Page 24 of Tough Nut to Crack

"Mac," she snaps, pulling off my cock and spinning around.

I stare down at her with a soft smile, a little come drunk, but she's glaring up at me.

"Are you fucking serious?" she barks, and only then do I hear it, the fucking fire alarm blaring from downstairs.

She flips over, making me wonder how she's capable of moving into action so quickly after such a life-altering occurrence. I have enough wherewithal to pull my jeans up, realizing a few seconds too late that I didn't take a few seconds to pull the used condom from my now softening cock.

I race down the stairs, literally seconds behind her, but the shrill scream that comes from her has me moving even faster.

I run into her back because she's standing just inside the kitchen as a fire blazes at my stove.

The cabinet-enclosed vent hood has flames licking at it as smoke fills the room.

"Move," I grunt, grabbing her by the shoulder and moving her over a few inches.

I reach for the cabinet doors below the stove where I know the fire extinguisher is, but the flames are just too damn hot to do it safely. My only other option is to run out to the back patio and grab the one near the built-in grill. When I do that and make it back inside, I see Riley standing to the side, tears in her eyes and her hands covering her mouth.

The fire is out rather quickly, but the damage is immense, smoke swirling all throughout the house. I have enoughexperience with restorations after fires to know just how fucking bad this is going to be. The smoke will settle into everything it touches—the walls, the furniture, and even the books and decor on either side of the mantel in the living room won't be spared.

"Mac," Riley whispers, her voice full of sadness and regret when I drop my head between my shoulders in disgust.

I'm a reasonable man. I know she didn't ask to be distracted, but that doesn't make all the anger at this situation ebb away.

I turn to face her, ready to yell and cuss and point fingers of blame, but she looks terrified. What is it about a woman crying that always brings me to my knees?

Before I can walk to her, the doorbell rings.

"Motherfucker," I mutter, having completely forgotten about the McGees coming.

"I called the fire department," she whispers, looking over her shoulder at the door.

I storm past her to get to the door, knowing the fire department hasn't had time to gear up and make it to this part of town yet.

I'm a little pissed at her. No, I'm a lot pissed at her. She had no fucking business showing up in that fucking dress that teased her knees, one with a neckline that just hinted at her perfect fucking tits. She did it to distract me. I just know it.

But those thoughts are insane. I know they are. She came to cook, not to get fucked. Although I'm the one who set that shit into motion, I just can't let go of the anger, knowing it has more to do with my inability to keep my fucking hands off her rather than anything that's within her control.

I pull the door open with more force than I probably should.

"Mr. and Mrs. McGee," I greet to a plume of smoke escaping the house around me.

Mrs. McGee covers her mouth and nose with a cough, whereas Mr. McGee attempts to look around me into the house.

I open my mouth to ask if we could reschedule, but before I can manage the words, the only fire truck that Lindell has comes blaring down my long driveway, red lights flashing and lighting up the night.

"Seems there's been a fire," I manage as I look back into the house.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other when Mr. McGee tries to look around me once again because Riley is standing there, looking sad and scared. Her hair is a mess, and the edge of her dress is haphazardly tucked into the waistband of her panties on one side from the urgency we left my room. She looks well and truly fucked.

"There won't be a meeting tonight," I say, giving Mr. McGee as much of my attention as I can manage.

I don't mention rescheduling because it will take me forever to get my house back in working order because canceling jobs I already have won't help. If anything, it'll set me back even more by reducing the funds to clean all this shit up.

I chance another glance over my shoulder, pointing a quick finger at Riley's tucked-up dress, hating that I notice the heat lighting up her cheeks when she looks down and realizes that she's standing there with her panties showing. Heat swims through my gut like I'm a fucking teen boy who can't control his hormones, despite what's going on around him.

My house is ruined. Now is not the time to let my mind wander to what happened mere moments ago upstairs. I hate that I can't just shove those feelings away and focus on the wreck my kitchen has been left in.

"Is that the Wilson girl in there?" Mr. McGee asks, making me wonder how much of her he saw.

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