Page 3 of Let it Sizzle (Playing with Fire #3)

Levi

BBQ days are usually my favorite.

Firehouse lot full of food, smoke from the grill curling into the sky, music playing low from someone’s Bluetooth speaker, and the sound of Maddox running his mouth about who makes the best ribs. It’s tradition. It’s messy and loud and good for morale.

But today? I’m restless as hell. Because I know she’s coming.

Serena Summers is back in Silvertown Hollow.

And I can’t stop thinking about the way she looked standing in aisle three of Murphy’s Grocery like a damn fever dream in a pair of jeans that made my pulse spike and a pair of soft pink lips I couldn’t stop staring at.

And fuck, those curves in all the right fucking places.

I’ve been playing it cool. Or trying to.

“Yo, Chief!” Maddox calls, flipping a burger one-handed while waving a spatula like a mic. “We doubling up the jalapenos or are you scared your old man stomach can’t handle the heat?”

I shake my head and grunt, tossing a pack of buns on the folding table. “You’re the one who cried last year, not me.”

Zeke smirks from the corner where he’s slicing tomatoes with surgical precision. “He did. Eyes red and everything. Said it was allergies.”

Maddox throws his hands up. “I was emotionally overwhelmed. It happens.”

Byron chuckles, leaning back in a plastic chair with his arms crossed over his chest, watching all of us like he’s half-amused, half ready to throw hands if someone looks at the grill wrong. The guy’s a solid wall of intensity, but he’s family.

They all are.

But even in the middle of our usual banter, I can’t focus. I’m watching the road. Every time a car door slams, my head snaps up. I keep telling myself it’s not a big deal. She’s Byron’s sister. I’ve known her since we were kids. But that’s the problem.

I’ve known her since I was a dumb teenage boy who didn’t understand what it meant to want to protect something. Not just her body, but her spirit. Her softness. Her stubborn strength. And then she left and I wasn’t sure if she ever did feel the same.

But now she’s grown. Into a woman. One with curves that make my blood run hot and eyes that still hold too much sadness.

And I want her. I want her in a way I shouldn’t.

“You all right?” Byron asks, eyeing me as he cracks open a soda. “You quieter than usual.”

I force a shrug. “Just tired. Didn’t sleep much.”

“Thinking about that damn station remodel again?” Byron asks, gesturing toward the half-covered fundraiser board leaning against the wall.

I grunt, noncommittal. “We’ll raise enough eventually. Not losing sleep over it.”

Which is a lie. I am losing sleep. Just not over drywall or budget approvals.

He checks his watch and frowns. “She should’ve been here by now.”

“Who?” I ask, feigning distraction as I stack some plates, figuring he’s talking about one of his on-again, off-again flings from the diner.

“Serena.”

Her name hits like a sucker punch to the ribs. My chest goes tight, but I don’t let it show.

“Oh,” I say casually. “I actually ran into her at Murphy’s the other day.”

Byron raises a brow, intrigued. “Yeah? How’d she seem?”

“Good,” I lie, though my brain’s still replaying the exact curve of her mouth when she smiled. “Wasn’t expecting to see her, but… it was a nice surprise.”

He nods like it’s nothing.

And I stand there, gripping a stack of napkins like it’s the only thing anchoring me to the ground, pretending I haven’t been thinking about her since the moment she said my name.

Byron stretches his arms behind his head, glancing toward the lot like he’s expecting her any second. “I think being home will be good for her.”

I nod.

“I still want to smash that guy’s face in.”

“Which guy?”

“That guy she was with in the city—he really did a number on her. She’s been through hell these last couple years,” his voice low, private.

I tense, jaw clenched so tight I can feel the muscle twitch. But I let him talk.

“Made her doubt herself. Shrink to fit his bullshit version of what he wanted her to be. I saw it happening in real time. The way she stopped talking about her art. The way she stopped smiling like she meant it. And I should’ve said more.

I should’ve—” He exhales hard, rubs the back of his neck like the guilt still lives there.

“But you know Serena. Stubborn as hell. Kept saying he wasn’t that bad. ”

My hands curl tighter around the spatula. What I want to say? I would’ve driven down there and pulled her out myself if I’d known. No warning. No mercy. I’ve done it before .

“She finally left a few months ago,” Byron says. “Didn’t even tell him. Packed up and disappeared. I think she scared herself with how long she stayed. She’s still figuring herself out, but she’s getting there. She’s drawing again. Working. Trying.”

I nod once, still silent.

“She hasn’t figured out how to feel safe yet,” he adds quietly.

My throat works around the words stuck in it. She will. Because if I have anything to say about it, she’ll never feel unsafe again.

“She’s stronger than she thinks,” I say finally.

Byron nods, and for a second, I think maybe that’s the end of it. But then he adds, “And I think it’s better if she stays focused on her, you know? On rebuilding. Not getting caught up in another guy who’ll screw her up again.”

My chest tightens like a vise.

“Yeah,” I say. “Sure you’re right.”

He looks at me then. Straight-on. No bullshit. “And I know you’ll keep an eye on her. Like you always have.”

Those words hit me harder than they should. He means it like a brother would. Like I’m part of the family. Like I’m safe.

And he has no idea I’ve already broken that trust so many times in my head.

Because I want her. Not in the brotherly, protective way he thinks. Not anymore. I want her body under mine. Her legs wrapped around my waist. Her mouth gasping my name.

I want her like I’ve never wanted anyone.

So I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Because if I do, I might say too much. Might tell him I never stopped thinking about her. That I still see her as the girl I carried out of hell—and the woman who now haunts every goddamn second of my thoughts.

I look up, heart hammering. And there she is.

Serena.

Stepping onto the lot in a sundress that clings to her hips and dips low over that perfect, full chest. Hair pulled back with a red scarf, Samira by her side, sunlight hitting her skin like it was shining just for her.

Her eyes scan the crowd. And then they find mine.

And just like that—I’m fucking wrecked.

She’s… fuck. She’s unreal.

That dress? It’s cut low, like sin. Her full, perfect tits pushing against soft fabric, swaying just enough to make me adjust my stance. Her curves move like she doesn’t even know every damn man here is watching her. Like she has no clue what she’s doing to me just by walking.

The fire I’ve been barely holding onto since the grocery store roars to life. Every cell in my body tightens. My mouth dries. My cock twitches like it knows exactly who it wants, and how long it’s been denied her.

Byron slaps my shoulder once and pushes off the cooler. “There she is,” he says, already making his way toward her. “Told them I’d meet them at the entrance.”

I don’t move. Don’t breathe. Just watch him wrap her in a hug like he’s got no idea I’m standing over here fighting not to lose it. He hugs Samira too, says something I can’t hear over the chatter, and the three of them head toward the food tables.

That’s when Maddox appears beside me, his eyes tracking the same sway of hips I haven’t stopped staring at since she stepped onto the lot.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath. “That’s Byron’s out of town sister? Damn. She’s hot.”

I don’t even blink.

“Don’t you have something to do, Maddox?”

He glances at me, eyebrows raised. “What? I’m just—”

“She’s Byron’s little sister,” I cut in, my voice low and sharp, laced with a threat I don’t bother hiding. “She’s off-limits. To everyone. Got it?”

He straightens like I just barked a command at a fire scene. “Yes, Chief.”

Good. Because the next guy who so much as thinks about her the way I just did is getting laid out flat.

I turn back toward the lot, keeping my stance calm, my jaw tight.

But inside? I’m burning. I’m hard. And I’m one second away from dragging Serena into the engine bay and tasting every inch of that perfect, curvy body until she forgets what it felt like to ever be touched by someone who didn’t worship her.

I need to stop.

This is getting out of hand, and if I don’t cool off soon, I’m going to do something stupid.

So I head for the cooler, pop the lid, and grab an ice-cold beer like it might save me. The condensation beads across my knuckles as I crack it open and take a long pull, hoping the bitterness will drown out the heat in my blood. It doesn’t. Not even close.

I’m this close to dumping the entire goddamn cooler over my head just to shock some sense into myself.

Instead, I turn toward a few of the guys tossing a frisbee by the far edge of the field at the back of the firehouse and jog over, nodding like I’m here to unwind.

Maddox fires it across the grass, and I catch it one-handed, trying to force my brain to focus on something other than the curve of Serena’s ass in that dress.

But it’s no use.

I toss the frisbee once, twice. Smile when Zeke jokes about my weak throw. But it’s not long before my gaze shifts—searching, scanning, traitorous.

And there she is.

Standing by the picnic tables, sipping from a Solo cup, her shoulders still drawn tight like she’s trying to fold herself smaller. I try to look away, but I can’t.

Because who the hell am I kidding?

I take another sip of beer and try to act like I’m still in this game, but my eyes are already back on her.

It hits me then she hasn’t changed, not really. Still quiet. Still beautiful in a way that sneaks up on you and knocks the wind out of your lungs.

She shifts her weight to one foot, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she talks to Samira.

But it’s not just the way she looks. It’s the way she’s holding herself.

That guarded expression. That slight distance she keeps from everyone around her.

She’s here, but not entirely. Like she’s not sure if she belongs yet.

It must’ve been hard to come back after everything.

I know she wouldn’t have come back if that old bastard hadn’t died. And I don’t blame her.

And that’s what gets me.

Not the dress. Not the curves. Not even the flash of smooth skin when the wind picks up and lifts the hem just enough to tease me.

It’s the way she looks like she still can’t breathe in a place that used to suffocate her.

And suddenly, I can’t stand being over here anymore.

I can’t toss another frisbee or drink another beer or pretend that the sight of her hasn’t been scraping something raw open in my chest since the moment she walked in.

So I hand off the frisbee, mumble something about needing a refill, and start moving before I change my mind.

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned?

You don’t ignore the things that matter.

And Serena Summers has always mattered.