Page 3 of Hollis (The Moore Men #2)

Two

Hollis

“ O uch, goddamn!” I hiss, jumping back from the stove while swiping my hand over the bacon grease splatter on my lower stomach.

That got me fucking good. Settling my gaze on the reddened flesh, I know it’s going to leave a mark.

Probably why my dad always gave me shit for cooking in my underwear growing up.

Maybe I’ll finally learn my lesson.

Laughter bubbles past my lips, because that’s seriously doubtful .

When I was younger, my mom would tell me I was like a moth to a flame.

I would get hurt constantly, doing dumb boy shit, yet I would never learn my lesson.

One summer, when I was probably ten or eleven, I jerry-rigged a ramp for my dirt bike that overlooked the creek behind my house.

I thought if I caught enough air and came at the water fast enough, I could almost ride on top of the water.

It was a dumbass idea formed after watching hours of dirt bike YouTube videos in the dead of night when my parents were asleep, fueled by my older brother egging me on and the inherent need to prove him wrong and be better than him.

That ended with me in a neon-green plaster cast for the rest of summer break, but not even a broken bone could’ve stopped me from attempting the stunt for a second time—you know, for good measure—which landed me with a gnarly black-and-blue ankle sprain to go with my already broken arm and a long, boring lecture from my parents about the importance of safety.

So, it’s safe to say, it usually takes me a few times before I learn my lesson.

An everyday glutton for punishment, if you will.

But to be fair, it wasn’t my fault I got splashed with sizzling grease just now.

In fact, I’d even go as far as to say, I’m somewhat of a pro at cooking bacon in my chonies without injury.

If anyone is to blame for my lack of attention, it’s FireInMyVeins , the late-forties daddy who I just matched with on Hive .

I don’t typically waste my time on profiles that don’t show their face or give much information in their bio about what they’re looking for—both of which apply to FireInMyVeins —but the sexy, half-naked mirror selfies that gave off major Myspace vibes and the short, three-second video had me intrigued enough to say fuck my usual rules.

Imagine my delight when we were a match.

Hence the grease burn that’s quite uncomfortable for how little it is in size.

After I flip the bacon, I turn around and open the fridge, reaching for the cantaloupe sitting on the middle shelf beside an unopened case of beer.

I’ve been dying to devour it since I picked it up at the market last night.

Grabbing a knife out of the drawer, I cut it into nice, triangle-shaped pieces, pausing about halfway through when a notification comes in, causing my phone to buzz on the counter.

A smile tugs on my lips as I wipe off my hands on the dish towel beside the sink before opening the message from Mr. Fire Daddy.

I was planning to shoot him a message once I finished cooking breakfast, but he beat me to it.

Eager… Just how I like ’em.

I chuckle to myself as I read the message, which is a response to one of my pictures.

FireInMyVeins: Great song. Saw him perform it live when it first came out.

Interesting choice for an introduction message, but I can dig it.

KnockinBoots: Damn, pretty sure I was just a youngin’ when that song came out. Maybe instead of calling you Fire Daddy, I should call you Granddaddy Fire instead. *wink emoji* *smirk emoji*

Hopefully, this mystery man has a sense of humor.

After a minute passes and it still shows unread, I close out of the app and finish chopping up the cantaloupe.

As soon as I’m done, I’m right back to ogling his pictures and that damn video.

The badass compass tattoo on his ribs is hot.

And the hand trailing down his chest looks like he definitely knows the meaning of hard work, which will always be a huge turn on for me.

Somebody with a strong work ethic and willingness to get their hands dirty will catch my eye ten out of ten times.

As somebody who has been expected to pull his weight on my family’s ranch since I was old enough to walk and talk, I’ve come to learn the squeaky clean, button-up type of people will never do it for me.

Neither will someone who expects life to be handed to them on a silver platter.

I can’t relate to somebody with that kind of mindset, which I guess isn’t that big of a deal, given the fact I don’t do relationships of any kind, so relating to them isn’t a huge priority.

But relatability aside, it’s also a turn-off, which is probably why the sight of his large, rough hand sliding down his fuzzy abdomen is so damn hypnotizing, and why I can’t stop drooling over him and wishing there was more.

My mouth waters every single time I get to the end of the video, when his hand dips below his boxers, giving me the briefest sneak peek of a thick patch of dark hair.

Fuck, what I wouldn’t give to see what that patch leads to.

If I have any say in the matter, I’ll be finding that out in no time.

By this afternoon, preferably. That is, if he doesn’t get offended by my response.

Who knows? Maybe pointing out our hefty age gap will freak him out.

I’ve bagged my fair share of older men before, even a couple of silver foxes—there’s just something about a seasoned man, with a whole lot of life experience under his belt, that makes my dick hard like nothing else can.

I can confidently say most of them don’t give a shit about an age difference, but there are the occasional few who prefer not to acknowledge it for whatever reason.

Luckily, I don’t have to wait long to find out which side he swings on the pendulum, as a new message from him pops up a moment later.

Despite knowing nothing about this guy, other than the fact that he has a deliciously husky chest and he’s, much to my liking, pro-bush, I’m drawn to him and find myself wanting his response to be flirty rather than put off.

Before I have a chance to find out one way or another, an acrid scent fills my nostrils.

Without even looking, I already know what I’m going to find as I spin around.

“Shit! Fuck!” Feet planted in place, I stare at the stove, wide-eyed, my hands held up in front of me as my mind blanks. As I watch the little yellow and orange flames blaze around the really fucking burnt bacon, I’m frozen for a moment.

There’s a fucking fire.

A fire!

What do I do ?

In school, you’re taught the proper procedure in case of a fire.

Firefighters come out to the school, walking kids through a plan, step by step, even sending them into a dark portable filled with fog that’s meant to resemble smoke and have us find our way out safely—which is honestly a little fucking intense for elementary school, if you ask me—so, I should know what to do.

Yet here I am, standing in my kitchen like a moth to a goddamn flame .

Shit.

“Okay, we got this,” I mutter aloud as I open the drawer beside the stove and grab a potholder.

“It’s a small fire. No biggy. You’ve handled worse.

You’re a fucking cowboy, for Christ’s sake.

” I wave the potholder over the flames while blowing on them with my mouth, but it’s not doing much of anything. “Fuck!”

Okay, it’s fine. Plan B, it is.

Finding my phone, I pull up a number I know can help me.

The line starts ringing as I place the call on speaker before setting it down on the counter next to the stove.

My heart’s beating so fast, you’d think there was a wild herd of cattle fleeing in a wild stampede behind my ribcage.

I keep blowing and waving the mitt over the flames until the line connects, my best friend, Remi’s, deep voice coming through.

“Little early for a call, isn’t it, Hol?”

“There’s a fire!” I blurt out as I toss the potholder off to the side and place my hands on my hips while I stare at the phone.

“What?” Remi hisses. “The fuck ya mean, there’s a fire? Where?”

“On my stove. I was making bacon and got a little distracted.”

“Did you call 9-1-1?”

“No, I called you. ”

Remi huffs a dry laugh. I imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose. “Dude, why the fuck would you call me before calling 9-1-1?”

My brows dip. “Uh, because you’re a firefighter? And who would they send here? Firefighters. I’m savin’ us both time by cuttin’ out the middleman.”

“Not really how that works, but whatever. Your world, Hollis. We’re just livin’ in it.”

“Damn right, it is.” I chuckle. “Now, are you goin’ to help me so I don’t burn my house down?”

Heaving a sigh, Remi says, “I’m assumin’, based on you being relatively calm, the fire isn’t huge?”

I shake my head, as if he could see me. “Not yet, but it’s growin’.”

“Okay, good. Grease fires have to be handled a bit differently than a regular fire, but I’ll tell ya what to do.”

Remi keeps talking, but as I watch the flames grow taller, his voice fades away, and my stomach twists in knots.

Then it hits me what I need to do—what the firefighters taught us in elementary school…

Water! Honestly, that should’ve been my first thought, but clearly, I’m not cut out for pressure in the face of fire.

Guess it’s a good thing I stuck with the family ranch instead of following my best buddy to the fire academy after we graduated high school.

Swiping the potholder off the counter again, I use it to pick up the skillet by the handle and bring it to the sink.

Once I have it under the faucet, I flip on the water just as my ears tune in to the tail end of what Remi’s saying.

“…but whatever you do, do not use water.”

“Oh, shit!” I sputter, jumping back from the sink as the flames double before I even realize what’s happening.