Chapter 1

1

Desmond

My sisters have finally gotten their revenge.

After years of me bullying their lame-ass boyfriends and leaving fake spiders on the dashboards of their cars, the two of them have banded together for the ultimate payback—and I have to say I’m impressed. I never thought of nominating them for a reality show against their will. They did think of it, though, so here I am.

On a reality baking for horrible bakers called You’ve Been Ambushed.

Someone in a headset instructs me to don my apron and I do so while chuckling. The damn thing is an extra large, but it’s still tight as a second layer of skin. As soon as I’ve got it tied in the back, I turn to face my sisters in the audience for the first time, glaring at them while they cackle like two hyenas.

“I’ll get you for this, girls,” I call, shaking my fist at them. “Sleep with one eye open.”

Around them, the audience laughs and I take a moment to enjoy seeing my sisters so happy. I’m not an asshole to their boyfriends without good reason. They’ve got terrible taste in men and both of them are in the midst of an especially terrible streak of bad luck lately. There has been a lot of crying and ice cream eating in my living room for the last month. My sisters don’t live with me, but they might as well have packed their suitcases and moved right into my house. I lost count of how many times I came home after a twenty-four-hour shift at the firehouse and found them snoring on my couch while the credits rolled on The Notebook.

If watching me make a fool of myself on national television makes them feel better, I can suck it up for a good cause. But I’m definitely leaving much bigger spiders in their cars next time. I might even work a fake rat into my routine.

I cross my arms and watch the host brief the home audience on the rules of the competition. Next, he stops to my left and interviews a redhead named Lola from Las Vegas. She seems pretty confident and I’ve already got her pegged as my biggest competition, but I don’t have much time to strategize because the host is in front of my work station now.

“Ladies and gents, I’d like to introduce, Desmond Conlon! According to his sisters, this brave FDNY firefighter has been banned from going within ten feet of the stove in his Queens firehouse. Desmond, can you confirm or deny?”

My laugh is still ricocheting off the walls when he extends his skinny microphone in my direction. “You set a couple of apple crisps on fire and everyone loses faith,” I say, shrugging. “I’m looking forward to redeeming myself today.”

“I won’t hold my breath,” calls my youngest sister, Melissa, setting the audience off.

I smile and shake my head. Honestly, this is what I get for being overprotective to a fault. They’ve ganged up on me now. I’m actually surprised it took them so long.

While the host moves on and interviews the girl on my other side, I try to make sense of the directions laminated to the table in front of me. We’re making a three-tiered red velvet cake and my only experience with this particular dessert is eating it. Since I’m as big as a motherfucker, I eat a lot, but actually making edible food has never been in my wheelhouse. It’s why I have a drawer full of takeout menus in my kitchen and a mother who always sets aside leftovers for me.

The host draws my attention when he croons, “Don’t you want to meet our celebrity judges?” And the audience loses their minds.

I’ll only be excited if one of them turns out to be Yankee.

Leaning forward on my elbows, I watch with vague interest as the panel is introduced. The first is a British guy I’ve seen baking on television before. Sebastian Cove. He seems fascinated by the female contestant to my right—doesn’t even the spare the rest of us a glance. So I guess I can safely assume I won’t be receiving his vote.

Laughing under my breath at the Brit’s obvious interest in the girl, I almost miss the name of the next judge, but when the curtain parts and she walks out, my mind plays back the host’s words.

Next we have renowned restaurant critic, Quinn Beverley.

Something turns upside down in my abdomen.

She’s nervous as she scurries to her place and sits down, hiding behind a fall of chocolate brown hair. But not before her big, hazel eyes land on me and widen.

Whoa. She is beautiful.

What is up with my stomach?

I’ve seen good-looking women before, right? Why is this one packing such a punch?

She’s so petite, her glasses look like they’re wearing her. In a sensible black dress and flat, pointed shoes, she calls to mind art galleries and Ivy League campuses. Not that I know what either of those places look like, but they’re all I can come up with. She’s a classy girl. That much is obvious.

In other words, the opposite of me.

That doesn’t seem to matter to my dick, though. Clearing my throat hard, I step closer to my work table, so my erection won’t be visible on camera. I should probably stop staring at her so I don’t tent my jeans on television, but I can’t. I’m mesmerized by her slender fingers playing with a little gold locket around her neck. I’m fascinated by her plump, pink upper lip and the way her skin turns peachy under the television lights. Or maybe my interest is doing that.

If I got under that dress, I bet she’d have on no frills, white panties.

Bet she’ll blush when I tug them off.

Virgin.

Yeah, you’re a little virgin, aren’t you, sweetheart?

A buzzer goes off loudly overhead and I lurch for my firefighting gear, before I remember I’m not at the firehouse, I’m on a reality baking show. Christ.

Plowing my fingers through my beard, I get down to business, combining the ingredients inside the standing mixer and flipping it on. I have no idea if I’ll manage to put a decent cake together, but one thing is for certain. I can’t wait to feed her something I made.

The intensity of that need catches me off-guard.

I’ve never wanted to feed, care for and please a woman like this. We haven’t even traded words yet and yet…I ache to be responsible for her.

I don’t like her sitting between the two male judges. If they didn’t seem wrapped up in the female contestants, I think I might have already kidnapped her out the back door. I’m actually resentful over the task at hand, because it’s keeping me from asking her out.

And I will be asking her out.

Will she say yes? Even though I’m a loud-ass firefighter from Queens and she looks like she belongs on yacht sipping champagne?

I glance up and find her rubbing the gold locket on her mouth, her hazel eyes zeroed in on my biceps—and I throw back my head and laugh.

Oh yeah, she’s going to say yes.

Pretty sure that makes me the luckiest son of a bitch alive.