Can't Help Falling In Love. Wendy Etherington

a guy, she reminded herself. What description would her brothers prefer? Macho, dangerous, virile. The first two she could agree with, the third she could only speculate about, bringing her back to her original intention—to turn him down, for his own good. And hers.

      “Be flattered,” she said finally. “But my brother is your boss, and if we go out together…”

      “I’ll be out on my ass.”

      “Faster than you can say 9-1-1.”

      The determination in his eyes never wavered.

      Yikes. She didn’t want to be a challenge. She wanted Mr. Dangerous, Hunky Hero to say okeydokey and amble merrily on his way.

      She already liked him. And liking led to caring. Caring led to love. Love led to loss and deep, dark despairing grief. No, thank you.

      Again, the door swung open. Roland Patterson swept inside. “Skyler, darling,” he called, waving a pad of paper. “You want in on the pool?” He paused at the counter, smiling slowly at Jack. “Why it’s Fluffy’s savior. How delightful to see you, Firefighter Jack.”

      Jack nodded. “Mr. Patterson.”

      Skyler watched Jack’s reaction for the usual homophobic nonsense, but he displayed nothing of the sort. Damn. Just when she was ready to put another black mark by his name—other than the job and tendency toward reckless heroism—he had to go and be even more interesting.

      “Pool?” she asked Roland to distract herself.

      “Frat Boy Survival,” he said as if that were obvious, and Skyler groaned. “I saw the darling redhead with the roses. Kind of scrawny. I’m giving him twelve hours.”

      Glaring at Roland, Jack straightened to his full height, leaving Skyler dizzy and Roland gaping. “You’re betting how long before that kid gets pummeled?”

      “Well, uh…” Roland’s gaze darted to Skyler for support.

      Skyler crossed her arms over her chest. She, too, thought the pool idea was tacky at best, but she also felt obliged to defend her family. “My brothers wouldn’t pummel a kid.” Would they? She’d better keep an eye on them for the next few days, just in case.

      “Count me out.” Jack glanced at Skyler, then smiled briefly. “I gotta get going.” He turned, tossing “see ya, chère,” over his shoulder before sauntering from the shop.

      A deep, heartfelt sigh escaped Roland. “That is one incredible hunk of man.”

      Her head still spinning, Skyler couldn’t nod, but, for once, Roland hadn’t exaggerated.

      A WEEK LATER, Jack sat in the Leather and Lace bar, sipping a biting glass of whiskey, considering the temptation of Skyler Kimball.

      A temptation he should resist, to be sure, though it got harder every day. Hell, he got harder every day. Just thinking about those lacy purple panties she wore sent him straight to a cold shower every time. His instinctive reaction to her was inconvenient and stupid, since no matter how beautiful and lust-inducing, she was off-limits.

      He’d debated calling her all week, but deep down he knew he didn’t belong with ’tite ange Skyler Kimball. She sold frilly dresses and saved pampered cats. She wouldn’t spend her nights with a swamp rat like him. This bar suited “Wild Jack” Tesson better.

      The scarred wooden floor looked as though it had greeted many a customer and borne many a barroom brawl. The black vinyl-covered booths were nicked and rubbed down to the Styrofoam padding. The jukebox roared. The bar was long, well-stocked and packed with customers. His grandparents had practically raised him in a similar bar in Louisiana.

      Skyler probably didn’t even know where this place was. He needed to put her out of his mind. He’d come to Baxter with the intention of earning respect, gaining experience and moving on to bigger things. He’d long ago realized his yearning for success was rooted in his insecure relationship with his parents. He’d never understood why saving whales in Fiji had been more important than raising their son.

      Of course, whale-saving had been followed by rain forests, then icebergs, then animal testing in cosmetic manufacturing. He hadn’t heard from them in six months, so for all he knew they could be teaching pygmies in Borneo how to rotisserie chickens by now.

      “Hey, buddy,” the bartender said, nodding at Jack and his nearly full glass. “That’s good whiskey. Problem?”

      On Friday night, Jack figured the man’s clientele leaned toward guys with a heartier thirst. Bikers, blue-collar workers and slick-tied professionals had draped themselves around the place. A half-dozen women were scattered at the tables. All looked ready to start off the weekend with a bang.

      “No problem. I gotta work early tomorrow,” Jack said to the bartender, a barrel-chested, dark-haired man who could have been any age from forty to sixty.

      The bartender polished a beer mug. “Haven’t seen you here before. New in town?”

      Jack rolled his shoulders, setting aside the problem of Skyler for the moment. “I just signed on with the Baxter Fire Department.” He held out his hand, which the bartender shook. “Jack Tesson.”

      “Gus Saunders. I own the Leather and Lace.” He picked up a clean glass, filled it with an amber-colored beer, then sent the mug sailing down the bar. A man Jack assumed was a regular caught the drink, immediately gulping from the glass. Gus grinned. “Quick service saves trouble later.”

      Jack nodded, recognizing the wisdom of that philosophy. Because of his size and coolheadedness, he’d been designated bouncer at Grand-père’s bar since he’d turned fourteen.

      “Welcome to Baxter.” Gus grinned again. “At least the notorious side.”

      Just where I belong. Jack toasted him. “Merci.”

      “That accent isn’t Georgia.”

      “No. St. Francis, Louisiana.”

      “Cajun country?”

      “Oui. The bars at home, they’re situated along the bayou. Gators discourage the troublemakers. Keeps things colorful.”

      “I’ll bet.” Gus waved his hand. “Hey, you know how to cook? Make some of that Cajun stuff—gumbo and crawfish? On the weekends, I bring in a live band and sell food. I think my customers are tired of chicken wings and nachos.”

      “A noncooking Cajun is only half a person.”

      “How ’bout next weekend, you make me something Cajun, and I’ll give you an unlimited bar tab.”

      Cooking was his second-favorite activity. And with the lovely Skyler off-limits, the chances of him indulging in his favorite looked dim. “Sounds good to me,” he said to Gus.

      “Great.” Laughing, Gus filled a few orders before returning to his washing and drying position in front of Jack.

      As more customers continued to flood in, Jack asked, “You don’t have any other help?”

      “A waitress and busboy, but they aren’t on until nine.”

      “Need any help?”

      Gus sighed. “Always.”

      “I worked in a bar for years,” Jack said, standing. All he had to go home to was Casey—the freckly-faced, eighteen-year-old frat boy hiding out in his apartment. He’d found the kid hiding under his dorm room bed this afternoon. As if Skyler’s brothers wouldn’t think to look there.

      “I couldn’t pay much,” Gus said, his expression doubtful.

      Jack pushed his glass toward Gus. “How about I work for my drink, for tonight anyway?”

      “Deal,” Gus said quickly.

      Within minutes, Jack commanded Gus’s bar, leaving the owner to mix and joke with his customers.