Torch (Take It Off #1)(12)
Author: Cambria Hebert

I don’t know what time it was when I felt myself being moved. Alarm slammed through me—my instincts thinking someone was somehow taking advantage of me in my sleep. I jerked awake, flinging my arms wide while my body went rigid.

“Everything’s fine. You’re safe.” Holt’s voice was a soft rumble beside my ear.

I blinked, looking up. I was in his arms. He was cradling me against him and my cheek brushed against his T-shirt-clad chest. “What are you doing?” I mumbled, my eyes drifting closed again.

“You’ll be more comfortable in a bed.”

He carried me like I weighed nothing, and his body gave off a delicious heat that my skin just soaked up like a flower on a sunny day. Then he was laying me in a bed with soft sheets and tucking a blanket up around my shoulders.

I could have sworn I felt the brush of his lips at my hairline, but it could have been a dream because just after that brief feeling of contact, deep sleep claimed me completely.

6

Something was burning. I shot up in the center of a very large bed. The first few moments, I sat there disoriented, trying to remember where I was.

I remembered the fire. The hospital. I remembered being carried to bed by Holt.

Something was on fire.

Again.

Acting swiftly, I threw off the covers and jumped down, barely noticing how chilled the wooden floors felt against my feet. I looked for signs of the fire as I rushed out into the hallway, ducking slightly low in case of rising smoke.

A loud piercing beep assaulted the quiet morning and went off with an enthusiasm that could only be produced by a really good battery.

“Holt!” I shrieked, my voice straining to reach the volume I wanted. “Fire! Get out of the house.”

My heart was beating so fast I thought it might collapse in my chest. My knees began to shake with adrenaline as I bolted into the living room and rushed toward the front door.

I had to get out.

I did not want to burn.

“Holt!” I screamed again, tearing open the door, preparing to rush out into the yard.

Something caught me around the waist and pulled me back into the house. My feet were lifted off the floor, but they continued to make a running motion, kicking whatever was holding me.

“No, please!” I yelled, trying to squirm free.

“Katie!” Holt said, his voice loud against my ear. “It’s me. There is no fire.”

I stopped struggling, going limp in his arms. He reached around us and shoved the door closed, spinning around and facing us toward the kitchen.

“I was trying to make you breakfast.”

It took a moment for his words and their meaning to sink in. I stared dumbfounded across the room and past the island. There was smoke billowing up from the stove and the window above the sink was wide open.

Bowls and spoons littered the island and there was a carton of eggs sitting out.

He was trying to cook.

He was really bad at it.

I started to laugh.

The kind of laugh that shook my shoulders and bubbled up hysterically. My heart rate was still out of control, and I took in a few breaths between laughs to try and calm it down.

He said something, but I couldn’t hear him because the fire alarm was still going off. I had no doubt half the neighborhood was now awake from the sound. He didn’t bother to put me down, instead hauling me along with him, where he finally set me down, dragged a chair over near the alarm, and climbed up to remove the battery.

The noise cut off and the kitchen fell silent.

“Well, shit,” he said, staring at the battery in his hand.

A giggle escaped me. “Does this always happen when you cook?”

He shrugged. “The only time I ever cook is when it’s my turn at the station.” His forehead creased and a thoughtful look came over his face. “The guys are never around when it’s my night to cook. Now I know why.” He snagged a towel off the counter and began waving away the rest of the lingering smoke.

I clicked on the vent fan above the stove. There was a pan with half a melted spatula, something that may or may not have once been eggs, and a muffin tin with half-burned, half-raw muffins (how was that even possible?).

“Well, this looks…” My words faltered, trying to come up with something positive to say.

“Completely inedible?” he finished.

I grinned. “You did all this for me?”

“I figured after a week of hospital food, you might like something good. Apparently you aren’t going to find that here.”

I had the urge to hug him. I kept my feet planted where they were. “Thank you. No one’s ever ruined a pan for me before.”

He grinned. “I have cereal. Even I can’t mess that up.”

I watched as he pulled down a bowl and poured me some, adding milk. He looked so cute when he handed me the bowl that I lifted the spoon and took a bite. “Best cereal I ever had.”

“Damn straight.”

I carried it over to the counter and sat down. “After we eat, would you mind taking me to my car? I hope it’s still drivable.”

“What about the keys?”

“I have a security deposit box at the bank. I keep my spare there in case I ever need them.”

“Pretty smart.”

“I have a few good ideas now and then.”

“Contrary to the way it looks, I do too.”

“Thank you for trying to make me breakfast. And for the cereal.”

He walked over to the stove and picked up the ruined pan. “You died with honor,” he said, giving it a mock salute. And then he threw the entire thing into the trashcan.

I laughed. “You could have washed it, you know.”

He made a face. “No. Then I might be tempted to use it again.”

“I should change my bandages and… uh…” I looked down at his button-up. “My clothes.”

I noticed his gaze linger on my legs before he spoke up. “I’ll help you with those.”

For a minute I thought he was talking about my pants, and the memory of the last time he “helped” me with them crept up on me. Heat suffused my system as my body recalled what his touch felt like and how his fingertips lingered on my skin.

He cleared his throat and my attention jerked back to the present, and I realized he wasn’t talking about my pants. He was talking about the bandages.

It was official.

I was turning into a pervert.

I retrieved my sack of belongings from the living room and pulled out a few of the medical supplies the nurse at the hospital gave me and spread them out on the kitchen island. Then I sat down on a stool and began unwrapping one of my wrists.