Ride the Fire by Jo Davis Page B

soccer ball during his path to healing.
    Keeping him at a safe distance might be easier said than done, however. When he’d opened the door, shirt-less and barefoot, jeans unbuttoned . . . Lord, she’d just about swallowed her tongue! Sure, she’d seen all of her team bare-chested at some point over the years, even if it was a brief glimpse as one of them pulled on a clean shirt, but holy crap. She’d never seen Sean like that, in such an intimate setting, with his potent male beauty staring her in the face and nothing to do but look. And appreciate the scenery.
    The man might not be as ripped as he’d been before he’d gone through hell, but he was still sexy. That wide, strong chest, a light covering of dark chest hair that she’d love to feel under her palms, the springy curls narrowing into a treasure trail that disappeared behind his zipper. Narrow waist, long legs. Sean totally did it for her, without question.
    Oh, this was bad.
    She was looking forward to tonight in his company, more than was wise. He occupied her thoughts all the way to her mother’s small house outside Sugarland. So thoroughly that she nearly missed the driveway. Braking, she made a sharp right, drove up, and parked behind her mother’s ugly green rattletrap of a car, shaken to realize she’d made the half-hour drive with no real recollection of doing so.
    Great. She had to get the man off her mind or her mother would know , in that superhuman way all moms had, and pry the truth out of her with speed and skill that would impress the FBI.
    Shutting off the ignition, Eve got out and walked through the garage as she normally did—the front door was for “company.” Getting her key ready, she tested the door to find it unlocked. Again. With a sigh, she pushed it open and gave a knock.
    “Mama?”
    “In here!”
    She walked through the mudroom into the kitchen, following the direction of her mother’s voice. “How many times do I have to fuss at you to lock—what are you doing?” she cried, tossing her purse and keys onto the counter. “Get up from there right now, before you hurt yourself!”
    She hurried over to where Mama lay under the sink, twisted half onto her back, only her bottom half visible.
    “Hey, baby,” her mom said, panting from exertion. “I was just . . . trying to fix this . . . so we can visit.”
    Rolling her eyes, she squatted and took the older woman’s arm. “We can’t visit if I’m having to take you to the doctor for screwing up your knees. Come on, up.”
    “Stubborn child.”
    “I get it honest.”
    Amelia Marshall got to her feet with a whole lot of huffing and even more grumbling, but Eve heard the love behind the bluster. That love was always there, as steady and true as Mama herself. Even when annoyed with her only child.
    “I’m not an invalid, you know. There are still certain things I can do for myself.”
    “I know that, Mama,” she said, brushing the dirt off the older woman’s sweatshirt. “You’re only fifty-three and far from decrepit. You’re one hot mama, pardon the pun, and if I like taking care of you, so what?”
    As she’d intended, the compliment made Mama laugh and squeeze her in a tight hug. Eve was always startled by how fragile her mother felt in her arms, and worried about her constantly. Maybe it was just the difference in their physical builds that made the older woman seem like a lovely piece of blown glass. After all, not many women could hoist a full-grown man into a fireman’s carry.
    “I’m far from ‘hot,’ but I’m working on it,” she said, pulling away. “And you have better things to do with your time than babysit me. Like marry that nice young man Drake, and give me grandbabies.”
    Eve blinked at her mother, unsure which part of that to tackle first. She opted for avoiding the subject of Drake, if possible. “What do you mean, you’re ‘working on it’?”
    Momentarily diverted, her mother grinned and indicated her blue warm-up suit. “When