A Firefighter In Her Stocking. Janice Lynn

      Good grief. What would he think?

      He had come to turn off her alarm, so she couldn’t really retract her invitation, could she? Not without seeming ungrateful and rude.

      “Tempting,” he ventured, not sounding anything of the sort. “But I have a better offer.”

      Of course he did. Women probably lined up to cook gourmet meals for him. And she’d heard first-hand that morning what else they offered.

      “Why don’t you come to my place and let me cook for you?”

      Surprised, she opened her mouth to refuse, but he continued speaking before she could.

      “Before you say no, the food is already in the oven, the wine is chilled, and I have a view that’s even more amazing than yours.”

      He’d noticed her view? He had food in the oven? Why did he have wine chilling?

      Then it hit her.

      “I pulled you away from company, didn’t I?”

      He frowned. “No. Why would you think that?”

      Because his apartment door was like a model runway exit, always with some beautiful woman walking through it.

      But his look said he’d been alone.

      “You’re cooking for just yourself?”

      “I like to eat.”

      Wondering at his apartment view, at what he’d cooked and how edible it was, she eyed him suspiciously. “What’s the catch?”

      “No catch. Just offering to share my dinner.” He glanced toward the burned remains of her toast. “And looking out for my own interests of having an uninterrupted meal, of course. I don’t want you attempting more toast and setting your alarm off again.”

      “Ha-ha. Real funny. The only reason my toast caught fire is because I was so tired.” And had been distracted by thoughts of him, but she wasn’t telling him that part.

      “Fine. You can take a cat nap on my sofa while I finish up dinner.”

      As if.

      “What are you serving?” she ventured out of curiosity, but with no intention of even entertaining the possibility of actually agreeing to have dinner with him. “I might prefer burnt toast.”

      He laughed and shook his head. “You won’t. We’re having Chicken Marsala served on a bed of angel-hair pasta, steamed asparagus with a light butter sauce, and a red wine because I prefer red to white.”

      Of course he did. Red stood for passion and white was just bland, right? Jude was a red kind of guy.

      She blinked. “Are you for real?”

      “You could pinch me and find out.”

      His eyes twinkled with that sparkle that had her heart doing funny floppy things in her chest.

      “You wish.”

      * * *

      Jude did wish.

      As crazy as the thought was, he wanted Sarah to pinch him.

      Not to see if he was real, but to wake him up because he was moving in some type of haze.

      What was he thinking, inviting her to dinner? Not about how beautiful she was without her thick glasses blocking her face.

      She was, but he was being a good neighbor.

      That was it.

      He wasn’t inviting her to his place for anything more.

      Even if she did have gorgeous eyes, amazing cheekbones, and full, pink, kissable lips.

      “Is that how you lure women to your apartment? With promises of feeding them?”

      “Something like that,” he answered, wondering why she thought the worst of him when it came to women.

      Maybe through her eyes, there were too many women, and maybe, if he was honest, he’d admit to it as well.

      But he never deceived any of them or made promises he had no intention of keeping. They all knew the score. He was a one-night-stand kind of guy and the women he invited to his apartment came for one reason.

      It wasn’t so Jude could cook for them.

      Sarah wasn’t like the women he brought to his apartment for sex.

      “I’m not interested in being lured to your apartment.”

      Suddenly feeling weary, restless, and as if maybe Sarah was right not to want to come to his apartment, he sighed. “I’m inviting you to my apartment to eat dinner.” He put emphasis on the word. “You’re tired. I’m tired. We’ve both had a long day. I want a good meal, to relax, and a good night’s rest, Sarah. Nothing more. My invitation to feed you is with no strings attached and no hidden motives to trick you into my bed.”

      He’d never had any need to trick women into his bed. There was always one ready and willing to fill the empty spot in his life.

      Tonight he’d just wanted to be alone.

      Which didn’t quite jibe with his burning desire for Sarah to say yes.

      “Because I’m not your type?” she questioned, confirming his earlier thoughts.

      “You’re not my type.” He meant to say more, to elaborate on the reasons why, to elaborate on the fact that she intrigued him and he’d like to let down her hair, see her smile, hear her laughter so he’d know what it sounded like, but her sigh of relief had him holding his tongue.

      “Fine.” She didn’t sound or look happy about agreeing so the smile and laughter might not be forthcoming anytime soon. “In that case, I’ll eat with you, but I’m eating, checking out this view you bragged about, and then I’m leaving, capisce?”

      * * *

      Sarah had bought her beloved apartment for three main reasons. Its walking distance proximity to Manhattan Mercy, it fitting within her budget, barely, and the spectacular view.

      Just like the man, Jude’s view really did blow her away.

      As did his apartment.

      At some point, someone had taken two, maybe three, apartments and converted them into one luxurious one. His living room dwarfed hers, as did the floor-to-ceiling views of the twinkling New York City nightlife. Just wow.

      Forget needing food. She’d just sit here, sip on the glass of wine he’d given her to keep her occupied while he finished up their meal, stare out at the skyline, and soak up the energy of the busy city she adored, to revive her exhausted soul.