He shook his head and reached for the extra virgin olive oil. It was his turn to cook for the squad, and he was trying pasta with clam sauce. Maybe focusing on his culinary skills—or lack thereof—would take his mind off how Ivy’s lips felt on his, soft and sensuous, or how goddamn hard he’d gotten when she’d raked her nails down his back.
He tossed some minced garlic into the pan and stirred it with a wooden spoon, but his thoughts kept spinning back to Ivy and the scene in her driveway. She should be flattered that their friendship meant more to him than a night of meaningless, albeit mind-blowing, sex, not pissed off and refusing to return his calls or texts.
Unless what she had in mind was more than a meaningless one-night stand...
“What’s burning?” Cappy barked. “We’re supposed to put out fires, not start them.”
“Shit.” Cade pulled the pan off the burner and stared at the charred bits of garlic.
Cappy wrinkled his nose. “Please tell me that wasn’t dinner.”
“It was.” Cade strode to the sink, turned on the faucet and stuck the pan underneath. “Good news is it’s not too late to start over.”
“What’s with you lately, son?” Cappy grabbed a bottle of water out of the fridge and sat down at the enormous oak slab table with the station’s logo embossed in the center that took up most of the firehouse kitchen. “Your head hasn’t been in the game since the Battle of the Badges. You’re not still upset we lost, are you?”
“Nah.”
“O’Brien still bugging you? I can give him a verbal warning.”
“Not necessary, Cap.” Cade finished rinsing the pan, stuck it back on the stove and began chopping fresh garlic. “We’re cool.”
As “cool” as they were going to get, unless O’Brien made another crack about Ivy. Then all bets were off.
Cappy cracked open his water bottle and took a sip. “If work’s not the problem, it must be something at home. You got woman trouble? Maybe one of those gals at the game?”
The knife slipped in Cade’s hand, almost slicing off the tip of his index finger. Jesus Christ. Did they have to talk about this now? Or ever?
“Look, Hardesty,” Cappy continued. Apparently they did have to talk about this. “You’re one of my best men. But you’re no good to me or anyone else in the company stumbling around like something out of The Walking Dead.”
A stab of guilt pierced Cade in the gut. Cappy was right. Cade was damn lucky the most serious call they’d had in the past week was from a lady whose five-year-old somehow got her head stuck between the toilet and the wall. With the way he’d been acting, he’d have risked his own life and the lives of all his brothers in arms in an actual fire.
He put down the knife and turned to his captain. “I’m sorry. I’ll pull my head out of my ass, I promise.”
“See that you do.” Cappy gave him a dismissive nod, indicating the conversation was blessedly over, and Cade turned back to the garlic.
“Do what?” O’Brien came in from the engine bay, followed by Sykes and Hansen, B Company’s paramedics. “Cook dinner without burning it? Smells like it’s too late for that.”
“Lay off.” Cappy pushed his chair back and stood, slapping a palm on the table. “Let the man work.”
They disappeared, leaving Cade to mince and dice in peace. About half an hour later, just as he was pouring the sauce over the pasta, the alarm blared.
“Figures,” he muttered, shoving an uncovered bowl of salad into the fridge. “I knew we’d never get to eat it hot. It smelled too damn good.”
He dropped the now-empty pan into the sink, double-checked the burners to make sure they were off and raced to the lockers, where the rest of the crew was already jumping into their turnout gear.
“What’s the deal?” O’Brien asked as he pulled on his boots.
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