The Spark Between Us by Stacy Travis

Chapter Four

Sarah

Braden livedin a house that could have been made from gingerbread and frosting—it was that adorable.

We’d driven to the end of a short cul de sac with a basketball hoop in the street and a homemade skateboard ramp next door. The neighborhood had traditional prairie-style homes with pitched roofs, lots of windows, and pretty landscaping with flower boxes. I couldn’t picture Braden coming home sooty after fighting a fire and weeding his geraniums.

And yet . . . there they were.

When Finn had sold me on his friend’s spare bedroom, I’d pictured a box with beige carpet in a small two-bedroom apartment. I’d felt grateful. Any sparsely furnished bachelor den was fine by me.

Bare walls? Fine.

Few kitchen utensils? Expected.

My stereotype also included a giant weight set in the garage, some manly power tools, and the pervasive smell of musky body spray. I’ll admit my concept came from picturing Finn as a teenager and aging up a few years. I hadn’t dated enough in the past decade to know otherwise.

Braden’s house had a white picket fence, a mailbox shaped like a dog, and a bird feeder hanging in a tree. I stole a glance at him to assess whether he thought the house screamed single man with a chiseled jaw and moody eyes, but unsurprisingly, he didn’t say a word.

“This is beyond charming. Have you lived here long?”

He winced a little and looked away. “Bought it three years ago. Did all the work on it back then. Now, I just pretty much live in it.” He ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

I realized I knew nothing about him. Maybe he wasn’t single. For all I knew, Mrs. Braden stood waiting inside to welcome us home. Just because Finn hadn’t mentioned a wife or girlfriend didn’t mean anything. Finn tended to have half his brain focused on economic theory and didn’t think to mention the obvious.

I stole a look at Braden as he put the truck in park and hopped out. His jeans hugged his legs like lovesick groupies, highlighting a very tight ass and muscular thighs.

I started to edge open the door on my side when he appeared and flung it wide, further proving his strength and land-speed capabilities.

He extended a hand to me, even though the helpful footstep lay at my feet. “Oh, thanks.” In my thirty-three years, no one had ever offered me a hand out of a car before. Granted, he probably thought I bore some residual aches from the car accident, but still, it was sweet.

With a nod, he helped me down and put a hand on my lower back, walking me down the path that led to the bright yellow front door. His hand felt solid and warm, reassuring. It also sent a completely inappropriate surge of heat down my spine, ending between my legs.

Wait, what?

I did my best to ignore my body, which was telling me to lean into his hand. Instead, I focused on the neat row of terra cotta pots filled with succulents and how they tied the purple leaf plum trees into a cohesive color palate. I really focused. So much so that it took a second to realize all my boxes were still in the truck.

I glanced back toward the truck. “Oh, I should grab my stuff.”

Braden shook his head, and I noticed his shoulders relaxed the closer we got to the front door. “Later. Let’s get you settled. I’ll bring it up.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that. I’m happy to drag my own boxes out of the truck, really.” I glanced back again, almost longingly. I wanted to move in and get settled. I also felt guilty about him helping me so much.

“You were just in a car accident. You’re not carrying boxes,” he said, coming around and fixing his dark eyes on me. My head ached, and I didn’t feel like arguing. After unlocking the front door, he moved aside to let me walk in first.

Stepping into the entryway, I noted the faint smell of vanilla and a brief stillness, which was immediately punctuated by a stampede of feet sliding along the hardwood floors and the overjoyed whimper of a dog. A second later, a big furry golden retriever wagged its tail in front of me and pawed my legs.

“Bella, down . . .” Braden said in a stern dog-trainer voice. When his pup obeyed, he scratched her behind the ears and ruffled the fur on top of her head. “Good girl. Such a good girl.” His voice went up an octave with his praise. Then he got down on his knees and lavished his dog friend with love. Maybe he was just slow to warm to humans.

“Sarah, meet Bella. Short for Lunabella Trouble Michaels. Four years old, still thinks she’s a puppy, and kind of possessive of me,” his voice rumbled. Bella began licking his chin as though he were covered in gravy.

“Trouble’s her middle name. Someone a Bobby Vinton fan?”

His eyebrow quirked. “You know the song?”

I shrugged and smiled at Bella. “She looks too sweet to be trouble.”

“When she goes through your trash and drags it down the stairs, you’ll see it differently.”

I stroked the top of her head, and she lifted her paw to shake hands. “Aw, she’s adorable. Did you get her as a puppy?” Her soft ears felt like velvet.

He looked away when he answered. “Rescued her three years ago after a fire burned down her owners’ home. They couldn’t keep her at their new apartment, so we took her in. They still visit her when they can.”

I caught his use of “we,” but he’d seemed a little guarded, so I decided to focus on the dog for now. “Perks of the job, I guess. But also sad for them. Does that happen a lot, fires displacing pets?”

He nodded and ran a hand over his scruff. “More than you’d think.” He cast a wary look in my direction. “Finn thought you’d be okay with a dog. This one’s all fur. You’re not allergic?”

“Nope. Love dogs.”

He gave a quick nod. “Like I said, she’s possessive, so don’t be offended if she ignores you and clings to me.”

“Aw, Bella. You won’t ignore me. We girls need to stick together, right?” Bella’s tongue rolled out and she licked my hand.

Braden’s smile stayed fixed on his dog, but he tipped his head toward the rest of the house. “Lemme give you a quick tour.” He rose to his feet, and I followed him as he walked me through a nicely furnished living room with overstuffed gray couches and navy pillows. There was no sign that a human bottom had made a dent in any of it.

On the coffee table, a painted ceramic bowl sat next to a stack of architecture books. In a corner, an upright piano stood with its bench pushed in tight, no sheet music on the stand.

Despite appearing untouched, the room looked cozy. In fact, it begged for use.

We moved down a short hallway past a staircase. Bella followed dutifully behind with a ball in her mouth. Instead of heading upstairs, we kept going into a great room where the modern kitchen and den were divided by a countertop island.

Judging by the flatscreen TV and the rumpled pillows, I guessed this was where Braden spent most of his time. He had a few magazines shoved onto the shelf of the rustic wood coffee table, sleek appliances plugged into the kitchen outlets, and Bella’s food and water bowls near the French doors that led to the yard.

Braden pointed to the left. “Kitchen. Make yourself at home. Eat whatever you want. Don’t worry about moving my stuff around to make room in the fridge . . .”

As if to demonstrate, he opened the refrigerator, moved a carton of milk to the shelf on the door, and left some space on the top shelf. “Just . . . do whatever you normally do.”

“Thanks,” I peeked into the fridge, noticing a six-pack of beer, several kinds of mustard, and a bowl of apples among myriad takeout containers. “Looks like you and I have similar eating habits. Takeout and fruit.”

“Hmph. Yeah, sometimes I get lazy. And I’m at the station one out of every three nights.”

“Oh, really? You sleep there?” I had no idea what kind of schedules firefighters kept.

“Yeah, twenty-four hours on, forty-eight off. But I also go in sometimes for day shifts. Anyway, you’ll have the place to yourself some nights. Plus, I’m out a lot in the evenings.” He left that tidbit hanging, but I assumed he meant he dated. Or hung with friends from work.

Fine by me. I was an independent person. And after living alone in Berkeley for the past few years, I felt relieved to have a roommate who’d be gone every third night.

Braden ran a hand through his hair, which drew my gaze there. He had good hair, thick and dark with some wave to it, and rumpling it just made him look better.

I rolled my eyes at myself, unable to stop ogling his various parts. Apparently.

From his comment about cooking for one, I concluded he didn’t have a wife. There could still be a girlfriend—and let’s be honest, from looking at him, he likely had a girlfriend or ten—but this wasn’t going to be a Three’s Company situation.

Bella sat at his feet with the ball in her mouth, eyes fixed on him with her tail wagging. He opened the back door, grabbed the ball from her mouth, and chucked it across the yard. Bella flew after it. I expected her to reappear a second later to continue the game, but she didn’t.

“Where’d she go?” I craned my neck, but she’d gone off behind a row of hedges.

“She likes to bury stuff out there. That ball will be gone for a few days, then she’ll dig it up and something else will disappear. She’s not much of a retriever. Well, she does retrieve, she just doesn’t relinquish the stuff she retrieves unless she feels like it.” He gave me the hint of an almost-smile.

I made a mental note—the dog makes him happy. If conversation got awkward, I’d bring up Bella.

He continued his tour, pointing to the patio and the grass beyond it. “The yard’s a nice place to sit if you have free time. I keep intending to build a fire pit out there but haven’t gotten around to it.”

“Free time, outdoors, check.”

I took a look around the kitchen, which was clean but not overly tidy—there were dishes in the sink and dishtowels lying around, but nothing that screamed that he was either an incurable neat freak or a pigpen disaster. Straight down the middle—kind of like me.

His eyes roamed the room, fixing on the dishes, scanning the clean marble countertop, nodding at the pile of dog toys, almost like he was seeing the room through my eyes. He pointed at the TV. “No idea what you like to watch, but I’m pretty easy.”

I held up a hand. “Okay, stop. Please. I know you’re trying to be a good host, but really? I can eat all your food and move your stuff around? You’re not weirdly protective of your mustard or something? You have no TV preferences? Come on, no one is that easy going.” I beckoned him with my hand. “Give me something. An Australian-rules football obsession, cheesy reality dating shows? Do you sneak tabloids to read about English royals? Watch the Puppy Bowl instead of the Super Bowl? I promise I won’t blab to your dudes at the fire station, so just spill it, roomie.”

I had no idea if it was the ridiculousness of thinking of me as his roomie or the obvious gauntlet I’d thrown down over mustard, but I Braden’s face cracked into the first grin since finding out I was Finn’s sister. And at the sight of his beautiful smile, I outright blushed.

If he noticed, he gave no indication. “Okay, fair enough. You might as well know that I’m a nut for March Madness, and I’ll watch every game I can. But I watch some of them at the station, so I’m not like a cave bat here all day and night.”

It was the most he’d said at one time since we’d met. “Okay then. I like basketball, but I don’t know the college teams well enough to make picks for the tournament. Unless Cal makes it in, then I’m all about filling out a bracket and rooting for them to the death.”

“They look good this year—maybe we’ll have to have a little competition if they’re in it,” he challenged, rubbing his hands together, eyes ablaze.

“Competition? Oh yeah, now you’re speaking my love language.” As soon as I said it, the slight smile I’d earned disappeared and he turned slightly away from me.

Was he shy? Grumpy? Socially awkward? Even though I barely knew him, it pained me that he kept shutting down.

So I backpedaled. “Anyway, I like basketball well enough. And the occasional episode of Top Chef. And Bake Off. Ooh, and Chopped. Okay, I’m a little obsessed with all cooking shows.”

“Yet I hear you don’t cook,” he challenged.

I gave him a side-eye. “Finn told you that?”

“He might have mentioned.” His smile returned as more of a smirk.

I folded my arms over my chest and jutted one hip to the side. “I can cook. I mostly don’t cook for one because that’s a waste of time, but I have serious salad skills.”

He chuckled. “Don’t worry. I don’t cook that much either. I don’t think it’s a character flaw.” He went over and collected stuffed animal carcasses with the fluff strewn everywhere and squeaky balls, dropping them in a basket by the door.

“I cook,” I insisted sternly, narrowing my eyes at him.

“I believe you.” His shrug made me think he didn’t.

“I’ll prove it. I’ll cook you dinner, and you’ll see I give those Top Chefs a run for their arugula.” I tipped my head to the side and grinned. Besides having something to prove, I wanted to pull my weight around here.

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “You don’t have to do that. Really.”

“I want to, and I will.” I narrowed my eyes so he’d see the seriousness. When I set my mind on something, it would happen. He might as well understand that about me.

“Fine. I look forward to it,” he conceded.

He motioned me to follow him upstairs. On the gray-carpeted landing, we faced several closed doors. The first opened to a laundry room. “There are towels here and sheets, but everything in your room is clean.”

“Great. I like a clean towel,” I chirped.

He pushed the door open to the next room and pointed. “Gym. Has everything. Feel free to use the equipment if you’re into it.” He was almost awkward in his deadpan presentation.

“I’m not into it. In fact, I hate it, but I know it would be good for me to use all the heavy pieces of metal, pain contraptions, and vomit machines.”

“Vomit machines?”

“It’s how I think of treadmills and bikes.” He blinked a couple times, and I nodded enthusiastically. “Awesome, glad they’re so handy. I won’t even have to leave the house to suffer.”

“You don’t have to work out if you don’t want to,” he whispered gently like he was trying not to frighten an insane person.

“Okay,” I whispered.

He led me to a third door and swung it open, then took a few steps back and pointed from the hallway. “Bed, dresser. Bathroom’s over there. Little desk . . .”

It was no tiny beige box. “It’s perfect.” I couldn’t hide my grin. The window shades were pulled high, and the warm afternoon light flooded the room. On the bed, a fluffy white comforter with a cream-colored throw blanket tempted me to dive among pillows and sleep for a week.

The desk was a slab of barn wood on two metal trestles, and at the foot of the bed, a brown steamer trunk with vintage straps completed the look. “This room is gorgeous. I can’t thank you enough. It’s really great.”

Braden swallowed hard and crossed his arms defensively. “Glad you like it.” I noticed his eyes, a little red with the beginnings of dark circles forming beneath them. His face was a mirror of how I felt, suddenly drained, probably the residual effects of the accident.

I wanted to talk to him and break through the awkwardness a little more. I wanted to play with his dog and find the cooking channels on his TV, but my body wouldn’t cooperate. We stared at each other, both of us glassy-eyed.

“You should really stand in the shower and get some wet heat on your neck and back. It’ll help your spine from locking up tomorrow. You have to be at work all day, right?”

I nodded, my body aching in agreement. “Yeah, I need to be there early. Shower’s a good idea. I can do that tonight.”

“You should do it now.” He stared down at me, stern like an older brother. Maybe he thought this was how Finn would treat me.

“Okay.” I felt too exhausted to argue. “I’ll do it now. Soon as I get my stuff from your truck.”

He blocked my exit from the room and shook his head. “I’ll get it. You relax.” He backed out of the room, and seconds later I heard his footsteps on the stairs. I heard Bella scamper up to him when he got down, and his voice went up an octave when he lavished her with attention. “Who’s my good girl? Yes, you are. Want to come out to the truck?”

I was glad he had Bella in his life. I couldn’t fight the feeling that there was something sad about him, and it made my heart ache, even if I didn’t understand why.

I texted Finn.

Me: Hey, made it to Carolwood.

I didn’t overexplain my grand entry into town. Finn would have a field day lecturing me about my driving.

Finn: Great! Getting settled?

Me: Yeah, about that. Anything I should know about Braden? Dark secrets?

Finn didn’t answer immediately, and I stared at the phone, conjuring imaginary responses that confirmed my worst fears. Then I saw blinking dots.

Finn: None I’m at liberty to reveal. Why?

I had to put it delicately. They went back a long way, and I didn’t want to throw Braden—and therefore myself—under the bus before I’d even unpacked a bag.

Me: He seems a little bummed out. I just don’t want to cramp his style.

Finn: Lol. That won’t be a problem. He has no style.

Me: Seriously. Don’t leave me in the dark. You know I’ll put my foot in my mouth.

Finn: He’s fine. It’s been two years. But if you’re concerned, just ask him. Get to know your new roomie.

I could picture Finn smiling as he typed. He thought the idea of me having a roommate was so cute and funny. Jerk.

Me: What’s been two years?

Finn: Talk. To. Him.

Fine. But I knew if he was anything like my brother, Braden wouldn’t give me a straight answer.