs. If not on his bike, then in his car.

“You eat, don’t you?” he asked Scott.

“Yeah, of course I eat. If I didn’t eat, I’d be dead.”

Damn. “You trying to tell me you’ve lived eighteen years without preparing a single meal, Scooter?”

“Scott,” the teenager said, the tips of his ears reddening. “Everyone calls me Scott now.”

“Is that so?”

The boy nodded.

“All right, then, Scott it is. And you didn’t answer my question.”

The boy shrugged. “I’ve fixed stuff for myself. You know, like macaroni and cheese and frozen pizzas when my mom’s not home. But that doesn’t count.”

“How so?”

Scott grinned. “Because no one but me eats it.”

“Ah.” He switched on the fire under the vegetables, then held out his fork. “Well, then, I think it’s about time that changed.”

The kid stared at the fork as though it was a wild hose he couldn’t bring under control. Dusty chuckled. “Don’t panic. Just keep an eye on those steaks. When they start to brown, they’re done. Just take them out and put them on the plate over there.”

“Mr. Conrad, I—”

Mr. Conrad? Dusty fought the urge to look around to see if his father had dropped in for a visit from Arizona. “It’s Dusty, kid.” He patted him so hard on the back, Scott nearly doubled over. “And I have complete faith in you.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about. I mean, I think it’s cool and everything that you cook, but…I…”

“What? You never linked firefighting with cooking?” Dusty shook his head. “See, Scott, that’s one of the things you have to learn around here if you hope to make a good…no, great firefighter. Every job, be it wiping down the engines, checking the gear, or cooking, is an important one. After all, where are the men going to get the energy to fight fires if they’re not eating healthy food?”

Scott turned redder than the fire engine Dusty could see through the door. Behind them, the men snickered.

“We sure could use some of that money you’re making in Toledo in the ante,” Martinez said from the table, tapping the edge of his cards against the top. “That is, if you can handle the pressure.”

Dusty grinned. There was no more than seventy-five cents on the table if there was a dollar. “Sorry, guys, but you’re just going to have to squeak by without me. Bets are too rich for me.”

He started for the door, giving up on restraint and intent on tracking Jolie down. He reached the doorway at the same time she popped into it from the other side. Her appearance should have eased the tension from Dusty’s shoulders. Instead, seeing her pulled his muscles tighter.

It was the same reaction he’d always had when faced with Jolie. That stomach-tightening, breath-robbing, mouth-watering sensation that if he didn’t kiss her within ten seconds he’d die. And six months away from her had only made the reaction more acute. Which definitely didn’t bode well for his mission.

“Hey, hey, hey, there she is,” Jones called out. “Now, here’s somebody not afraid of losing a few dollars.”

Dusty noted the way Jolie avoided eye contact with him. For all the attention she’d paid him since she’d returned from her run, he was beginning to feel as if he were invisible. A nonentity unworthy of her attention. Which was no less than he deserved, he supposed. If only her unexplained emotional distance hadn’t been part of his reason for leaving in the first place.

He hadn’t meant to make their…meeting again so public. He’d thought about showing up at the house without letting anyone else know he was in town, then realized that was wishful thinking. The moment his truck rolled over the county line half the population probably already knew he was back, and by the time he parked it, his return was probably old news.

Ah, hell, who was he kidding? He’d come to the station on purpose. Had needed to be surrounded by others in order to make what he had to say go down easier…both for him and her.

Jolie skirted the table. “Sorry, guys, I’m going to pass tonight.”

Exaggerated groans followed her to the refrigerator, where she pulled out salad fixings, then dropped them to the counter next to the stove.

From next to Dusty came an audible swallow. He didn’t kid himself into thinking Jolie had made the giveaway sound. No, Scooter looked like he’d rather be in the skillet with the steaks, rather than watching over them. “Um, Mr. Conrad. I mean Dusty…”

Now that Jolie was where he wanted her, at least for the moment, Dusty accepted the fork from Scott and turned the steaks out onto the plate. “Your instincts were straight on, Scooter. Trust them.”

“Okay.”

The teenager too happily turned cooking duty back over to him, all but scuttling to the chair he’d abandoned at the table. The rest of the men gladly dealt him into their next hand of poker.

But now that Dusty had the opening he’d been looking for, all his rehearsed words drained from his brain like water through a sieve. Taking his cue from Scott, he cleared his throat and slanted a glance toward Jolie. With neat, violent strokes of a knife, she made quick work of the salad. He was afraid if he didn’t say something now, she’d finish and likely up and disappear on him again.

“Um, Jolie?” He winced at the hesitant sound of his voice. Especially when she pretended not to hear him.

A windblown strand of sun-kissed brown hair curved against her cheek. Dusty stopped himself from brushing it back around her ear or tucking it into the French braid neatly fastened at the back of her head.

“Spit it out, Dusty.”

He blinked a couple of times, as if to verify that she’d actually spoken to him. She laid the knife on the counter, then wiped her hands on a towel. She turned cloudy blue eyes on him. “I’ve already accepted that I’m not going to like what you have to say, so just be out with it.”

“Uh…” Grand sakes alive, he felt like a speechless teenager all over again. There was something about the thin black that encircled her irises. The direct way she looked at him and only him. The enticing way she discreetly caught the inner flesh of her bottom lip that shot his best intentions all to hell.

The widening of her pupils told him that the effect was fully mutual. All at once the stiffness around her jaw eased, and he was afraid she was a heartbeat away from bestowing on him one of those all-Jolie smiles that would undoubtedly knock him down for the count.