Heating up the Holidays

Empty.

God, she wanted her bunk almost more than she wanted her next breath, and yet it seemed like such a chore. But Dustin would get her where she needed to go.

Somehow, someway, he always did.

3

WHEN THEIR SHIFT ended at eight o’clock that morning, Dustin stepped outside and watched in disbelief as Cristina dragged her sexy but tired ass to the side of the building and unlocked her bike.

They’d just had a rough night, as rough as it gets, where they’d had maybe an hour of sleep broken into fifteen-minute increments, and she was going to ride her bike home.

Hard-core Cristina.

She was tough, so tough that people often forgot that she had a good reason to be so. She didn’t talk about herself much, if ever. What information he had on her he’d pretty much pieced together from five years of knowing her. Her mother had had her when she was only sixteen, and while she’d done her best, her best had often meant hanging with men who weren’t the greatest influence and ruled with a heavy fist. Cristina no longer kept in contact with her mother, and she’d never learned who her father was. She had no siblings, and as far as Dustin could tell, she didn’t keep a lot of friends outside the station.

Inside the station, however, she loved them all fiercely, grumpily, and that love was returned, though not as grumpily. Any one of the guys would lay down his life for her, himself included, and she felt the same. Earlier in the year when her partner Blake had been wrongly accused of arson, she’d steadfastly and vocally objected, and had never wanted to believe the worst of him, even when all the evidence had been firmly stacked against him.

The people of station #34 were her family. He was her family. And she was afraid to mess with that. He got that, he really did, he just knew deep down inside that what they had could be so much deeper, if only she’d let it.

But, badass as she was, inside she was terrified. Terrified of letting go, terrified of allowing him too close, terrified of getting hurt.

What she didn’t understand was that he felt those fears, too. But he’d always felt that life was worth living, fears and all, that if he didn’t go for it, then why bother?

She fumbled with the bike lock and swore again.

Walk away, he told himself. He’d made the decision that she was bad for him. Bad for his self-esteem, bad for his ego, bad for everything.

Except…ah, hell, here came the excuses…except there was something about her. Something about the way her brain worked that was such a turn-on. And then there was the way she made him laugh. He came from a lively family. They were all opinionated and they all were thinkers, and they all made him laugh.

But Cristina slayed him.

God, that was sexy. She was sexy. That thought made him want to smile because at the moment she wore baggy sweat bottoms and a snug long-sleeved thermal top, with her long blond hair down and still wet from her shower. Not an ounce of makeup. He could see the exhaustion in every line of her trim body. She’d laugh her ass off if he told her he found her sexy, just as she was.

But she had a way of drawing him in no matter what she looked like. He came up behind her in time to hear, “Goddamn mother f-”

“Trouble?” he asked.

She spun the lock and rubbed her undoubtedly bleary eyes. “No.” She attempted the lock again.

It was three miles to her apartment from here. Three miles in which she could run herself into a car or under a bus.

“Cristina.”

She yawned, wide. “Yeah.”

“Let me give you a ride.”

Another yawn. “Nah, I’m good.” But she rested her forehead on the lock and closed her eyes.

Setting his fingers over hers, he grabbed her hand and pulled her upright. She was so limp she actually let herself lean on him for a moment, which dammit, made his arms go around her and hold on tight.

Her wet hair stuck to the stubble on his jaw. It smelled good, like her, like warm, tired woman. God, he was such a sucker. “I’m driving you home.” And a glutton for punishment, let’s not forget that.

Surprising him, she allowed herself to be led to his truck, let him put her bike in the back for her. Once in the passenger seat, she leaned her head back and closed her eyes. “It’s a good thing I’m so tired, or I’d have to kick your ass for bossing me around.”

“Is that right?”

A hint of a smile crossed her lips. “No.” She was so drowsy her words were slurred. “Actually, when you get all gruff and demanding like this, it turns me on.”

“Stop it.”

“It’s true. When you go all rough and manly, it gives me the shivers.”

She had a wicked grin on her face now, with her eyes still closed, and he had to smile and shake his head. She was teasing him. “And here I thought women wanted sensitivity and sweetness. I’ve been going about it all wrong.”

“Seems like.”

He pulled into her apartment complex, got out of his truck and came around for her just as she was getting her feet beneath her. “I’ve got it from here, sailor.” She patted his cheek. “But thanks.”

“Uh-huh.” Instead of walking away, he took her arm and led her to her front door.

“This isn’t necessary.” She unlocked her door and blocked him from coming in. “See you in a few days.”

Putting his hands on her arms, he gently but firmly pushed her inside, then followed her in, kicking the door shut behind him.

“Look, I just want another shower with hot water this time, and my bed,” she said, sounding cranky now. “And I’d add sex to that list, but you’ve already shot me down on that score, so get the hell out.”

He’d been inside her place a few times. A nice couch, a small TV, shelves with a few books here and there, and a plant that was either coming back to life or halfway dead. “Where’s your Christmas tree?”

She didn’t answer him.

“You said you were having a thing. You turned down all the invites you got because you were having a thing.”

“I am having a thing.”

An alone thing. He got that now. She’d lied, which he hated.

As if too burned out even to move, she sank to her couch and covered her eyes.

The soft, exhausted sigh did him in.

“Get up.” He held out a hand. “Come on.”

She opened her eyes and stared at his fingers. “For what?”

“Shower. Bed.”

“Is that an invitation?”

Rolling his eyes, he pulled her up himself and took her down the hallway to her bathroom. In his experience, a woman’s bathroom was her holy sanctuary, filled with all the mysteries of feminine beauty: bottles, creams, tubes, brushes, lingerie hung to dry.

Not Cristina’s bathroom. As always, it was clean and unlike the woman herself, devoid of life. “I’ve always wondered. Where’s all your stuff?”

“What stuff?”

“Your girl stuff.”

She pulled open a drawer, revealing a brush, a tube of mascara and a bottle of body lotion. “Here.”

“That’s it?”

“No.” She pulled open her other drawer, which held an unopened box of tampons and an opened box of