Fuel the Fire

  Fuel the Fire

  Southern Heat Book 8

  Jamie Garrett

  Wild Owl Press

  Contents

  Copyright and Disclaimer

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  1. Jeremy

  2. Rachel

  3. Rachel

  4. Jeremy

  5. Rachel

  6. Jeremy

  7. Rachel

  8. Jeremy

  9. Rachel

  10. Rachel

  11. Jeremy

  12. Rachel

  13. Jeremy

  14. Rachel

  15. Jeremy

  16. Rachel

  17. Jeremy

  18. Rachel

  19. Jeremy

  20. Rachel

  Also by Jamie Garrett

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Fuel the Fire

  Southern Heat Book 8

  Jamie Garrett

  Wild Owl Press

  Copyright and Disclaimer

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Jamie Garrett

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. All requests should be forwarded to jamie@jamiegarrett.com.

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  Cover design by The Final Wrap.

  Editing by Jennifer Harshman, Harshman Services.

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  1

  Jeremy

  “Come on. I’ll behave myself. I promise.” Jeremy grinned at his target, his smile lifting at the corner of his mouth, despite the frown on her face in reply. Damn, why did she have to be so cute, even when she wasn’t happy with him? It made what he was doing all the harder. He hated lying to her, but he was driving himself quietly crazy, being stuck in his house, night after night. Netflix and chill was pretty damn boring when all you had to keep you company was your right hand. Thank goodness that wasn’t the one out of commission, or he’d be royally screwed.

  Moving out of the suburbs and into a more rural area just outside of town had sounded like a great idea at the time. His squadmate, Matt, had raved about the peace and quiet he had at his place. Problem was, now he didn’t even have any neighbors when he was bored out of his mind. He could drive—sort of—with one hand, but it wasn’t something he should make a habit of, and so lately Jeremy had been spending far more time at home than he was used to. Or wanted to.

  He resisted the eye-roll at his own thoughts, and instead made puppy-dog eyes at the woman standing next to the massage table he currently sat on. At times, her touch was pure heaven. Unfortunately, right now, it was also hell on earth. He held back another expression, this time a wince, as she rotated his shoulder. The fact that the area was still tender at all pissed him the hell off. He’d been sidelined for nearly two months already, forced to sit back and do nothing while the rest of his squad carried on as usual.

  For the first month, he’d had Scarlett to keep him company, but even she’d gone back to work now. The newfound love of his fellow firefighter Connor’s life, she’d been shot trying to apprehend the asshole who had attempted to make Monroe his own personal bomb experiment ground.

  He’d even tried hanging out at Meg’s shelter, thinking at least he could be useful there, but then given that up exactly three days later when it became obvious that the heavily pregnant woman could lift more than he could. It was humiliating. Meg was ready to pop any day now, and he’d be completely useless, not even able to drive her to the hospital. It was a good thing Liam was able to work locally, because right now, Jeremy was as useful as a water gun on a forest fire.

  Not that he didn’t get to spend any time at the hospital. That time he couldn’t suppress the eye roll. It felt like any time not spent sulking on his couch was spent here, working up a sweat every day, and not in the fun way. He looked back over at the woman standing across from him, the cute little frown still on her gorgeous face. Why did he have to get the hot physiotherapist? Wasn’t it bad enough that he was down an arm, and his dignity, for months? He couldn’t have gotten the old guy who had worked there for centuries, rather than the hot woman that he’d love to sweep off her feet . . . if he had the use of both damn arms.

  “You don’t fool me for a second, Jeremy,” she answered, the twinkle returning to her eye, despite the frown still on her face. “There’s no way I’m signing a work ready report. Not yet.”

  Sure. Just kick a man while he was down, why don’t you. Jeremy bit back the retort that was forming on his tongue before he could make a complete ass of himself. It wasn’t Rachel’s fault that he’d been stuck in the same room for an entire month. No, he’d leave that blame squarely where it belonged.

  At least he wasn’t cut out from the gossip grapevine. Monroe was exactly the same as any small town—everyone knew everyone else’s business. Unfortunately, that meant his boss could verify he shouldn’t be there with one simple phone call. But he couldn’t bring himself to wish for a larger metropolitan city, where he could possibly even get in a couple of shifts before anyone worked their way through the red tape enough to know he hadn’t been cleared for duty. The way the town had come together after the bombing of the high school, it had blown Jeremy away, and he’d lived in Monroe all his life. The town had begun rebuilding, and life had carried on.

  He shifted on the table, wincing again as his shoulder hitched on the same stupid spot it always did. He really was being a complete ass. No one had been killed that day, something for which he was supremely grateful. There’d been some injuries, a few knocks on the head causing concussions, scrapes and bruises, a couple needed stitches. His and Scarlett’s had been the worst. At least she had someone she could be pissed at. His had been nothing more than the straw that broke the camel’s back. He’d tried to lift a piece of debris that in hindsight had been too heavy for him alone, and that was that. Pain had ripped through him as his arm almost felt like it had come detached from his shoulder. A quick and panicked glance down showed it was still there, but it was as weak as hell. He’d tried ignoring it, to keep moving . . . God knew, Monroe had needed every helping hand it could get that day, but it had been pointless. He’d walked himself over to the triage area, where Shane had taken one look at him and sat him in the next ambulance leaving. After moving his arm and shoulder joint in several directions that had made Jeremy bite down on his lip to hold back numerous swear words, the ER doc had packed him off to X-ray, and then an MRI. Several hours later, he was drifting off while counting backward from ten. He hadn’t even got to seven when suddenly the room snapped into focus and Jeremy saw Mason and Sloane sitting by a hospital bed, and himself lying in the damn thing. His shoulder was all bandaged up and blissfully numb . . . a shame that part hadn’t lasted long. He’d ditched the pain killers as soon as he could stand it, hating the woozy feeling they left behind.

  Somehow, he’d gotten through the f
irst month without losing his mind. Having Scarlett—and by extension, Connor—around had helped, as had meeting up with the rest of the crew for breakfast after their regular shift. But as the weeks had worn on, he’d started to feel more and more like an outsider.

  Monroe had been blissfully quiet in the weeks since the disaster at the high school, but there were still fires to attend, occupants to rescue from vehicle accidents, and the occasional cat stuck up a tree. He smiled and laughed at all the right moments when his squadmates recounted the funny story of the shift, and hated every minute of it. He was usually the one who was the life of the party, the practical joker that everyone relied on for a laugh. Now, he was completely useless, in more ways than one.

  The sooner he could get the damn sling off and get back to work, the better. There was nothing left to binge watch on Netflix, anyway. However, it didn’t look like Dr. Sexy was going to play ball. He frowned. Was she a doctor? Either way, he didn’t think revealing that nickname would help his cause much. Rachel Sorenson was the hottest chick he’d ever laid eyes on, but she was also a board-certified orthopedic therapist, plus a registered nurse. She had access to the good drugs and knew how to use them. If he insulted her, Jeremy could well find himself in more than one uncomfortable situation.

  Damn it! His injury was even getting in the way of his fantasies. He couldn’t even imagine sweeping Rachel off her feet and under him without his shoulder starting to throb at the mere memory of lifting anything over five pounds for the foreseeable future. He’d tried once, soon after surgery, certain that he could beat this shit, and ended up gasping, sweat peppering his brow from the wave of pain. His only saving grace was that Rachel hadn’t been there to see it or tell him off for it.

  The next twinge through his shoulder muscle as Rachel rotated it up and around pulled him out of his musings. Jeremy forced himself to focus. Sure, his visits to physio sucked badly, but they were still better than sitting at home alone. At least here he got to see a pretty face and indulge in some adult conversation. When he’d found himself yelling in tandem with the TV audience at the talk show host that had been playing for hours at 2 a.m., Jeremy realized that he was slowly losing his mind.

  He’d pulled back from the brunches after a month, when it had become obvious he wouldn’t be returning to work nearly as fast as he’d like. He’d be a fool to piss off his therapist, too. Not only was she the only sane adult he got to see on a regular basis, but she also held in her hands the key to him finally getting his life back. Problem was, lately, tingles of an entirely different kind went through him at every touch of her hands. At first, there had only been the pain. That and his bad attitude had masked anything else.

  As days turned to weeks, the pain—and his reliance on the damn pills—finally lifted. It was as if he’d opened his eyes for the first time in weeks. How the hell had he missed noticing how gorgeous his therapist was? That, and she was whip-smart. Only twenty-eight years old, just a year or two shy of his own age, she was already a specialist in strength and conditioning physio, and that was on top of being a certified rehabilitation nurse. At first, he’d felt a little guilty admiring her physique as she’d bent over and around him to help take his sling off for their session, but now he looked forward to it. Beauty and brains—the perfect package. It was just a shame nothing would ever come of it.

  She’d turned down his request for a coffee after their session the first time he’d finally come out of his sulk and noticed her properly, and she’d continued to turn him down every day after that. Sure, she’d smiled, patted him on the arm, and said all the right things.

  Was it just because he was a patient that she kept turning him down, or was she really not interested? For once, Jeremy had no idea. It threw him a little. He prided himself on his confidence. He had swagger and he knew it. Usually. This time, it had been more than just his shoulder that had taken a hit.

  The itch to get back to work had turned into something stronger, until that morning he’d woken up feeling like he might lose his mind if he couldn’t get back out there again. He looked up at Rachel, preparing his most disarming smile. “Desk work, then. I’ll take anything. Just let me do something.”

  She smiled, and patted him on the damn shoulder again. “Sorry, cowboy. Maybe next week.” That was her answer every time. Maybe next week. Want to grab a cup of coffee? Maybe next time. He huffed out a breath. It was better than an outright no. For now, he’d take it. His shoulder was feeling stronger every day, and although he might not be quite there yet—and he knew it, too, if he bothered to admit it to himself—it wouldn’t be long before it was. Once he was no longer Rachel’s patient, maybe things would be different. Until then, he’d take what he could get, even if all it was consisted of her hands brushing over his back as she maneuvered his arm back into the protecting sling. Another week and he could hopefully ditch that entirely, too. Then he’d try again.

  As he stood up off the table, she waved, collecting the tools and strength toys they’d used during the session. “See you later, Jeremy,” Rachel said.

  He grinned as he walked out the door. That she could count on.

  2

  Rachel

  Rachel bent down and hefted the second-to-last grocery bag into the back of her car. The words “bend at the knee” rattled around in her brain, but she was too damn tired to listen. It had been a long day at work, and having to stop at the store on the way home had just made it even longer. One of these days, she’d get her shit together and order groceries online to be delivered before she’d entirely run out of food. Unfortunately, today had not been that day, and if she wanted to eat more than a piece of toast or a sad, old salad that had sat in the bottom of her refrigerator for nearly a week, she didn’t have a choice. It wasn’t having to cook; she enjoyed that part. It was the dragging the cart around the store part that drove her slowly insane. Nope, actually there was nothing slow about it.

  Rachel had moved to Monroe earlier that year from Pennsylvania. At the time, she’d been looking for a change of pace, but she’d had no idea what small-town living was really like. She’d grown up urban, living in large cities all her life, and continued the trend by going to college in Philadelphia. The school was recognized as one of the best places to study nursing in the country, and Ivy League to boot, and so the decision had been an easy one. She’d done well and had been tempted to continue with postgraduate studies, the university being a world leader in the area.

  In the end, something more practical had caught her eye, and she’d chased extra qualifications a different way. Becoming a certified rehabilitation registered nurse had been the hardest, with double the candidates failing each year than those who passed, but she’d done it. That’s why she’d become a nurse in the first place, to help people, and while there were plenty of jobs available where she’d done her degree, there was something about moving to a small town that appealed to her.

  It would be somewhere she could really make a difference, plus maybe advance her career a little faster, too. In Monroe, she wasn’t one of a large staff. Along with a handful of private practices, she and the small handful of professional rehab staff at the hospital were it.

  What she hadn’t anticipated was what being the new girl in a small town would be like. Suddenly, Rachel had at least five new “aunts,” all ready to set her up with their son, or their friend’s son, cousin, you name it. At first, she’d been flattered, but there were only so many ways you could say no. Some of the ladies acted as if she was already doomed to spend eternity as an old maid. She wasn’t even thirty yet, for God’s sake, and they already had her condemned to a lifetime of loneliness. It was easily solved, they said. They had the perfect man for her. And sure, some of them had been nice—great, even. And good-looking, kind, the whole package. Just not a good fit for her. Just like the stupid last bag of groceries. Rachel gave up trying to shove it in the trunk and dropped it to the ground, remembering only after she’d dropped it to the concrete that it was the bag her
produce was in. Hopefully the apples were hardy. At least it hadn’t been her eggs. She looked through the window of her car. For once, the back seat wasn’t covered in junk. Somehow, she still had a couple of bags of stuff strewn over the back seat of her car most days, despite having moved into her apartment nearly six months ago. Today, though, it was magically clear, and thus had room for a couple of bags of groceries.

  She turned, dodging around the offending bag still sitting on the sidewalk, her head down and hand rustling around in her bag for her keys. Maybe it was time to consider getting a new handbag, too, to go with her new life. The thing was huge. The Tardis, her geeky brother called it, or a bag of holding. Either way, he was certain she’d cast some sort of spell over it to make it hold far more on the inside than the outside ever gave away. Usually, she appreciated the large space. Along with all the usual crap she carried around, she always had a couple of extra braces, strapping tape, massage creams. Even three or four soft squishy balls. Most of the world called them stress balls, but they were excellent for hand and arm rehab, and they were always the first thing to disappear, too. There was equipment at work, of course, and most patients had their own, too, but you could never guarantee when someone’s kid or dog would make off with them. It seemed the small, brightly colored balls appealed equally to both, and so she always had some extra on hand.