Fire and Ice: A New Adult Erotic Romance Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  About the Author

  More to read?

  Excerpt: The House Sitter

  Copyright Information

  Chapter One

  I AM IN THE COACH CABIN bathroom of the 747 when a bout of turbulence throws me against the door. It stays locked—thankfully. My jeans are bunched around my knees and I’ve just shoved my cami up to my neck.

  I am—unfortunately—alone. Still, I wonder: How on earth does anyone join the mile high club? There’s barely room for me and my imaginary partner, the man from seat 3B. My stomach tightens with anticipation and a heavy dose of lust. I haven’t felt this in ages, this raw need, and it’s fueling my desire to join the mile high club, even if it’s a solo membership.

  The blame is squarely on the man in seat 3B. Or at least, that’s my excuse. On my way onto the plane, I shuffled behind a young mother, her baby and toddler. I was trying, without much success, to help her with the diaper bag. It swung one way. I ducked, stepped back, and tripped over the carry-on of the person behind me. I fell into the first class row, into someone’s lap.

  That someone was the man in 3B. He caught me around the waist, his hands sure and steady. I looked up into dark eyes framed by impossibly dark lashes. His jaw was covered with just enough stubble that I wanted to reach up, run my finger along his face.

  “You okay?” he said.

  Instead of responding with something clever, all I could do was nod. When the aisle cleared, he scooted me from his lap. Even when he let go, the impression lingered. When I sat, it grew stronger, as if he’d started a fire and now it was spreading across the plains of my skin—down my legs, up my ribcage, across to my belly, and then lower.

  I was flush. I knew that. I’d unbutton my shirt, grateful for the cami beneath. If I weren’t twenty three, I’d say I was having a hot flash. Only when the male flight attendant passed by for the fourth time, slowing down for a long, hard stare, did I realize my nipples were standing at attention.

  That’s how I ended up here, locked in the coach cabin bathroom, and I realize now that no man has touched me since Caleb. Hell, I haven’t touched me since Caleb, not since I walked out, shut the door on that part of my life only to discover he’d locked all the other doors and windows as well.

  I deflate at the thought of him, then rally. I think of 3B. That stubble along his jaw and how it would feel against my thighs. A bit of gray threaded through his hair, although he can’t be that much older than I am. I love that in a guy, that total acceptance of who he is, that life will hand you things you may not want, but you deal.

  Caleb was never very good at dealing.

  I lick my lips and focus again. The guy in 3B. Part of me wants to burst through this door, march down the aisle and into first class. There, I’d straddle him, inspect the salt and pepper in his hair before running my tongue along the sandpaper of his jaw. I’d rim his lips, bite an earlobe, then whisper:

  Come with me.

  My stomach tightens at the mere thought. God, I want him. This crazy, raw need is close to tearing me apart. Where did it come from? How on earth did it lead me here? His hands, his hands, his hands. There was something about his hands that now—locked in this tiny bathroom—I can’t let go of. I need the man in 3B. I am reckless and wild. Just this once, I think. Just this once.

  Behind me comes a knock. My eyelids flutter, then spring open. The plane hits another round of turbulence. I pitch forward. My head smacks the wall. I wrench my wrist.

  I yelp, but not in pleasure. I catch a blur of my image in the warped bathroom mirror. Good God. Who is this girl and what is she doing? She is not me.

  Or maybe she is, because I can’t even get this right—and really, how difficult can this be? Clearly it’s out of my skillset. I yank down the cami and button my shirt over it. I leave the bathroom, easing past a line of disgruntled passengers.

  Only when I’m halfway to my seat do I realize: my jeans are still unzipped.

  * * *

  “Peri!”

  I am at the baggage claim when I hear David call my name. David the brave. He is, after all, about to marry my sister. He catches me in a hug and swings me around, making me dizzy and breathless.

  I still haven’t recovered from my imaginary encounter in the bathroom. Afterward, I swear, the male flight attendant gave me a secret smile, like he’s seen this all before. For all I know, he has. For all I know, the man in 3B has inspired a legion of women to solo-join the mile high club, or at least try to. In fact, I’m positive he has.

  “You okay?” David asks. “You look a little flush.”

  I manage a nod. “The flight,” I say. “It was rough.”

  “I was so worried.”

  I’m jolted back to reality. David? Worried? “What? What’s going on? Is Athena okay?”

  “Fine, fine. No, it’s just the fact that a single plane was carrying both my soon to be favorite sister-in-law and my best friend.” David paces, then glances around. “Seriously, I was a wreck until you guys landed.”

  “I’m fine.” I punch his arm for good measure. “And you’re crazy.”

  “Have you seen George?” he asks.

  “How could I? I don’t know what he looks like.”

  David waves a hand like physical descriptions are beside the point, then uses it to shield his eyes as if this will help him locate George.

  “Are you sure he’s not invisible?” I say.

  David casts me a sidelong glance. “Shut up,” he says, but his grin is full of love and happiness and I can’t help but smile back.

  Then a blur of motion blocks my sight of David. It’s a tackle, a bear hug, back slapping and hand shaking. David’s best friend George is very, very real.

  He is also my imaginary lover.

  The man from 3B.

  Chapter Two

  MY NORMALLY CALM and totally rational sister is in the middle of an epic Bridezilla meltdown.

  It’s Saturday morning and her cries from the resort’s kitchen brought me running, which I’m dressed for, complete with mittens and scarf and hat for a morning jog around Bear Head Lake. I dash instead into the kitchen and find Athena shaking a piece of paper at a man in a catering uniform.

  “It’s the wrong menu!”

  He cowers before her, all trembling limbs, wide eyes, and mouth frozen in horror. At six feet tall, my sister is intimidating on most days. On her wedding day? She is terrifying. Hot anger threatens to fry her carefully relaxed curls. Her skin is blotchy. At this rate, she will spend her wedding night in jail.

  I step between them.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “Wrong! Menu!” Athena pants.

  I pry the paper from her hand. I scan it, then the trays of food the caterers are carrying into the kitchen. I look at the hapless man in charge. He gulps, then shrugs.

  I take Athena by the shoulders. It’s a stretch, but I’m not that much shorter. “Go upstairs. Go do some yoga or something. I’ll take care of this.”

  “Really?” Her eyes now are huge. It’s like we’ve switched roles. Today, I am the big sister. Today, I will take care of her.

  “Really,” I say. “I got this.”

  Suddenly compliant, she turns and departs through the swinging doors. Before they can shut, I catch sight of George at the breakfast buffet, surrounded by all of Athena’s sorority sisters.

  Of course he is.

&
nbsp; I sigh.

  After a moment—where I mourn what will never be—I turn to the menu in my hands. Filet and snow peas, chicken Diane. A dessert selection to die for. As wedding fare goes, this looks spectacular. Of course, Athena didn’t order a single item on the list, and that’s the whole point.

  “This looks great,” I tell the head caterer.

  He nods, still shell-shocked.

  “She’s not always so high maintenance,” I add.

  This time, his nod is skeptical. He’s seen too many brides on their wedding day I suspect. And since Athena is high maintenance, my words hold little conviction.

  I run through the numbers, a frown gathering on my brow. I can feel it furrow. Athena always tells me to stop, that I’ll give myself wrinkles. I don’t care.

  “Except for the food,” I say to the guy, “this is nearly perfect.” Right head count, right amount of extra food, right number of vegetarian dishes. All of it. “It’s like there’s another wedding going on at the same time.”

  I freeze at the thought. My gaze meets the caterer’s. His mouth forms a tiny, perfect o.

  “Is there another wedding going on today? Maybe here at the resort?” The place is huge. We’ve only rented a single lodge for the ceremony and reception, with the wedding party booked in rooms upstairs. It’s the perfect setup for a New Year’s Eve wedding, minus the mixed up menu, of course.

  The man gropes his pockets and pulls out a cell phone. “Let me check.” He mutters as he dials. A prayer, I think. I have the urge to join him.

  A smile blooms across his face before he even hangs up. He clutches the phone and gives it a little shake.

  “Yes, yes. On the other side of the resort. Thank you,” he says. “And my apologies to you and your sister.”

  I shake my head. “It could happen to anyone.”

  He rushes off to shoo the wrong food out the door and fetch Athena’s meticulously-designed wedding feast. I sag against a stainless steel counter, wondering if a jog around the lake will be too much for my heart today.

  “You’re a good sister.”

  The voice sends a surge through me; it’s a low rumble that resonates at the base of my spine. I gulp a breath before turning around to confront George.

  “Only returning the favor,” I tell him without gazing directly at him. Shame heats my cheeks at the memory of yesterday’s antics. I can barely swallow in his presence, never mind make actual conversation. For the past eighteen hours I’ve been avoiding him, as much as the maid of honor can avoid the best man.

  “You guys take care of each other,” he says, a statement, not a question. “David,” he adds. “He talks nonstop about the both of you.”

  I bring my fingers to my chest. It’s easier than speaking.

  “He’s totally psyched about getting a little sister along with the wife.”

  I’m still speechless. Sure, I adore David. If anyone could put up with, handle, and still love Athena, he can. He’s the miracle that blew into her life and decided to stay. I do not turn my back on miracles.

  But I don’t include them happening to me, either. Athena’s lost a father, a step-father, then a mom. She needs the rock that is David.

  “We’re … she’s—” I begin, my words fumbling in my mouth, tripping over my tongue.

  “David’s told me.” George holds up a hand, an apology.

  “You deal,” I say. It’s what I always say.

  He nods. “Don’t we all?”

  Then a silence descends, the sort that comes from half-spoken confessions, where the path is obscured. Should you say more? Or have you already said too much?

  “Going for a run?” he says after a moment.

  “Well, yeah.” I’m still bundled up, hat, scarf, mittens clutched in one hand, trail shoes on my feet. “After the caterers come back with the real food.” I can’t end the vigil until then.

  “Mind the company?”

  Only now do I realize that he, too, is dressed for running. My throat tightens. I shake my head, wordless once again. I ease onto the stainless steel counter and he slides in next to me. He is setting me on fire. I could blame the mittens, and scarf, and hat. It’s him. I know it. I will burn and disintegrate before the wedding even begins.

  By the time I’ve soaked through my T-shirt, the food arrives. The head caterer throws me a grin filled with relief. George pushes off the counter and meets him halfway across the kitchen. That big handshake again and something else, something green and folded slips from one hand to the other.

  Oh, I think. He does know how to deal and make them as well. That was no measly twenty-dollar bill George slipped the caterer. I pretend not to see the whole exchange—for now, at least. Instead, I scan the trays and the menu list, but I can tell already. This is it, the perfect meal for Athena’s perfect day.

  “Did you give him some money?” I ask George as we push through the swinging doors.

  He shrugs.

  “A lot of money?”

  “Wedding gift,” he says.

  I sigh.

  “Hey.” He stops me, a hand on my arm. I am grateful for the layers of fleece and polypropylene between my skin and his. “It’s okay to accept a gift now and then.”

  I wonder: how does he know I hate that?

  Athena’s sorority sisters are still gathered in the lounge, sipping mimosas and lattes. Their chattering dies the second they see me with George. Individually, I admire and adore many of them, like Sienna, the concert violinist, or Jada, the fledgling law partner. Even together, they are lively and warm and the family Athena always needed. But toss a man in their midst, especially one like George?

  A hand grenade would cause less carnage.

  “Ready for our run?” he asks.

  A look passes between Sienna and Jada. Miriam, who has always been my least favorite of Athena’s other “sisters,” purses her lips and a frown mars her brow. I know what Athena would say to that and I’m tempted to repeat her advice.

  I tug my mittens up and over the cuffs of my fleece and give George a nod.

  We’re at the door when someone cries out, “Hey, you two!”

  We turn to find David, frantically waving his arms over his head.

  “Photos, in two and a half hours. Be ready or just keep running.”

  George laughs.

  “He’s not kidding,” I inform him. “If we miss the photos, we might as well run all the way to the airport and hop a plane to somewhere far, far away.”

  “She’s that wound up?”

  “You have no idea.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  And there it is, a hand in the small of my back. A zing shoots through me with a force that would make my hair stand on end were I not wearing a hat. Behind us, I hear someone sigh.

  “You like to run fast?” George asks.

  Somewhere deep inside me, I unearth a bit of courage. Maybe not wild and reckless. But with a hand on my hip, my head cocked just so, I am the sassy younger sister. “You have no idea,” I say.

  He grins at me. “Hope I can keep up.”

  Chapter Three

  HE CAN; he does. We match strides. We easily zoom past the dock where tonight, at midnight, people will plunge into the icy cocktail in celebration of the New Year. It sounds insane to me, but I suspect that before the night is over, most of David’s groomsmen will have taken a dip. George is the only one I have doubts about. He seems too steady for that sort of thing, but I can’t find words to ask him.

  Instead, we talk of his startup business—a fascinating mix of internet security and white hat hacking. He tells me how he walked out of a sure-thing corporate gig one day and never looked back.

  “No fallback plan?” I ask.

  “When you have one of those, you tend to fall back.”

  I tell him about translation work, about studying languages.

  “And you like languages because?” he asks.

  “I like understanding people,” I say. This is my standard answer. While not a lie
, it is only part of the whole.

  “Ah, understanding without all the risk.”

  He has completed the whole. My feet lose their grip and I stumble. George catches me at the waist.

  “Steady, steady,” he says. “You okay?”

  “That’s the second time you’ve caught me.” I crane my neck to look at him. “The first time was on the airplane.”

  “Yes, it was.”

  His face is inches from mine. The stubble is still there. I suppose he’ll shave it off before the wedding and this makes me wistful. His eyes search mine. Against the snow and sun, they look dark and endless. If I don’t try very hard, my eyelids will flutter. I will flirt. I will be no better than Athena’s latte-sipping sorority sisters when it comes to men.

  But I can’t move either.

  The crunching of snow has us upright, separated, and panting. I pull at my scarf, body heat rising from my chest. Again, he has set me on fire.

  An older couple with a dog strolls by. They nod. George pretends to tip a nonexistent cap. I stifle giggles. I feel like we’ve been spotted skipping school. When they pass by but are still in sight, I scoop up a handful of snow, shape it into a ball, and throw it.

  And hit George full in the face.

  “Oh, sorry! I didn’t mean—” But it’s no use. He’s after me. We run—with me, screeching and laughing—until he tackles me outside the lodge. He rolls me once, twice, a third time, until we settle, him on top of me, in a cushion of snow that does nothing to cool us.

  I like him like this. I like him very, very much like this, one of his thighs between mine. I hold my breath as not to spoil the moment. He clutches a snowball in his hand, poised to wash my face with it. But I know he won’t. It’s a threat without any teeth. I see that in his eyes and in how tender the line of his mouth is.

  If we can steal another moment, I think he might kiss me.

  “Peri! Persephone Jones! For fuck’s sake, get your ass up here and get dressed!”

  No one bellows quite like my sister. Her voice comes from above. I glance up to see her leaning over the balcony, only she isn’t alone. On either side, her sisters flank her. David is there. And so is someone else. Someone familiar and unexpected, someone I last saw tangling sheets with another woman.