Kristen Painter - All Fired Up

She set the bottle down and picked up the receiver, staring at the little buttons. Did he have any idea how crushed she was? How much she hurt? How much she still loved his sorry cheating butt? She punched in the first few digits of his number, then hung up.

If her mother were still alive she would call. Her mother would tell Brad what a great girl he’d lost, what a blamed fool he was.

Calleigh rested her head against the wall. “If I don’t take care of myself, no one else is going to.” She picked up the phone and dialed every digit.

No answer. He had just called, and now he wasn’t home? Calleigh slammed the phone down just as his voicemail picked up. She snatched the empty wine bottle off the counter and tossed it in the recycling bin.

The bottle clinked against the other glass containers, the hollow sound ringing in her ears. Anger wormed up Calleigh’s spine.

Her parents should still be alive, her fiancé should have been faithful and her boss should be able to keep his hands to himself.

The bird carving taunted her from the coffee table, another reminder of the bad choices roosting in the chicken coop of her life. She stormed into the living room, plucked the carving off the table and heaved it into the fireplace. Blue flames shot up as the bird crashed into the fake logs. She belly-flopped onto the couch, dry sobs racking her body.

Snickers jumped up next to her, and she buried her face in his soft coat. “You’re the most faithful male I know, Snickems. Why can’t I find a man more like you?”

She was starting to drift off when Snickers sneezed twice. Calleigh turned to wipe cat snot off her cheek. “What the…”

Thick smoke furled from the fireplace, traveling up the wall to the ceiling where it pooled in a menacing cloud.

“I don’t think I should’ve thrown that thing into the fire.” Hopping up, she searched for something to pull the carving out with. Gas fireplaces didn’t come with tools. Maybe kitchen tongs would work.

Snickers hissed. She spun around halfway into the kitchen. “Oh my…”

Pulsing softly, a pillar of crimson smoke stretched from ceiling to floor before the fireplace. She stepped back and swallowed. Her heart pounded in her chest. Mrs. Crouper would smell this for sure.

The column glowed like an aberrant jack o’lantern. Flames danced inside the pillar and then the smoke disappeared with a whoosh, leaving a shaft of flame in its place. She needed a fire extinguisher. Now.

A flash of light blinded her. Spots danced in front of her eyes. Calleigh squinted. The fire whirled around a shape within the column. Couldn’t be, could it? No. Impossible. Just a shadow.

She blinked to clear the spots. How could so much fire give off no heat? “I am never drinking again. Ever. I swear.”

Goose bumps rose on her skin. Her nerves screamed for her to move, but her body refused to cooperate. Fearful fascination immobilized her.

As gorgeous as Michelangelo’s David and as frightening as a nightmare, the most beautiful naked man Calleigh had ever seen stepped out of the fading flames. Wings of fire hovered behind his divine form, making him look like a creature born of heaven and hell.

She blinked again.

“Who…how…what…” She licked her lips. The little sense she had left wasn’t coming out right. No more wine. She closed her eyes and tried to stop her spinning head. This is nothing to be afraid of. It’s just some stress-induced hallucination, some trick my chardonnay-soaked brain is playing on me.

She opened one eye. The wings were gone, but he was still there. Every utterly, completely, jaw-droppingly naked inch of him. Wow. A giddy smile curved her lips. Brad wouldn’t like this one bit.

Her hallucination stretched like a man waking up. His serious glacier-blue eyes focused on her. Was his burnished bronze skin as smooth as it looked? Her fingers itched to touch him. She reached for the breakfast bar instead and steadied herself.

A hammered band of gleaming metal encircled one thick biceps. Scars criss-crossed his chest. A spicy, cinnamon scent wafted through the air.

He closed his eyes and rolled his head from shoulder to shoulder. Dark gold locks brushed the top of his collarbone.

As far as hallucinations went, this one was grade A, even with the scars. Actually, the imperfections were a little sexy.

Definitely a hallucination. Men like this didn’t exist in real life. He looked like the cover guy off some steamy romance novel, like pure, raw sex. This is what she got for drinking a whole bottle of wine by herself. She cleared her throat.

At the sound, his eyes opened and roved over her body before settling on her face. He made eye contact, the slightest hint of a smile curving his luscious mouth, then looked around the room.

Her hallucination had just checked her out. She snickered. “So are you some sort of angel? Am I in trouble because I haven’t been to Mass in two years?”

“Nay, fair one, not an angel. A Phoenix.” Low and throaty, the liquid heat of his voice spilled over her skin. Sean Connery had nothing on this guy. She fanned herself.

He leaned back against the mantel like he owned the place.

Get it together, Cal. “You’re a what?” She clenched her fist, digging her nails into her skin in an attempt to sober herself up. “I’ve lost my mind, haven’t I? Are there men in white coats outside?”

“I am a Phoenix,” he repeated. “And I am here because you summoned me.” He bowed slightly then crossed his arms, his muscled shoulders rising like two delicious loaves of man-bread.

She counted his ab muscles. Was it possible to have an eight-pack? Her gaze went lower. Oh my. If you’re gonna dream, dream big.

Realizing her mouth hung open, she snapped her head up and her jaw shut. Instant heat flushed her cheeks. Where were her manners? Hallucination or not, staring wasn’t polite. Unfortunately.

“I need to sit.” She moved to the couch and sank into the cushions. It was hard not to gawk, considering the sad fact that, at twenty-six, she could sum up the number of naked men she’d seen on one hand, unless you counted National Geographic .

“I don’t know what a Phoenix is and I don’t remember summoning you but…” She snuck a sideways glance and exhaled, long and slow. “This is the best dream I’ve ever had.”

He pushed off the mantel and glanced at the fireplace, his nose wrinkling as he sniffed the air. “Smoke. You cast the talisman into the flames?”

“If you mean that bird thing then yeah. There’s a bunch more of Brad’s junk I plan to burn too.”

He reached into the flames and withdrew the eagle carving, turning it over in his hands. His brows knit together. “So you did summon me, but not with the inscription.”

Whoa. Naked and fireproof. “Summoned, conjured, what’s the difference?” She waved her hand through the air. “At least you’re not a pink elephant. Love the accent. What is that, Scotch? I mean, Scotchish?” She giggled at her intoxicated verbiage, leaned her elbow on the arm of the couch and rested her head on her hand. Maybe wine wasn’t such a bad drink after all and maybe a little touching wouldn’t hurt. He was just a hallucination, after all.

He frowned as though he were looking at a naughty child. “I am not a Scot.”

“Okay, Not-A-Scot, do you have a name? Or do I get to give you one? I should be able to name you since I dreamed you up. How about Hunky McHunkerto—”

“I am called Alrik the Iron.”

“The Iron?” Calleigh giggled again. “You do laundry? A naked man who irons. Wow. I should drink more often. Where have you been all my life?”