Read Online Charming the Firefighter by Beth Andrews - Free Book Online Page A

hold and rooted deep.
    He let his gaze skim down her legs to her bare, narrow feet, the toes painted a pale pink. She had great legs, curvy and muscular.
    “I’m flattered,” he told her, unable to count the number of times he’d said that to a female while on call. “But it’s against regulations for me to fraternize with women while I’m working.”
    Or at least, it was highly frowned upon.
    He wouldn’t do so even if his captain gave him a notarized note telling him to go for it. His family thought he was a dog, some playboy who took any and every opportunity to make time with women. Not completely untrue, but he had his standards, whether they believed him or not. He didn’t hit on women under his care.
    “Flattered? What are you...” Her eyes widened and she blushed, the color staining not only her cheeks but also her throat and the sliver of skin on her chest visible in the vee of her shirt. “You think I...that I want...” She shook her head, then reached up and held both sides of it as if afraid it would fall off her shoulders. “I’m not...I’m not flirting with you.”
    He pulled his stethoscope from his bag. “My loss.”
    She twisted her fingers together. “I do not flirt with men.”
    “No? Just women?”
    She laughed, a surprised, light burst of sound that washed over him, sweet and warm, like a ray of sunshine. He wanted to absorb that brightness, soak it into his skin, into his bones. Wanted it to dispel the coldness inside of him, to erase his memories of last night.
    “I’m not gay. I just...I don’t flirt with men
or
women. I don’t flirt with anyone.” Her voice trailed off in resignation. Or disappointment. “At all.”
    “That clears it up,” he murmured, his voice inadvertently husky. He skimmed his gaze from her long, side-swept bangs to her prominent cheekbones, then lingered on that mole. “Like I said...my loss.”
    Her mouth opened on a soundless
oh,
her eyes wide.
    He bit back a grin. Technically his comment, his demeanor, could be considered flirtatious, but he wasn’t big on technicalities.
    “I couldn’t find it,” the teenager said as she stepped into the room. She pulled her own phone from her pocket. “Do you want me to try calling it?”
    Penelope blanched; her guilt over her little white lie couldn’t have been clearer on her face if she’d written out a full-blown confession on her forehead in red marker. “Isn’t it silly? I had it in my pocket all along.”
    The kid, a pixie in hippie clothes with hair to her waist, lifted a shoulder. “No problem. Are you sure I can’t fix you something to eat? Or I could do your dishes,” she said, crossing to the sink. “Maybe throw in a load of laundry for you?”
    Penelope glanced at Leo. “Oh, I don’t need you to—”
    “And when I’m done, I’ll grab a couple of movies from my house. You probably shouldn’t be alone.” The kid turned to Leo. “She shouldn’t be alone, right? If she has a head injury?”
    Penelope’s sigh was as close to a whimper as Leo had ever heard from a human. She sent what could only be described as a long, yearning look at the bottle of wine.
    And Leo finally got it.
    Why the hell hadn’t she just said she wanted him to get rid of the kid for her? Women. Always wanting a man to read their minds, know their every thought and react accordingly.
    Only to give the poor sap hell when he didn’t.
    Wrapping his stethoscope around his neck, he stood. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name when I came in.”
    “Gracie Weaver,” she breathed. But when she shook his hand, she made eye contact and didn’t send him any underage come-hither looks or step closer in order to brush against him. Unlike what a few of the bolder cheerleaders had done after their first scrimmage last week.
    Thank you, sweet Jesus, for small favors and for young girls who didn’t hit on him. Amen.
    “Weaver?” he asked. “Wes’s daughter?”
    “The one and only.”
    Far as Leo knew, she meant