The Men On Fire: A Complete Romance Series (3-Book Box Set)

  Men on Fire:

  The Complete Romance Series

  samantha christy

  Saint Augustine, FL 32259

  Copyright © 2020 by Samantha Christy

  All rights reserved, including the rights to reproduce this book or any portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover designed by Letitia Hasser | RBA Designs

  Cover model photos by Reggie Deanching | RplusMphoto.com (books 1 & 3)

  and by FuriousFotog | Golden Czermak (book 2)

  Cover model books 1 & 3 – Blake Sevani

  Cover model book 2 - Robert Kelly

  For all the first responders.

  Box sets by Samantha Christy

  The Mitchell Sisters

  The Stone Brothers

  The Perfect Game Series

  The Men on Fire Series

  A Samantha Christy Box Set (3 standalones)

  Contents

  Igniting Ivy

  Sparking Sara

  Engulfing Emma

  About the author

  Igniting Ivy

  Chapter One

  Sebastian

  “And your wife?” the guy on the other side of the counter asks me. He stretches his head to the side and looks behind me, then he checks his computer. “It says here the reservation is for Mr. and Mrs. Briggs.”

  I shake my head. “No. It’s just me. That isn’t a problem, is it?”

  “No,” he says. “We have several tours going up at once. We’ll just add another solo rider to this one.”

  It’s not the first time someone has asked about Brooke. It happened at the hotel when I checked in last night. I guess I should have changed the names on everything, but I didn’t think it would be such a big deal.

  “Step up on the scale, sir,” the guy says. “They will seat you according to weight. Then you can head over there behind that wall to watch the safety video.”

  I laugh to myself thinking that just about every woman I know would take issue with this weighing rule. But then I see the lady at the counter next to me being weighed and I realize the only people who see the weight are the people behind the counter.

  I go find a seat on one of the benches behind the wall. As we watch the video and are handed compact life vests that we buckle around our waists, I look around at the couples and families who are mostly excited to be here.

  A few people look scared. Maybe they’re afraid of heights.

  One woman looks sad, which I find strange considering we’re about to go on the excursion of a lifetime. It’s said to be the best one on the island. I look around, waiting for her companion to join her, but nobody does. Maybe that’s why she’s sad.

  “Please follow me.” A woman escorts us outside and then directs each of us to stand on a number painted on the pavement where we’re to wait to be called over one at a time.

  I look at the big blue helicopter in awe. It’s fantastic. We don’t get to see many helicopters in the city.

  I’m standing next to the sad woman. Her hair is blowing around from the wind being produced by the helicopter’s blades. A strand gets caught in her mouth and I watch her get it out with a crook of her finger. She’s beautiful. About my age. Petite. She catches me staring and gives me a weak smile. An obligatory smile. And that’s when I notice a small smattering of freckles across her nose.

  “Number two!” the person by the front door of the helicopter shouts for the second time.

  I touch her shoulder. Her soft, tan, toned shoulder. “That’s you,” I say, nodding to the number she’s standing on.

  She walks over and gets helped into the helicopter. Then they call me over.

  I’m seated in the front, next to the sad girl. We’re in the two seats to the right of the pilot and there are four additional people sitting in the back.

  “Enjoy your ride!” the helper shouts over the loud drone of the engine. “Aloha.”

  The pilot holds up a headset, indicating for us to put ours on. Then he gives us some instructions about speaking. Every two people have a small microphone to share, and if you want to talk, you have to press a button and hold it close to your mouth. Everyone on board will be able to hear what everyone says.

  “While we wait our turn to leave, let’s test the mics out,” the pilot says. “I’m Dustin Holloway. I’m originally from Seattle, Washington, where I flew for the Coast Guard for twenty years. This is a tad less stressful.”

  We all laugh, but nobody can hear any laughter over the loud sound of the propeller.

  “Let’s have everyone introduce themselves and tell us where you’re from and what brings you to the beautiful island of Kauai.” He looks at me. “You can start, number one.”

  I hold up the mic to my mouth and press the button. “Hi, I’m Sebastian Briggs, but everybody calls me Bass. I’m from New York City and I’m”—I roll my eyes—“I’m technically on my honeymoon.”

  The woman next to me narrows her eyes at me and looks to the back where there are two other couples. She looks at me again, questioning me with her confused stare.

  I shake my head. “Long story,” I say to everyone who is listening.

  I hand her the mic, her petite, soft fingers momentarily touching my longer, rough ones as she takes it from me.

  “I’m Ivy Greene. I’m also from New York City. But, uh, we’re not traveling together,” she says, nodding to me.

  “You going solo, too?” the pilot asks. “What brings you to the great State of Hawaii?”

  She looks down at her hands and her eyes close for a brief second before she lifts the microphone to her mouth again. “Yeah. I’m going solo. I … I’ve just always wanted to see Hawaii, I guess.”

  She quickly hands the microphone back to me like she doesn’t want to use it anymore.

  “Small world,” the pilot says. “How about the four of you in the back? You aren’t from New York City too, are you?”

  The four of them introduce themselves and then the pilot announces we’re ready to take off.

  I’ve never been in a helicopter before and from the seat I’m in, I imagine I will have the best view of all the passengers. I can see everything on this side of the helicopter, including what’s under my feet as the floor is made of glass. I feel sorry for the people stuck in the middle. I assume they paid as much for their tickets as the rest of us but surely their experience won’t be as spectacular.

  I almost wish I could give my seat to the sad woman next to me. Ivy. What an unusual name. But it’s pretty. And it suits her. Her hair is long and brown and parts of it are layered, and the ends of those layers curl up almost like vines of a plant climbing up her hair.

  As the helicopter lifts off, Ivy grabs my knee and squeezes. When she realizes what she’s done, she quickly removes her hand, her face turning three shades of red.

  “Sorry,” I think she says. But all I can see are her lips moving because I’m still holding the microphone. And all I can think about is that the hand of a stranger on my knee has made it feel like a bolt of lightning just shot through my body.

  She grabs onto the sides of her seat instead of my leg. I want to tell her it’s okay, that she can grab my leg if she wants. But I’d probably embarrass her since everyone on board would hear me.

  The pilot gives us a history of Kauai, telling us it’s the oldest Hawaiian island. He says hundr
eds of movies have been filmed here. He tells us everything from the history of the sugarcane plantations to the best places to eat.

  I realize I’m only hearing about half of what the guy is telling us because for some reason, my mind is still on the hand that was momentarily on my leg. I’m being ridiculous. It’s not like I’m some fifteen-year-old adolescent experiencing his first touch by a girl.

  I try to regain my focus and force myself to listen to Dustin.

  As we head off the coastline, he introduces us to the Na Pali Coast. It’s breathtaking with crystal blue water meeting thin lines of brown sandy beaches in front of a backdrop of the greenest mountains I’ve ever seen.

  Dustin explains that most of these beaches are only accessible by boat, and I wonder how much it would cost to rent one. I know I wouldn’t be able to afford it, and it would be a waste to go alone, but damn—the pictures I’ve seen of this island don’t do it justice. It really is paradise.

  I look at everyone else to see if they are as awed as I am. When my eyes fall on Ivy, I see she is the most affected by the beauty of our surroundings. I follow a single tear as it makes its way down the right side of her face.

  After the pilot doubles back to let those on the left side of the helicopter get an up-close view of the coast, we head inland, flying over the most picturesque landscape I’ve ever laid eyes on. There are so many waterfalls it looks like white hairs on a green background. There are hundreds of them.

  When we come to the most impressive waterfall, Dustin hovers at a safe distance. “This is Manawaiopuna Falls, but you will all know it better as ‘Jurassic Park Falls’ from the movie.”

  For ten minutes, we fly in and out of valleys, admiring waterfall after waterfall.

  When I take a peek at Ivy—why do I keep peeking at her?—I see she’s got her own waterfall going on. Right down her face. I’m not talking about just one tear. She’s downright crying. Ugly crying. Her body is shaking like she can’t catch her breath. And to be honest, her reaction is taking my breath away.

  “Are you okay, Ivy?” the pilot asks. “Do we need to head back?”

  I hold out the microphone to her in case she wants to answer him. Her shaky hand takes it from me.

  “I’m f-fine,” she stutters into it.

  “It is pretty breathtaking, isn’t it?” he says. “Sometimes I forget that since I see it four or five times a day.”

  All Ivy can do is nod, more tears flowing out of her like she can’t control it.

  I feel compelled to reach out and grab her hand. Because I can clearly see that her tears are not tears of joy or awe. They are tears of pain. She looks to be in excruciating agony. It’s hard for me to sit here and watch it. I help people. It’s what I do. It’s my job. At least that’s what I keep telling myself as I resist the urge to comfort her.

  If I talk to Ivy, the whole group will hear me. That’s not fair to her. So I do the only thing I can. I sit back and look out the window, taking it all in, knowing this may be the only time I will ever get to come to Hawaii. Because guys like me—people in my profession—we don’t normally get to take trips like this.

  Dustin flies us over Waimea Canyon. And then he flies us down into it. He points out some popular lookouts and hiking trails. We see people standing on the edge of cliffs, waving at us as we fly by. I smile knowing I’ll be one of those people in just a few days. Hiking the canyon wasn’t on my official itinerary, but it’s something I want to do. And it’s free.

  Thirty minutes later, after we’ve flown over a better part of the island, the pilot starts talking about flowers. The yellow hibiscus is the state flower. All his jabbering about flowers is the most boring part of the trip. Apparently, Ivy thinks so, too. Because she removes her headset, puts it in her lap, and closes her eyes until we land.

  One by one, we are asked to exit the helicopter and are then escorted into a gift shop where we can buy T-shirts, souvenirs, and even a video of our entire flight.

  While the other two couples stay and browse, Ivy and I head for the exit.

  “Mahalo!” a worker says, opening the door so we can leave.

  “Thank you,” Ivy and I say simultaneously.

  We silently make our way to the parking lot to find our cars. The lot is full of Jeeps—the rental car of choice on this island. I laugh as Ivy mistakenly tries to open the door of my rental, getting frustrated when her key doesn’t work.

  I come up behind her. “Maybe you should try these,” I say, dangling my keys in front of her.

  She looks down at her keys and then around at the other similar Jeeps.

  “Sorry,” she says, embarrassed. “They all look alike.”

  “Ivy?” I say, as she walks away.

  I’m not even sure what I’m going to say to her. I just know I want to stop her from walking away.

  She turns around and raises a brow.

  “Since we’re both here alone, maybe we could do some other things together.”

  “Uh, aren’t you on your honeymoon?”

  I laugh. “Technically.”

  “So where’s your wife? Did she chicken out?”

  “Yeah, she chickened out all right. She chickened out about nine months ago right before she was supposed to walk down the aisle.”

  Ivy’s hand covers her mouth in surprise. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Sebastian.”

  “Bass,” I say. “Or Briggs. Nobody calls me Sebastian.”

  “Okay. Well, I’m sorry, Bass. And I’m Ivy.”

  “I remember,” I say, taking a few steps closer. “Is there a Mr. Greene?”

  “No. It’s just me.”

  “Well, we obviously have the same tastes,” I say, motioning to the helicopter and then our identical Jeeps. “What do you say we have a few more adventures together? I have two tickets for just about every excursion on this island.”

  She ponders my question for a brief moment and then shakes her head. “I don’t think so. But thank you.”

  “Are you leaving Hawaii soon?” I blurt out awkwardly.

  She shakes her head again. “No. It was nice to meet you, Bass.”

  “You, too, Ivy. I hope you enjoy your stay on Kauai.”

  I hope you enjoy your stay on Kauai? Jesus, I sound like a travel commercial. Is that the best I could come up with?

  She laughs sadly before waving and walking away.

  As I watch her get into her white four-door Jeep and drive away, I’m left wondering what could possibly make a beautiful woman on a beautiful island so darned sad. And I find myself wishing I had the chance to find out.

  Chapter Two

  Ivy

  I love walking along the beach. Especially at sunset. The beach here in Poipu isn’t particularly long. Eventually, you run into black lava rock that is impassable. But it’s long enough to get lost in thought. And sometimes it’s long enough for me to forget.

  I pass a point on the beach that juts out into the water and see a few seals catching the final rays of the hot sun. There is a woman, a volunteer named Erma, who I’ve gotten to know quite well over the past week. Erma gets called every time the seals are spotted sunbathing. She comes to the beach and cordons off the areas with rope so that onlookers don’t bother the endangered seals.

  Erma tells me these two particular seals have been coming for months. They’ve even been given names. Flip and Flop.

  I stop for a few minutes to talk with her, letting her impart to me more knowledge of the monk seals that are so important to her and the State of Hawaii. I think Erma must be a hundred years old. Her skin is tan and weathered and has so many wrinkles it’s almost hard to see the woman within. But she is happy coming out here to protect her ‘babies.’ She’s content with her life.

  I envy her.

  A family comes over to admire Flip and Flop, and Erma excuses herself so she can go educate them. It’s obvious she loves her work.

  I continue down the beach, watching two small groups of surfers who are trying desperately to catch as many waves as possib
le before the sun goes beyond the horizon.

  There is a man who works the surfboard stand at my resort. Every day when I walk by, he offers to teach me how to surf. And every day I tell him ‘maybe tomorrow.’ It’s not that I don’t want to learn. I think it might be fun. I just don’t want to learn from him. He kind of creeps me out in a stalkerish kind of way.

  I’ve thought about trying to find someone else to teach me. But like most of my other good intentions, I usually end up doing nothing. It takes all I have just to get through each day, and the idea of having fun actually makes me feel worse—guilty even.

  It was hard enough to get the courage to go up in the helicopter today. It took me a week to work up to it. And it was every bit as wonderful as it was devastating. Just as I knew it would be.

  And as hard as it was, it was a welcome change from my normal daily routine—which pretty much consists of walking the beach, eating, crying, napping, and then walking the beach again.

  Only a handful of people are left on the sand at this hour. Families have packed up and headed back to their rooms to wash up for dinner. Most of those left are couples walking hand in hand, enjoying the magnificent colors of the sunset like I am. There is a woman walking her dog. There is a girl selling flowers. There is a man in the distance sitting on a lava rock, playing guitar.

  When I get close enough to hear the guy play, I realize just how good he is. This guy isn’t just strumming the strings—he can play. I’m in awe of the sounds coming from his acoustic guitar and I find myself plopping down in the sand about twenty feet behind him just to get lost in his music.

  Several other people stop and listen. One couple dances and then the man tries to give the guitar player some money, which he refuses. But he stops playing to have a conversation with the couple. When he stands up and turns around, I realize it’s the guy from the helicopter this morning. Sebastian. Or Bass, as he prefers to be called.