Page 3 of Playing With Fire

“Sir. Ma’am.” He cleared his throat. “Dogs must be restrained by their owners in public parks.”

The exact wording of the council rules evaded him, possibly because Ricky’s well-honed olfactory senses were distracted by a light musky fragrance that wasn’t the dog or its owner, and that in the fracas, a glossy lock of hair had fallen from the woman’s carefully curated topknot.

The rumpled effect was surprisingly powerful.

He dug deep for something official sounding.

“Sir. Your...er...boodle has clearly made contact with this person’s...limb.” He was madly improvising now. “—possibly breaking the skin, which is a violation of Statute 264 and Boodles...I mean Bubbles, could end up in trouble if this lady complains and shows her leg to the court.”

The elderly man looked puzzled, then worried. The blonde pursed her lips. She was struggling to keep a straight face.

“You, of course, as the owner, would go to court,” Ricky amended quickly. “And you may be forced to wear a muzzle. Boodles, that is.”

The young woman finally took pity on Ricky. “I have no intention of complaining, officer,” she said smoothly. “But perhaps you should take down Bubbles’ details...she may be a repeat offender, and in that case...”

The man was already backing away, one gnarled hand keeping a tight grip on the dog’s collar. “No need, Officer, ma’am, I’ll be on my way...”

Ricky and the young woman, who was almost as tall as him, watched in silence as dog and man trotted briskly down the leaf-strewn path and disappeared.

The unladylike explosion of mirth at his shoulder was somewhere between a snort and a laugh.

Memory returned in a glorious toe-curling rush.

Jodi Ruskin.

All of thirteen, they had hidden in a dim pantry during a riotous game of hide and seek at a birthday party. A boring, childish game, he’d thought at the time, until the lanky Jodi had dived through the pantry door, distracting him from the pleasant aroma of oatmeal and brown sugar.

She had smelled of fruity gum and felt pens, and her short blonde hair was tousled every which way like she’d dived through a hedge.

And just like that, it had happened. His first kiss. The touch of her so-soft lips—both of them shy, awkward—had catapulted him from childhood into steamy adolescence in the space of seconds.

He had never lost his enthusiasm for oatmeal cookies.

“Boodles!” Jodi laughed again, throwing back her long, smooth throat. “A muzzle! Lord, I think you gave that curmudgeon Everett Thompson something to chew on all right!”

Her voice was soft and a little husky, as though she’d taken up whiskey and cigarettes or just spent a few solid hours on the telephone. Being a preacher’s granddaughter, he figured it could be either one.

She grabbed the stray lock of hair and pinned it back into place. Her eyes rested on his face as though trolling through her memory banks. Recognition dawned.

Ricky’s heart seemed to stop.

She cocked her head to one side and threw him an impish smile that made him feel thirteen all over again.

Oh yeah, she remembered the pantry.

An unexpected thrill of anticipation snaked down his back. He shifted uneasily under that clear gaze.

“And what brings you back to our little town, Ricky Sharp?”

***

Jodi knew that she didn’t really have time to be having coffee at Bean & Co, even if the skinny adolescent she remembered had grown into a surprisingly attractive man.

She shot a covert glance at Ricky’s broad shoulders and the long, lean lines of his back and legs as he waited at the counter. Classic firefighter stereotype—all muscle, with the sleek build of a marathon runner or hard-core cyclist. The utilitarian cropped fade was growing out into a soft cap of dark brown fuzz that looked kind of sweet.

Probably a narcissist, Jodi warned herself. The He-Man type who works out in front of the mirrors at the gym and dreams of being talent-spotted for Chicago Fire.

Her eyes narrowed. Ricky Sharp...there had been a girlfriend, she was sure. One of those Woodstock wannabes with soulful eyes and parents with deep pockets.

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