Being a firefighter means I work hard and can go all night. But hey, I've got plenty of fires to put out in my downtime, too. Fortunately I've got just the tool to do it. Size matters, ladies. I've got a big one...and I would have been happy to show you before a sassy, sexy brunette crash-landed in my life.

Lola is quirky; she's talented; she's unbelievably gorgeous; and she's getting over the world's worst breakup. I've got two words for you: off limits.

So even if her smoking-hot body drives me nuts, I'll keep my tool to myself. We're friends - not lovers. I've got her back, even if what I really want to have is her front. Her mouth. Every delicious, curvy inch of her.

And then one hot, dirty night in the bed of my truck, she makes it clear that she's on fire for me. After stoking the flames and achieving a blowup of nuclear proportions, I know I'm in big trouble. Once isn't enough. Now my need for her is a four-alarm blaze...and I'm beginning to think I don't ever want it to burn out.

Copyright © 2018 Anne Marsh

All rights reserved.

www.anne-marsh.com

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locations or organizations is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system, with the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

Original cover design by Deanna Paquette

Formatting and ebook design by Geek Girl Formatting.

SWAGGER

Anne Marsh

Chapter One

Stone

Flames are mother nature's way of hitting the reset button, running her Magic Eraser over years’ worth of shit to prune out the dangerous tinder cluttering up the forest floor. Today is the perfect example. Doesn’t matter whether I’m looking front, left, right or behind—Mother Nature’s on a cleaning rampage and a smart man would either stay the fuck out of the way or get on board with her program. This is one of those days when you either retreat to your garage with a beer or you flick a Bic and make your woman happy by lending a hand with a couple of backfires. Nature’s one hell of a girlfriend and right now she and I are in a committed relationship. There’s no room for anyone else in my life.

And I’m fine with that. I give my word, I keep it—and once I’m all in, I don’t leave. So me and this fire? We’re in it for the long haul and I’m not going anywhere until our shit is sorted. We’ll fight some, but make up more. I don’t argue. I’m not one of those people who likes to get up in your face and give you grief about why you’re wrong and I’m right. Those are just words—what matters is what we choose to do. Sexy, stubborn, determined, pain-in-my-ass, rock… I’ve been called all the names. Doesn’t matter. Don’t care. I’m that guy—the one who stays around to pick up the pieces. The one who carries on until the job’s done.

Today’s job, however, is turning out to be bigger and more stubborn than me. Staying hydrated is important, so every fifteen minutes I hit the pause button on my digging and knock back a mouthful of water from my canteen. Since temps have reached a balmy hundred-plus-degrees thanks to the enormous bonfire Mother Nature’s served up, I could make a cup of tea from what I swallow. It’s less than satisfying, but a cold beer and a Barcalounger didn’t make the gear list for the Big Bear Rogues this year. There’s always next year. I re-cap the canteen, scrub a hand over my face, and crack my neck before picking up my Pulaski again.

 My Big Bear Rogues are at the heart and center of the wildfire. The noise of water tankers flying overhead almost drowns out the roar of the chainsaws and the cheerful curses of the team of guys cutting line beside me. The Rogues are twenty of four hundred firefighters, but even all together we’re not enough. Today’s fire hungers for more and we’re constantly forced to play catch up, chasing the flames, going balls out to dig and hold a line. No one’s packing out any time soon, but it’s not as if I’d know how to spend the downtime anyhow. I fight fires. I’m a hotshot, U.S. Forest Service, and damned proud to serve.

Summer after summer.

Year after year.

AJ, a woman who won the title of World’s Best Auntie year after year after year, constantly gave me shit about quitting. She claimed I’d be barbecue long before I put her in the ground. It was a good game. Whatever she dished out, I’d give right back. I figured we’d keep trading jabs for another couple of decades, but last spring she was the one who went and passed unexpectedly and so here I am, still doing my thing. I plan on being a Big Bear Rogue for as long as I can pass the annual physical. I like to think AJ’s sitting up there in heaven with a cold one cracked, rooting for me because I knew and she knew that whatever words came out of her mouth were just another way of saying I love you, so stick around. I’m certain that’s why she left me Baby Bear Lodge, her string of rental cottages, so I’d have one more reason to be careful out here because those cottages were her babies. As if knowing she cared about me wasn’t enough. 

Plus, I’m not one for going away. Big Bear Lake’s my home. I grew up here, did a stint as a park ranger here, and except for the tours of duty I did as a Marine, this is where I’ve always been. I know the Rogue River basin like the back of my hand. If I weren’t a hotshot, I’d still be out here because this is my place to keep safe. Couldn’t keep me away from the fire line even if I’m Jack trying to saw down the beanstalk with the Forest Service equivalent of a penknife. The muscles in my back burn as I dig line, but the ache is familiar. We’ve been thirty-six hours in the field with no sleep because there’s still a chance my team can beat this one back.

Working in the canyons can be deadly. We’re waist deep in thick underbrush and getting a bead on where, exactly, the fire is can be almost impossible. Trees blaze up left and right, thin threads of smoke adding to the general cluster fuck as the flames chew slowly through the sagebrush on the canyon’s eastern wall. With the right wind conditions in that canyon, we’ll find more trouble. The rugged terrain means it took hours to pack a hand crew in, so the hotshots stay near the access roads while the smoke jumpers take over deeper inside the park. Mother Nature is the girlfriend from hell and a smart man knows where his safety zone is. One canyon wall burning isn’t so bad. If both walls burn, however, the combination will be lethal, creating a deadly wind tunnel sucking in oxygen and spitting out nothing but flame and barbecued hotshot.

Since I like my balls unburned, I keep a watchful eye on the tiny flames crawling up the western wall—and I’m not the only one. I’ve got my Rogues’ backs, and they’ve got mine.

I hate waving the white flag.

Colt Jaxon saunters toward me, jamming his portable radio back onto his belt. He’s clearly itching to share some new update from headquarters. Maybe it’s his racing days that make him happy to have bossy-ass voices yammering in his ear, but I never volunteer to man the com-lines myself. I like to see and smell the fire. I’ve got a finger on its pulse and I’m chasing the flames hard now. It’s like awesome sex. Fire and me, we’ve been dancing around each other all night, swapping drinks, trading stories, but now it’s time for a good night kiss, and then we’re going home together. I’ll put her to bed, strip down, and then we’ll really get hot and dirty.

The wind shifts.

Colt curses.

And… game fucking over.

Sorry, guys, but this is the moment in the bar when your would-be honey leans over and brushes the friend kiss over your cheek. Do not go home. Do not drop her panties on the floor. Do not get laid. I’m suddenly out of luck and looking at another long night of alone time because that little breeze may be a cool pick-me-up on the back of my neck, but the gust of air also sends licks of flame dancing along the fresh-dug earth. The fire’s hungry and the wind feeds it, flames laddering straight up a nearby ponderosa pine like Jack humping his goddamned beanstalk. The dry wood lights up like a torch as I drop the Pulaski, grab my chain saw, and get to work. Sparks fly, the chain chewing through the crusty bark.

Colt’s work boots hit the ground beside me and stop. Take a moment to appreciate that pause because it doesn’t happen often. Colt’s a former racecar driver and stop isn’t part of his vocabulary. The man likes to go, preferably at about a thousand miles an hour. He never sits still, and even when his feet aren’t moving, the rest of him is. Most times, I’m happy to race along side him, although I’m no fan of going in circles. I love Big Bear and it’s not like I’m itching to go explore the world, but circles just seem pointless. I like where I am just fine. Colt whistles as he takes in the tree and then clears his throat. He’s got news to deliver and he’s trying to figure out how to make it pretty.

He should know by now that pretty and me aren’t best friends. Don’t need it, don’t want it. Pretty doesn’t stick around. The way he talk though, it sounds like he’s about to do voiceover for a race. The man’s voice is enough to get him laid, and that’s before the ladies see his face. We still give him shit for the underwear ad he did, but I have to admit—I shut the fuck up about that once he told us exactly how much he got paid to strip. You don’t make that kind of money dancing at the titty bar with the world’s best pair of triple-Ds, and while I’ve never wanted more than what I’ve got here in Big Bear, I appreciate a gazillion zeroes as well as the next person. If someone paid me that much money, I’d strip down to my skivvies too.

I finish making my undercut.

Colt rocks forward and backward on his heels, his mouth glued shut like he’s under some kind of cone of silence. When HQ radios in, the news is usually unhappy. Doesn’t matter, though. I don’t have time to do the polite dance. The way I see it, our fire line is about to give. 

“Watch the top.” I elbow him hard in the ribs in case he’s lost in thought.

Colt tilts his head back, monitoring the treetop while he finishes considering his words. Despite his ridiculous love of physical speed and some real creative cursing, Colt can’t be otherwise rushed in the speaking department—I’ve seen him stand up in front of a room of hotshots and take five long minutes to choose exactly what he wants to say—so I watch the tree with him while he gets his words in order. This way neither of us gets hit by a widow-maker while we wait. When a dead tree collapses and goes down, you don’t want to be in the way.

And then I cave and fill up the silence for him.

“Fire’s run southeast in the crown. We’re gonna have to pull back.” I point to the treetops, assessing the fire’s likely path. Colt’s eyes follow my finger and he frowns. He’s seen this before, he knows what comes next. He scrubs a hand over his face and finally starts talking.

“Got us a handful of U. S. military in the park, beating the bushes with an FBI agent and looking for America’s most wanted. Or some such.” After giving the agent’s coordinates, Colt adjusts his hard hat and waits like he hasn’t just dropped the mother of all bombshells on me.

Hell.

I eyeball the western ridge while I get started on the back cut with the saw, mentally plugging the coordinates in . . . and, yeah, that’s about the worst possible place for anyone to plant himself right now. The fire is shifting. We don’t have aerial yet, but when the boys overhead report, I know in my gut that my suspicions will be confirmed. This fire is a shit storm that just took a right-hand turn.

Colt’s FBI agent has a death wish. We’ll have flambéed public servant in another hour or two—it’ll be like a pig roast gone bad. The real question is why Colt’s sharing this info with me. It’s not as if we’re shooting the shit over a nice cold beer, talking about how our days went and here’s this real funny-not-so-funny story he wants to share.

I set the chain saw down. Colt jams a wedge into the raw slice with a smoothly practiced gesture as I ask the stupid question. “Any chance the government’s finest will wrap their manhunt up in the nearer future?” 

I’m fucking happy for them that they’re taking a field trip and getting some fresh air, but this smells like more work for our team and we’re already balls out. Personally, I’ve never understood how people can be happy stuck inside an office all day, no matter how nice the building. Ask an anchovy if it likes being filleted and shoved inside a tin can, and it would tell you to fuck off if it magically learned the art of speaking English. It’s not swimming in the ocean where it belongs and it never wanted to end up slapped on a pizza or decorating a salad. So it doesn’t matter to me that they’ve got some real nice buildings up on Capitol Hill if you like marble, no color, and an echo. Unlike the suits that work there, I prefer to be outside. I’ve got the sky for my roof and plenty of space. Working with my hands helps me think things through, so being a hotshot is a natural fit. I get to dig, chop, and cut shit down. I’m awesome at my job.

The only downside is that sometimes my job tries to kill me. Case in point? The ember that lands on my sleeve. It’s no accident that I’m wearing Nomex so I can just brush it off. Probably looks fucking ridiculous, a big guy like me facing down a tiny spark. At six three, two hundred ten pounds of muscle, I scare the shit out of most people just by looking in their direction. Fire’s bigger than me, however, and I can practically hear Mother Nature laughing her ass off at me. Gonna be time to get out of here soon.

“Unlikely in HQ’s opinion.” Colt finally gets around to answering my question. He passes me an ax and I vent my frustration on the wedge. My first drive sends the tree leaning, raining down more vicious little embers. Two, three more strikes and the tree will come down. “They’re running on radio silence while they hunt this guy.”

“And the U. S. government can’t save a buck and let the bad guy go up in flames?”

Seems like an efficient plan to me. Normally I’m all about judge, jury, and due process, but I’d rather not have to go looking for extra-crispy public servants after this fire passes through because some fucknut bolted into the woods instead of showing up in court. More embers and small branches bounce down, so I pick up my shovel and turn a load of dirt, extinguishing the small flames swirling about my work boots while I wait for Colt to answer my question. It’s a scene straight out of Dante’s Inferno or, as we like to call it, just another day at the U. S. Forest Service office. 

“Something about needing proof, followed by terrorist yadda-yadda,” Colt finally volunteers.

“Fuck,” I sum up. The snag topples.

Colt nods but doesn’t take his eyes off the dead tree coming down. The burned-up trunk slams into the ground a few feet away. “You think those uniforms understand they’ve been issued an invite to a barbecue?”

“Nope.” I consider the possibility for a moment, running scenarios in my head. I don’t see any way our unexpected visitors get a happily-ever-after without an intervention on my part—or God’s. Since divine mercy isn’t a sure bet, and I am, the way forward’s way clear. Yes, I am a Boy Scout and I’ll be the one going in, because we can’t pull the team off the line here. I know these woods best, anyhow. “What’s their access route?”

“Dispatch says the FBI team used the same fire road we did, but turned off at the northwest trailhead. It’s likely they ditched the Humvee at some point and cut cross-country on foot. Satellite footage is showing smoke and not much more.”

“Radio contact really isn’t happening?” 

“Team went silent when they hit Big Bear Lake because intel said their target could be monitoring the airwaves.”

“Then their target should be long gone,” I say dryly. “Unless he’s deaf, blind, and his nose isn’t in working order, he’s not going to sit still in the middle of a raging forest fire.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Intel also said the target had bunkers and might have pulled back to an undetermined canyon to ride this one out.”

Huh. I abandon the line and head back toward my truck. Colt dogs my ass like we’re dating. 

“Mind the gap,” he says, winking.

“You put a hand on my back or grab my elbow and you’re losing it,” I warn. Colt’s got a strange sense of humor, and he’d probably find it funny as shit to try and play the gentleman with me. I don’t need taking care of.

Colt heaves an exaggerated sigh as my truck comes into view. “You still driving that POS?”

 I don’t bother answering—we both know he’s just bored. Sarah Jane, my truck, isn’t the prettiest girl at the bar, but looks don’t matter out here. You want solid and you want powerful. An engine that’ll have your back and take you from zero to sixty when you need it. Colt drives a different car every week and he sure as fuck doesn’t name them, but I stick with my baby. Sarah Jane’s parked in a row of beat up, dependable trucks—and one Porsche SUV. Personally, I think Colt just likes to mess with us, but I’ll be the first to admit he’s got himself a pretty ride even if I’m likely gonna have to tow his ass out of here when it starts to rain.

Wait.

Bunkers.

I replay Colt’s words in my head while I stomp toward my ride.

When the fuck did a state park acquire bunkers?

Big Bear Lake isn’t a huge place. It’s more of a pit stop for folks on the highway or lost or down on their luck. We play host to weekend hikers, L.L. Bean aficionados, the odd pot farmer or six, and a few free spirits who prefer to live off the grid and therefore give me a wider berth than a feral cat. It’s also the permanent home for those of us who were born here. We don’t even merit a Motel 6—Baby Bear Lodge is our one set of rental cabins. They consume my weekends with one repair after another. AJ wasn’t big on preventative maintenance; she was the kind of woman who waded in with a wrench and plunger after the toilet had backed up rather than keeping the drains clear from the get-go. I used to tease her that she didn’t need a social club so long as she had tenants—and then ride along so I could give her a hand. Lot of memories there, and the place and I? We’re right together. Some things are just meant to be.

Bunkers, however, are terra incognita. I don’t even know how you build something like that. Or dig one. Helicopter it in. Maybe it’s a euphemism for really big hunting blind? Could be a ginormous princess palace with pink turrets and unicorns, for all I know. Anything’s possible. One thing I do know for certain is that any man topping the FBI’s most wanted list has to be desperate, crazy, or one hundred percent motivated to stay ahead of anyone looking for him. A man like that might be even stupid enough or clever enough to go to ground in the middle of a firestorm and emerge unscathed.

Or super, extra crispy.

Again, hell. Reaching into the cab of my truck, I snag the radio. I want to confirm Colt’s 4-1-1 for myself. Dispatch proves happy to hand me over to the federal marshals taking up room in the command center so those boys can finish connecting the unhappy set of dots for me. If anything, Colt’s downplayed the situation. We’ve got one FBI special agent. Three backup soldiers playing escort and security detail. And as our free-gift-with-purchase, we get one bona fide crazy who apparently posed for a photo op three weeks ago and who did his selfie action in my park with a large arsenal behind him. I know this because the feds text me the photo while I’m still on the phone with them.

He—and his arsenal of room—is definitely in Sequoia National Park according to the feds. And here I thought my job was a whole lot of too-little-too-late. Finding my target will be like looking for a needle in a haystack—not to mention there’s the unasked, unanswered question of why I’m only now learning that my forest might contain enough explosives to blow my hotshot team sky high.

Some days, it doesn’t pay to get out of bed.

Usually, those days are the ones where I’m curled up with a gorgeous blonde (or a redhead or a brunette) and I’ve been showing her a few tricks with my hose. Today’s not going to be so fun.

I hang up and turn toward Colt. He’s leaning against my truck, that shit-happy grin splitting his face.

“Hell. I’m really going to have to go in and pull them out, aren’t I?”

“Ten-four that. Better you than me.” Colt gives me a two-fingered salute.

Chapter Two

Olivia

The goshdarn forest is on fire. Granted, I’m no fire expert, but the flames snaking through the tree crowns seem like a bad sign. My experience with things that burn is limited to oven fires, the occasional misaimed Chinese firecracker, and the Break Up Club’s summer bonfires. Normally, I’m a big fan of learning new things. Normally, I’m open to first-time experiences and broadening my horizons. Normally, however, my ride would start and I’d be appreciating all this newness from the safety of the driver’s seat and in the rearview mirror.

That driver’s seat is part of a hundred-thousand-dollar, military-grade Humvee with an engine that’s turning out to more recalcitrant than a Capitol Hill lawmaker protecting his favorite pork project. Like more than one lawmaker I’ve met, the engine has been serviced, babied, and lavished with government dollars—and it still won’t do its job.

Kicking the tires wouldn’t be professional—or helpful. I remind myself of that. The only thing assaulting my Goodyears will accomplish is breaking my toes.

Today’s operation is supposed to be the cherry on my career sundae. I’ve spent the summer working undercover in Big Bear Lake, painstaking establishing an alibi so that no one will question my presence here. Officially, I’m here for a little R&R and girl time. I’m a founding member of the Break Up Club, a mostly girls-only club that offers companionship, judicious applications of booze and sugar, and post-relationship break-up therapy of the bat-swinging, souvenir-burning variety. When I first saw the sign for the Break Up Club in the local coffee shop, advertising rustic cabins and a “safe space” in which to “work through” the loss of a boyfriend, I figured it would make excellent cover. I’d rent a cabin, participate in a few club activities, and spend the majority of my time hunting for Holm Arthurs. While my job always comes first, becoming a member of the Break Up Club has become something more.

Still, as far as the residents of Big Bear are concerned, I’m just another gal hoping to get over the end of her most recent relationship. The “rustic cabins” are a string of teensy-weensy rental cottages that make tiny living look mansion-sized. The cottages are charmingly labeled Baby Bear Lodge and come with a grumpy, firefighting landlord who likes to hammer way too early on a Saturday morning. Fortunately, he’s a firefighter, so his renovation hours are limited. I’m tempted to call him for his professional opinion about the fire action going on nearby, except that I expect he’s already out here.

Plus, Grumpy and I have enough personal history that he’s been doing a stellar job avoiding me or at least limiting his conversation to noncommittal grunts and cashing of rent checks. I haven’t told the other gals in the club about that shared past. It was just a summer fling, it’s over, and clearly neither of us is fantasizing about a repeat, even if I do enjoy checking out my landlord’s butt whenever he’s not looking. He looks fantastic when he’s…hammering.

And I get more opportunities to ogle him than is good for me. Baby Bear Lodge is a little rundown and therefore Stone Clayton makes frequent guest appearances to fix whatever’s broken most recently. He swings a powerful hammer, but he’s not chatty. He doesn’t talk up the other lodgers, and they’re all on a no-man diet anyhow. Or they were. It’s possible there’s something weird in the local water supply because my fellow club members have not done a good job at staying single. At all. First our founder, Lola, hooked up with a hotshot. Then Sarah Jo, my next door neighbor and club member, picked out a hotshot for herself, too. I kind of want to warn the next woman who moves in that she might be making a bigger commitment than she expects.

Me, however? I’m not letting a grumpy hotshot firefighter, however hot, take control of my life. I’ve logged hours (817 of them to be precise) and today is payday. The day I march victoriously into Sequoia National Park and successfully track down a wanted domestic terrorist. Pass Go, collect two hundred dollars, and score a much-wanted promotion while taking out a bad guy. The bad guy’s name is Holm Arthurs and he gives me chills. At first glance, he looks more like a mild-mannered accountant or a soccer dad than a domestic terrorist. He’s slimly built, possesses a healthy tan and neatly trimmed brown hair, and wears khaki chinos. He also goes to church semi-regularly and pulls in a good income from selling insurance—insurance, for God’s sake. Last year, he won a trip to Cancun as a sales bonus. He went, as the swim trunk shots on his Facebook page announced.

You’d think he was as normal as you could get, right?

And you’d be wrong.

Holm’s secret passion is stockpiling ammo and arms in the bunkers he hand dug throughout Sequoia National Park.

A bunker isn’t a needle in a haystack and I have a solid action plan—and yet so far today is a bust. Based on satellite photos, I worked my way inside the park with the Humvee, before it gave up the ghost, and got my team close to several likely spots. Witnesses reported spotting Holm’s truck at various trailheads in the area and our target is still here even though his truck is nowhere in sight—I know it, and no, that’s not instinct. It’s a fact. I like things that can be proved or disproved, right or wrong, no shades of grey. That fifty shades business? So not my thing.

Based on the eyewitness reports and some very nice satellite imaging, Holm is here. Somewhere. Which makes him a very dangerous needle in a five-hundred-square-mile haystack, given his fascination with weaponry and things that go boom. He’s also packing a deep-seated desire to blow up the status quo. Maybe he’s a homebred crazy, certain he has the inside line on the due date of the apocalypse, or maybe the forty thousand rounds he ordered online through four shell accounts indicates he has larger plans for carnage than the two U.S. soldiers he’s already killed. Either way, I shut him down. Today. Before he loads up his truck with explosives and hits a shopping mall or a school.

I planned for today. I always plan. In my defense, I think everyone should Pinterest her outfit choices for a big event. You can keep it private if you don’t want the whole world knowing you’re waffling between the LBD that belongs on the floor next to your best panties or something a little safer. I’m not an outside girl, so today’s hike forced me to hit up L.L. Bean and swap my Kate Spades for Carhartts. With all the heat-wicking, blister-preventing gear I’m sporting, I’m doing okay although the abundance of sunshine is more bikinis-and-margaritas-by-the-pool worthy. The rest of my team is similarly incognito. We’re passing ourselves off as a group of weekend hikers, my friends from out of town whom I’m showing around.

>Granted, storming a national park with a full-on SWAT team would raise civilian eyebrows, but our motivation’s more basic than that. According to our intel, Holm Arthurs is supremely paranoid. Anywhere he goes, he’s on the watch for military pursuit, convinced the sky’s going to open up and rain down armed paratroopers on his ass. He’s the kind of guy who keeps a gun next to his toilet paper in case we burst in on him while he’s parked on the can. And since one of his most recent purchases includes a high-powered rifle and a thousand rounds of ammunition, I’m taking that threat seriously. If he makes my team and he has a scope, we’re all dead. Posing as group of day hikers is the safest approach, even if it means running on radio silence so as not to spoil our illusion.

Despite the fire blowing up over the eastern ridge, today has been pretty good. The sun shines, the birds sing, and even though I’m not Mother Nature’s biggest fan, I can see why some people would choose to walk around in a big, tall bunch of trees. After the first hour, however, I can’t help but notice that our mountain-fresh air is slowly turning smokier and visibly darker. With each passing hour, our surroundings grow decidedly less Instagrammable and more concerning. By lunchtime, we’ve got some kind of big smoke plume expanding behind us. The temperature keeps rising, too. When we break out our sandwiches, I slip out of my jacket and tie it around my waist. Even a T-shirt and sports bra feels like way too much right now.

By midafternoon, we’re tired, hot, and clearly out of luck on the hunting bad guys front. There’s no sign of Holm, but there’s every sign of trouble. I’m not Smoky the Bear, but I don’t think the lick of flame that shoots out of the underbrush and darts around a tree trunk is some kind of forest welcome wagon.

I stop walking so I can better assess what’s going on here. My guys come to a halt as well, their eyes following mine. The flame gets longer as we watch, which makes my next conclusion obvious. It’s time to fall back. No matter how badly I want to bring in my target, starring front and center in a barbecue is not a logical choice. I have a responsibility to keep my team safe, and since we’re no closer to finding Holm Arthurs than when we started six hours ago, I need to change course.

Even if I totally don’t want to. I prefer to pick a direction and power onward. Stone once described me as the human equivalent of a battering ram.

“We make one last pass,” I announce. “Then we hit the road and hike out of here.”

Falling back is never my first choice, but the risk is now too high.

Lieutenant Mayne, the leader of my military backup posse, nods. He’s onboard with my decision. This is good because the military and the FBI don’t always play nicely. Not only are we more likely to jockey for command than cooperate, but I have a vagina and he has a dick. I have zero interest in swapping reproductive organs, but I’m also used to copping an attitude from some guys who think my ball-less state somehow affects my brain.

“Ten-four.” Mayne motions, a sharp, forward flick of his hands, and his men move out with neat precision. He’s not as good as I am at posing as a harmless weekend hiker. I move with them, scanning the ground, watching for tracks, while I mentally put myself in Holm Arthurs’s shoes.

Holm likes to dig. He’s a man who’ll go down rather than up when he has the choice. The first two bunkers we discovered had been dug deep into the forest floor, which means I could be walking across an armory right now and not know it. Fortunately, excavation leaves some telltale signs, so I stay on the look out for fresh-cut trees and disturbed earth. No matter how good Arthurs is, he has to have left some sign of his passing behind him.

In the con column, Holm is damned good at hiding.

In the pro? I’m not unfamiliar with these woods.

I spent the better part of the summer between high school and college exploring every inch of Big Bear Lake with one very sexy park ranger, aka “Stone the landlord.” At the time, he was a park ranger rather than a property owner, while I was one of the vacationers whose family arrived in a rented RV to enjoy the unspoiled beauty of the park. This was kind of a bullshit statement because we were city people through and through. We saw more trees parking the RV than we did the rest of the year combined.

The trees weren’t the best part, either. My teenaged self was thrilled to discover that our country’s national parks come well-stocked with hot park rangers. When they’re naming national monuments, they shouldn’t forget these guys. Stone looked absolutely spectacular in his ranger uniform, and I spent many happy hours tagging along in his wake just so I could check out his butt in his dark green uniform pants.

I’d never been this far out West—and even now you can’t go much further without ending up ankle-deep in the Pacific Ocean—but I reluctantly fallen a little bit in love with the place. And yes, I may have lost a bit of my heart to that man in uniform, too. Twenty-three to my eighteen. Big, built, and ever-so-slightly scarred from a less-than-perfect childhood, I ached to fix him. Or at least to kiss him better wherever it hurt. I chased him through the woods because I was supposed to be getting back to nature (and fair enough, he’d done some chasing of his own), so if Holm Arthurs thinks he can out-hide or out-hunt me, he can think again.

I’m not the stranger here.

I’m also that good.

I may prefer doing my hunting in the urban jungle, but I’ve aced my training courses. My Glock 19M has been my best friend and companion these last few years, but I’m also comfortable with a 12-gauge shotgun and a carbine. I can box, grapple, and disarm a suspect. If it needs doing, I can do it.

Thirty minutes later, I signal for a stop and squat down to examine my find. Bingo. The homemade snare beside my boot proves I’m close. Hunting isn’t allowed in the park, although undoubtedly some visitors choose to ignore that particular rule. This snare, however, isn’t just anyone’s handiwork—it sports Holm’s trademark knot. That knot is concise. Spare. Lethally simply. Whatever else he is, Holm isn’t wasteful. If he set a snare, he plans on coming back to check for dinner.

Even as I motion for eyes on the snare, however, orange embers float down from the canopy and land on the thick carpet of leaves and pine seedlings that have set up shop beneath the tall ponderosas. It’s no garden party—flames promptly dance up in a lethal cha-cha-cha. Mayne flicks a quick glance up at the sky, and then to his left. He motions for me to look.

And… I really don’t like the look of that horizon. The sky is black as shit. My team is still on radio silence because otherwise we might as well send Holm a cupcake bouquet or a greeting card. He’ll hear the chatter and know exactly where we are—and then he’ll go to ground or shoot and run. It will be twice as hard to smoke him out the next time. Har har har.

“We’ve got trouble.” Mayne stamps out a volunteer flame with his boots.

I can’t disagree with his assessment. The ambient noise is picking up, too. Enough so that I swear I hear crackling. Unless Arthurs is literally underfoot, he won’t hear us coming now. Mother Nature is making her own version of white noise, and I don’t like it. I have zero experience with forest fires, which makes me a fire virgin and this is absolutely no time to pop my cherry.

“We still got time?” Mayne keeps his eyes on mine, waiting for orders. The set of his shoulders, though, makes it clear he’s voting for a quick evac despite the question.

Yeah.

He’d like to take charge.

He’d like to call this operation and get us all out of here.

And while part of me appreciates his need to white knight, the rest of me knows that I’m the boss and that therefore I have to be the one to make the call. You don’t let the dog yank the leash; you make him obey on the first command and you never repeat yourself. A pack can only have one leader and if I cede the leadership role now, I’m never getting back. Not with these guys.

It sucks, however, that Mayne is dead-on right and I’m in one hundred percent agreement. We’ve pushed as far as we can go, and that’s not a matter of luck. It’s science and facts.

“Not enough for Holm Arthurs. We’ll have to rain check his ass.” I survey the horizon again. “Unless this fire does our work for us.”

“Wouldn’t get that lucky,” he grouses.

We both take a moment to enjoy the mental image. Holm Arthurs is dangerous. He plans to hurt the people I’ve sworn to protect, and yes, I’ve got a problem with that. So I allow myself five seconds to imagine a raging forest fire barbecuing his sorry, hate-mongering ass. The problem with the easy solution is that we’ll never know for certain that Arthurs is dead. We’ll have to keep on searching, diverting resources from other manhunts. That kind of endless loop benefits no one.

There’s a reason sticking your enemy’s head on a spike on the wall used to be so popular. You can just point and say problem solved. Nobody’s going to disbelieve you because they can see for themselves. Uncle Sam likes certain things to be crystal clear. You mess with us, you threaten our people? We come after you. Just think of me as Uncle Sam’s favorite, one-fingered salute. I’m here because I’m a closer. I’m also a decent tracker, an excellent bomb technician, and a trained psychologist. I’ve been point on five previous manhunts and I always, always get my man. Holm Arthurs is number six and then I’ll move on to number seven.

Team first, though, and that horizon promises trouble.

“You take the team back to the Humvee,” I decide. “See if you can get her operational again. If not, we pack out on foot. I don’t see any signs of our boy yet, but we’re close. I’ll hang back and take one more look, then I’ll join up with you.”

My backup isn’t happy with the plan, but I’m in charge and I give the permission here. Since I have no advanced training in motor vehicles, Mayne’s in the hot seat to get our Humvee operational again. While he works, I’ll use the minutes to search for Holm Arthurs. It’s efficient and it has a decent chance of success.

He’s close. I know it.

Only a few hours of daylight remain as I head away from the access road, and the wildland fire is definitely picking up. That blue-black plume of smoke punching upwards on my east is broader and higher than before. The flames have found fuel, and the weather report I listened to before heading out this morning promised wind. Wildland fires in the national parks aren’t unusual, even in October. Summer in Northern California leaves everything dry and burn ready, but I have a different theory.

Holm Arthurs likes to set things on fire and then he likes to watch. If he’s responsible for today’s mayhem, he’ll hang back and pull up a chair.

From the corner of my eye, I catch movement.

There. A quick flash of camo and skin, possibly a man pulling back into the thick brush. I take off after that glimpse of something. Adrenaline pumping, I breathe slowly and steadily, pushing the air in and out of my lungs smoothly as I settle into a hunting rhythm. If Arthurs is teasing me, I’ll bag him for that alone.

Left. Right. Another hard, hard right. He knows I’ve made him and he’s running hell-bent for leather, but no way I lose him now. Instead, I pin my eyes on the disturbance ahead of me in the woods, where the bushes bend and snap back into place as he pushes past. Arthurs runs surprisingly loudly, but I’m not exactly in stealth mode myself. I’m a one-woman parade riding his ass fast and hard.

Until the ground freaking drops away beneath my boots. I cartwheel, boots skidding downslope through a soft rush of leaves. This is not the way I like to fall for a guy. Ever.

I hit bottom, roll, and get up fast, gun out. When I scan the trees, I see nothing and I can’t help but think how is it he disappears faster than my last date? But that’s how it goes sometimes. You chase your tango and he dead-ends you. Or perhaps that flash of white was a ghost. On my right, just over the ridge, the dark boil picks up. Smoke chokes the air, and I yank my T-shirt up over my mouth. Not only have I lost visibility, but I can hear new, scary fire sounds. This isn’t the cheery snap-crackle-pop of the tame campfires we host back at Baby Bear Lodge. I don’t get to whip out the marshmallows and indulge in a little S’mores action while my girls vent about their man woes. This is a loaded freight train barreling toward me faster than I can run and I need to fall back.

As I start up the slope, stay is the last thing on my mind. I’m not one of those die-hard hold-ons who vows to outwait any hurricane, storm, or natural disaster Mother Nature has in her arsenal. I’ve learned to weigh the odds and pick my battles. I’ll come back for Arthurs when I’m not at risk of becoming a charcoaled briquette.

This is a great plan. Well thought out. Logical. The best option available to me at the moment. You think Life would slap a gold star on my forehead for making such great decisions.

Nope.

Not a freaking chance.

The wind shifts when I reach the top of the slope and the treetops explode.

Chapter Three

Stone

Sometimes Mother Nature draws a big fiery arrow that says Idiots Here. Darwinism in action. What the fuck are the idiots in the middle of the goddamned road thinking? Both sides of the access road are on fire and a thick sheet of black smoke makes breathing less pleasant as well as increasingly more impossible. When I peer down the road through the smoky haze, I count five smaller spot fires blazing happily because the embers that rain down from the trees aren’t playing around. They look kind of cute and small, like mini-fireworks or sparklers, but looks are deceiving. Fire and fuel is never a good combination, but those embers get plenty of air and they light up whatever they touch.

Right now, the only safe zone is the road itself because the asphalt will hold the fire’s press back some. That should buy me just enough time to shovel the idiots into their Humvee.

The three soldiers grouped around the vehicle show no signs of budging. I’m not sure it’s the military’s hardware that concerns them, either. I pull up hard and fast enough that I may just tap their very expensive bumper with Sarah Jane’s more beat up chrome. I like to leave a mark.

“Sorry,” I lie, leaning out the window. “You guys need to hit the road now.”

And… nothing. Nada. They stare back at me with that expressionless face that they teach you to make in boot camp. That’s fine. I learned a few things working for Uncle Sam and then I perfected my own poker face playing cards with AJ and her girls. Sometimes we played for cash. Sometimes we played for clothes, and AJ was ruthless. She liked a good laugh and her girlfriends appreciated a good view. I was the two-for-one special at poker night until I learned how to win.

So I pick out the alpha dog, get out of my truck, and get right up in his face. I’m bigger and I’m right. “Go now.”

We both know he can’t shoot me, but he’s clearly tempted. He can take a number. He levels me with a calm stare that looks through me like I’m not even here.

“No disrespect, sir, but you’re not my commanding officer.”

Yeah, maybe I’m not top dog on a military battlefield anymore, but I happen to rule this particular corner of the world. I’m U. S. Forest Service and a hotshot, so unless these guys want to get into an actual firefight, they get to follow my orders.

Fuck his noise.

“You want my social? I’m a U. S. forest ranger and the guy in charge of this fire scene. You go when and where I say.”

“We have orders.” Soldier boy’s eyes take in my yellow Nomex brush shirt. A shirt that’s partially unbuttoned with a spectacular lack of military precision, exposing the formerly white T-shirt underneath that’s now a soot-and-sweat-soaked tie dye. If we’re comparing guns, my belt sports a Leatherman and a wicked machete instead of the arsenal of concealed fire power the other man is packing beneath his flannel shirt, but my blade’s still bigger than his. My Nomex work pants are also a sight better suited to our current working environment than his L.L. Bean.

“You’ve got new orders now, soldier.” I lean into his personal space. “And even if you didn’t, this park? Is my territory. Out here, I’m in charge.”

“That so?” Soldier boy doesn’t look convinced. He’s more stubborn than AJ.

“Yeah.” I jerk a thumb towards the ridge. “Right there? That’s a fuel load waiting to blow. She’s not just rigged, but rigged to go up in your face. It’s not a question of if it burns—it’s a question of when. We’re holding a line a mile north of here and that’s where you need to be headed right now if you’re serious about finishing this job of yours. So you get your asses back into your ride and you get the hell out of my park. I’ll do my job and you’ll live another day to do yours.”

Right on cue, fire ladders up a tree on the other side of the road and the crown goes up. See? Thank you Mother Nature for that well-timed little demo.

“Exhibit A,” I add dryly.

Soldier boy swallows his fuck you—I admire his ability to prioritize in the face of the advancing fire—and falls back briefly to confer with his colleagues. Then he raises some hell on a portable radio. Maybe the radio silence edict is finally over.

From where I’m standing, I can give them one, maybe two minutes to finish up their convo. These boys are sitting smack at the fire’s head, right where she’s expanding and gaining ground. And that makes this road the frontline in my war.

When the good lieutenant comes back, he nods tersely. This is man speak for you’ve got a point but I’m not gonna admit it. “Okay. Here’s the sitch. The Humvee isn’t running. We can fall back on foot, take that route you outlined, but first we’ve got another issue we have to resolve.”

The look on the other man’s puss is a whole lot of not-moving-an-inch. One minute down, one to go. The soldiers might not want to leave, but I don’t care how much firepower they’re packing. My turf. My rules. I appreciate the job they do defending the good old U. S. of A., but out here in Sequoia National Park, I’m the first and last line of defense. This is my world. My fight. And civvies of any kind are merely a fucked-up wrinkle in the landscape.

“Get in my truck, then argue.” I slide into the driver’s side seat. I left the engine running—SOP when you might need to beat a hasty retreat. Too many good men have laid down their lives because they fumbled a key in the ignition at the wrong moment.

“Can you count?” The lieutenant opens the passenger-side door and motions for his two companions to hop in the bed. “Because as soon as you can count to four, we’re out of here. Our bomb expert is still out in the woods.”

Fuck me. Now I have to do both a search and a retrieval.

“Because today is such an excellent day for a little off-trail hiking?”

The good lieutenant gives me another deadpan look. “Hunting.”

“Which is illegal in a state park,” I deadpan.

“This is our target.”

The lieutenant passes me a photo as he gets in and I get my second eyeball of the crazy. It’s a different photo than the one I was texted earlier, but it’s the same guy. Not too tall, somewhat bland, blond, and smooth-shaven, a face that fits right in with the kind of weekend camper who drove out to the park with a trunk full of L. L. Bean and REI. Like the earlier picture, the guy’s getting way too friendly with his weaponry, palming an AK-47 with obvious affection.

I rerun the plan in my head. I can turn over my keys to the military contingent and get their asses moving out on the fire road. Then, I’ll pack in on foot and find this missing bomb expert. I can find a safety zone and wait until the fire moves on or is contained. It’s not my first choice, but it’s do-able. “Give me a name and a general direction. Then you reverse my truck and drive like hell five miles in the other direction.”

“And?”

“And I’ve got twenty, maybe thirty minutes to find your missing man before this area is overrun.” I’m already sliding my ass out of the truck, motioning for the lieutenant to take my place into the driver’s seat.

“Woman.” The lieutenant shifts, finds the gas, and presses. Sarah Jane’s motor roaring to life as I grab my gear from the truck bed. I’ll have to cut cross-country. “Our missing member is a female FBI agent. Olivia Albert.”

Huh. Funny how it’s a balmy hundred degrees out here in the park but I’ve got ice coating my spine. Olivia Albert. Vee. If this isn’t a weird naming coincidence, fishing this agent out of the woods was going to be even more challenging than I anticipated.

Because the thing is I know an Olivia Albert, and I’m not sure the world could handle two of them. It’s possible this Olivia isn’t my Olivia. Yes, I said mine. Or she was, once upon a time.

That sounds like a fairytale, when our ending was way less happy. Fortunately, I’ve earned my name and I keep my face impassive, because Lieutenant Mayne inventories every blink and swallow more carefully than the military shrink who wanted to discuss how I felt about losing men from my Aircraft Rescue and Fire Fighting team or a rescue that went particularly FUBAR.

Vee and I, we have history. Lots and lots of history. One of my favorite historical moments occurred when I was twenty three. We’d just had ourselves a nice, icy cold swim in Big Bear Lake that had chilled but not daunted the family jewels. When we got out, all I could think about was licking the water off her body. Tracing each drop with my tongue in a dirty game of connect the dots. Loving her with everything I had, dick, teeth, hands, and yes, my stupid fucking heart. Because she dropped her bombshell as she stood there on the shore, rubbing a towel over her sweet curves in a way that made her part pin up and all off limits. She told me she was off to college (not a surprise) and thanks for the smoking hot summer (also not a surprise because the sex was amazing, as were the feelings I had for her). And then she walked away from me like things were over between us, and had in fact never gotten started (huge surprise). All I could think about was that she was wet and wearing the wickedest scrap of a white crochet bikini known to mankind—and I was naked and wearing my heart on my sleeves.

She tied me in knots.

I’d wanted to wrap my arms around her and beg her not to leave. Instead, I’d extorted a promise to write and waved her on her way. I hadn’t said half the things I’d wanted to.

Actually, I hadn’t said anything at all.

I’d been so busy drinking in the little Vee details that I’d missed the big picture. I was her summer boy toy, not her forever man. No, I didn’t care about that. Not at all.

When I finally screwed up my courage to write, she’d never written back. Could have been because I wasn’t Shakespeare, but the truth was pretty obvious. She just wasn’t that into me. One-sided love sucked.

So she’d gone her way and I’d gone mine. Back then she’d been interested in forensics and engineering. Maybe that does translate into a career with the FBI, but it seems out of character for the girl I knew. She’d loved puzzles, figuring things out, and making lists, but no way I imagined her as a federal agent with a permit to carry and a badge.

But things change.

People change.

When she showed up at Baby Bear Lodge this summer and rented a cabin from me, I played it cool. The outside package was even hotter than before, but that’s the frosting on the cupcake and I was pretty sure I wasn’t a fan of the cake beneath the froth. We exchanged a few pleasantries, I gave her a key, she gave me a check. It was all so goddamned polite.

I didn’t ask why the fuck she’d never bothered to write.

I didn’t even give her the shit cabin, the one with the leak in the roof and the family of opossums under the deck. I gave her a fucking smile because I’m mature and a gentleman. She shot me an equally polite smile—and nothing more.

We’re good.

Amazing.

I’m totally over her. I’ve moved on and revisiting what we had would be like going back to the appetizer course after you’ve had mains and dessert. If, you know, my cooking skills ran to more than grilling the biggest, baddest slab of cow that I can find. I’m not Mr. Fancy, and Vee was out of my league even way back then, all those summers ago. Of course, if I don’t haul her ass out of my forest pronto, any changes are gonna be moot, because she’ll be dead. Plus, I’ll have to find a new tenant. The mature thing is to go after her, rescue her—and then rub her nose in needing my help.

That plan totally works for me.

“Don’t scratch my truck.” I call the words over my shoulder as I start a slow, steady job into the woods.

“You going to find her?” Lieutenant Mayne put the truck in drive.

“Couldn’t stop me,” I say.

Because I’m gonna paddle her ass when I do.

Which is plenty of incentive to find her before the fire does.

Chapter Four

Olivia

The fire kicks into high gear with an ominous crackling. I don’t need Smokey the Bear to hand deliver the bad news that I need to beat feet. Now. Unfortunately, the worst of the smoke now blocks my direct line back to my team and the Humvee.

That’s okay.

I just need to stop. Think. Adjust today’s plan.

I orient myself, getting my bearings with my handheld compass. There. Three clicks north and I’ll be back on the road. If said road is no longer open to traffic, I’ll have to adjust the plan further, but it’s a good start.

Hurrying is the important part.

Fifteen minutes into my run-hike, I hear someone. It sounds like a man, calling from the other side of a heavily forested ridge. He’s still far off but closing on my position. I focus on his voice, holding my breath so I can hear him better. He’s muffled, but I’m almost certain those steady, deep tones don’t belong to anyone on my team.

Run faster . . .

Adrenaline pounds through me, my pulse spiking. Holm Arthurs is a possibility I have to consider. He shouldn’t know my name, but who else would be out here and looking for me?

Shouldn’t doesn’t mean can’t and there’s a reasonable chance that he’s been monitoring the airwaves. We’ve run on radio silence today but perhaps somebody broke. Perhaps there’s been a significant shift in the weather or the situation on the ground, significant enough to merit chancing the airwaves. Arthurs could have made us. I award myself a bonus breath because panicking is not part of my plan.

I’ve trained for this, and more importantly, I’ve practiced. The FBI academy honed my skills in defensive tactics. I’ve mastered an arsenal of control holds and now I’m not afraid to hit back when the situation calls for it. Before, when I was still a kid, I didn’t understand that sometimes people don’t do what they should and the only way to stop them is to hurt them. Yeah, it wasn’t a fun lesson and it’s why my father and I parted ways.

But it means that Grown Up Me will do what needs to be done. If I have to shoot Holm, I will—even though I personally think letting his ass rot in prison for the next sixty years would be far more painful. Death is quick, but boredom and regrets last forever.

My best option is to find a spot to wait my pursuer out. Whoever it is moves straight for me. Did I leave clear and obvious tracks? Probably. I’m FBI. Not a recon and surveillance scout. I make a mental note to add Army Ranger training to my schedule when I’ve finished this job.

The man yells my name again. And is that a goddamn it I hear?

Closer. I drop to the ground, sliding beneath a particularly thick manzanita bush and inch forward on my stomach as I palm my firearm. It’s time to put Ambush 101 into play.

The man emerging from the trees eats up the ground with a sure, confident stride. He’s also far too large to be my tango. His big body clocks in at well over six feet, and I can’t miss a single inch. His bright yellow jacket paints an unmistakable target on his shoulders and back, although the baseball cap pulled low over his forehead shades his face and eyes from me. He’s tugged a bandana over his mouth because the air is growing thicker and smokier with each passing moment. Definitely not my tango, but I don’t know why he’s dogging my ass, either.

Keep on walking, buddy.

Work boots draw level with my hiding spot and I put a precautionary finger on the gun’s trigger. Before I can sight, however, he drops fast to one knee, one big, gloved hand reaching for me. This is not part of my plan.

“Come on out,” he growls.

Before I can react, he’s pinned me, one arm wrapping around my middle and dragging me up against his body. His other arm comes down and grabs my wrist in a Grade A military move. Someone’s trained him, and trained him well. I don’t drop the gun, but the air leaves my lungs in a fast, hard rush as he squeezes my ribs. He outweighs me by at least sixty pounds and that gives him the advantage.

Hotshot. That’s the first word that comes to mind. The fire I spotted over the eastern ridge has the area crawling with the elite wildland firefighters. He sports the obligatory Nomex fashion statement, bottle-green work pants and a bright yellow work shirt. He’s unbuttoned the cuffs, rolling the fireproof fabric up to reveal strong, tanned forearms.

Unexpectedly drool worthy.

Stockholm, much? I buck hard, aiming for his forehead, and followed with a hip check. He flows with me, off-balance but not letting go. When he finally does go down, another gritty curse explodes from his mouth as he takes me with him. He shoulders the brunt of the impact, though, rolling so I land on his chest and not on the ground. Splayed on his chest, my wrists pinned against the ground on either side of him and face-to-face with my attacker, I’m looking at a whole new kind of trouble.

Stone Clayton.

My landlord and spank bank favorite. He was beautiful the summer we first met, young and broad-shouldered with a wardrobe of faded cotton T-shirts that clung to each powerful ripple of muscle. I watched him hike mile after mile, and I wanted him to run. Straight towards me.

He’s bigger than he was that summer, his muscled frame more solid. His face wears a new layer of experience, experience that makes him seem harder, harsher. Life’s scraped the shiny optimism off the boy I knew, and I’m pretty sure it’s only partly due to the faint scar lines peeking out from beneath the blond curls he inherited from his European ancestors. His hair is now cut ruthlessly short, but he still has the high cheekbones and the sun-kissed complexion that made the park’s female visitors dream. And okay, I’ve done a little daydreaming myself since the day I arrived at Baby Bear Lodge and discovered my landlord was my ex-summer-boyfriend.

The sight of him now sets off a sensual fire low in my belly that threatens to burn out of control. My Stone. I open my mouth. Close it. Because, even though this is his park, I’m his tenant, and we’ve run into each other a handful of awkward times since this summer began, he’s still the last person I expected to run into out here.

I also kind of wish he wasn’t pissed off at me.

That I hadn’t run away ten years ago, making anything between us now impossible.

“You are aware there is a three-hundred-acre wildfire blowing up maybe a mile from here?” His smooth, deep voice is unhurried. Nothing makes Stone go fast. Aided by the latest copy of Cosmo, I used to try every sexy trick I could think of to make him lose control. He never did. He was always Mr. Slow and Steady, driving me unyielding, teasingly, relentlessly toward the happy, happy Land of Orgasm. And wouldn’t you know it, I still get the shivers listening to him, hoping he’ll go on talking, when I know he’ll lapse right back into silence as soon as he’s spit out the bare-bones minimum.

Stone doesn’t chatter.

Or fuss.

He gets in, he gets out—and he always, always gets the job done. As I’ve rediscovered since moving into the cabins, Stone redefines slow, steady patience. Thorough and intent, he has the fierce focus of a warrior. Repairs, driving his truck, casual conversation—he’s 100 percent attentive. And he was like that in bed, too, God help me.

His grip tightens on my right wrist, and my gun threatens to slip out of suddenly numb fingers.

“Safety’s off,” I warn him, avoiding his question. “This is not a good idea, Stone.”

He levers up effortlessly on his elbows, as if I weigh nothing. It’s both flattering and annoying. I’ve spent the last few years making sure my presence mattes and now I feel like a lightweight. In one practiced move, he relieves me of my weapon, easing my finger off the trigger before returning the gun to me. I almost shot him. And yet my body is busy cataloging the feel of him beneath me, the way those powerful thighs flexed as he sits up fully, cradling me on his lap as if I’m someone he could take care of. He smells like smoke and pine, Old Spice, and something unforgettably, indefinably Stone.

I’m so stupid.

He starred front and center in my college fantasies until I sat College Me down and given her a stern talking to about how career came first because Suzy Homemaker didn’t fare well in my childhood experiences. I’d grown up with a front row seat on what happened when you trusted someone else to handle life for you. Yes, I’m looking at you, Mom and Dad. Nothing in the world could have induced me to go there and I definitely wasn’t risking my college scholarship or my spot at a top-notch university. Stone had made it clear that he was a mountain boy who’d stick close to home. He wasn’t leaving Big Bear and I couldn’t let my chance pass me by for a summer romance. We’d come from two different worlds, pursuing very different goals.

“This park is closed, honey.” Stones stares at me, as if we’ve just run into each other in the parking lot of a Starbucks and I’ve asked if the place is still open. His yellow Nomex sleeve brushes against my flannel shirt. The last time I saw Stone that summer, I spent hours teasing him in a white bikini until he got the most delicious revenge, holding me down and stripping...

No more thinking.

I send my brain a cease and desist order.

“Really?” I drawl. “Now there’s a news flash.”

“Uh-huh. So you run along home now.”

I can’t help but notice that he makes no move to slide me off his lap. The anger is familiar. Anger is better. I’ve spent years building my career. No matter how fantastic his body—or the memories—are, Stone doesn’t get to talk to me like this. I’m a special agent with the FBI. I made it through the National Academy. I’ve led successful manhunts across two continents. And I have a plan for how to handle Stone.

As he leans into me, I execute step one, wrapping my thighs around his waist and pulling him over.

Stone laughs and rolls. His hands close carefully around my wrists and I forget about the fire and the manhunt. Instead, I’m intensely aware of the strong male body pinned between my thighs and the powerful pull of his muscles as he wrestles with me. He thinks we’re playing—and he’s definitely holding back. He doesn’t see me as a threat. I shift my hands until I’m shackling his wrists, pinning him in place. Just as suddenly, his body relaxes beneath mine. He doesn’t seem to give my gun a second thought, either, but that’s Stone Clayton for you. The man would sleep through the Apocalypse if he’d already taken his preventative measures.

His deep chuckle reaches places I’ve forgotten about. “That’ll teach me to rile you up, honey,” he rumbles.

This time, his hands stay down. I’m totally not disappointed. I’m not.

Honey. He’s the only man who calls me that. I’m not sweet—most of the men I run into (or chase down, arrest, and generally kick the asses of) label me bitch or cunt. Tasty people get eaten up in this world, so I’ve never regretted not being sweet. Right now, I’m pretty sour, if we’re being honest. It’s damned hot in this forest. Sweat drips off my face, soaking my tank top beneath my shirt.

Stone looks up at me and his eyes crinkle at the edges, as if he’s about to laugh or smile again.

I really should kill him.

Instead, I look down at him. I can feel the frown crinkling my forehead and that’s a tell I can’t afford. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you,” he growls, suddenly serious. “Like I said, the park is closed and we’ve got one hell of a fire coming over that ridge far too soon.”

“I’m aware of the fire,” I snap, rolling off him. I take a moment to catch my breath, back pressed against the ground. I wish the only reason I’m breathing fast is our quick wrestle, but being on top means that my girl parts have been straddling Stone’s boy parts and now all of me is thinking we’re overdue for an intimate reunion. So not happening. Overheard, smoke clouds out the daylight. It’s only three o’clock, but it’s already dark enough to be twilight. At this rate, the smoke will make it impossible to see anything within the hour.

Stone gets smoothly to his feet. He’s silent for such a big man. “Good. Then we’re in agreement that you and I need to get going. Right now.”

He reaches down and sticks out a hand, waiting for me to take it. That’s Stone for you. He’s always been sure. Confident, in bed and out of it. He always knows the best way to do things. Fortunately, I have more than a few opinions of my own.

“Who put you in charge?”

“The U. S. Forest Service.” He gives up waiting for me to take his hand and hauls me to my feet, brushing the leaves and twigs off me with brisk efficiency. Except for that last moment, when his big hand lingers on my butt. Maybe. Possibly. God, the lick of fire that goes through me has nothing to do with the wildlands and everything to do with the man.

Chapter Five 

Stone

Vee yanks her hand free. Message received. I’ve wondered, over the years, what happened to her, but I’ve also told myself I’m better off without her. I didn’t chase her down when she failed to write to me and I’ve managed not to stalk her on the Internet. And then, out of the blue, she turned up at Baby Bear Lodge, renting a cabin along with the other girls who claim membership in the Break Up Club. When I first spotted her, I told myself I was crazy for the curiosity that spiked through me. I told myself to collect her check—and to ignore absolutely everything else.

I don’t get to imagine where she’s been for the last ten years.

Or who she’s kissed.

Or who might have hurt her bad enough that she’s joined a gal pack called the Break Up Club. I really don’t like thinking about that because while I may joke about giving her the cabin with the leaky roof, I don’t actually want her to be hurt or sad or even remotely inconvenienced. Which she isn’t. Probably. Thank fuck.

Outdoors is a good look for her. She’s wrapped up in fresh-off-the-rack L. L. Bean like a Christmas present tailor-made for me. Her brown hair is pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail, giving me a clear look at her face, and those hazel eyes—yeah, I have some mighty fine memories of those eyes looking up at me as I sank deep, deep inside her hot, sweet body.

She doesn’t look welcoming right now.

Nope, She drops my hand like a hot potato and starts marching away from me. “I’m out of here,” she adds, but the words are unnecessary. Her intentions are plenty clear. “I don’t take orders from you.”

Too bad for her I’m even more stubborn than I was ten years ago. Plus, the forest’s not the safest place right now, so she needs me even if she won’t admit it.

I fall into step beside her.  “That’s a three-hundred-acre fire out there.”

“It’s not here yet.” She checks some kind of handheld gizmo.  The military has clearly shared toys with her and, under other circumstances, I’d ask her to share. We could have a play date and see who has the best… toys.

 “The road is two clicks from here,” she continues. “If I hike at a moderate pace, I’ll reach it in twenty minutes.”

Olivia

Stone’s not on board with my hike-out plan. At all. He gives me a disbelieving look, but I don’t care about his feelings. I do care about completing my mission and maintaining my professional reputation. I don’t need him to go all white knight on me. That’s my job.

“I have a plan,” I tell him. “Your participation is not required.”

“Uh-huh.” He takes a step forward that puts him toe to toe with me. He’s built like a freaking man mountain, so his proximity forces me to tip my head back to meet his gaze or put up with staring at the front of his shirt. This puts me at a strategic disadvantage, but I’m not about to back up or give him an inch.

“Honey,” he continues, “maybe you really haven’t realized you’re standing in the middle of a forest fire. What the hell were you thinking, coming in here on foot?”

He’s being a patronizing ass, and if I were a better woman, I’d call him on it. But because I feel off-balance around him—and not just because he oh-so-recently had me on my back on the forest floor—I tell him the truth rather than hitting his slapshot right back at him.

“I had a job to do. Same as you.”

He grunts. I’m sure that brief man sound is supposed to convey a convincing, well thought out rebuttal to my truth, but color me skeptical.

“Forest fire,” he counters. “Let’s think of life as a nice game of rock, paper, scissors. Your paycheck is the paper and the fire is the scissors. Who do you think wins?”

I give him The Look. “Yes, Captain Obvious, I am aware of the ginormous wall of fire devouring trees and air and baby bunnies. I’d actually prefer to be miles and miles away, preferably curled up in bed with a glass of red wine and fantasy shopping on Amazon, but I have responsibilities.”

Stone grunts something else, something that in no way sounds like an apology. This is familiar and it sucks that some things just don’t change. We both start moving because he’s not wrong about the forest fire—or the need for speed. Of course he won’t let his question go.

“Those responsibilities worth dying for?”

“Holm Arthurs disappeared inside these woods—after carrying out a successful practice run. He drove up to a military base and opened fire on the soldiers in the guardhouse. Two good men died.”

Stone frowns. He’s ex-military himself, so I’m pretty sure it’s a case of touch one of mine and I’ll hurt you bad.

“I didn’t hear about that on the news,” he says.

“We kept it quiet. He thrives on attention and fear. Reporting that the U. S. military had men down on a site storing nuclear weapons would give Holm precisely what he wanted.”

Stone gives me a measured look. “Last time I checked, Sequoia National Park housed bears and gray fox. Not nukes.”

“He went to ground here. He has bunkers.”

I’m betting on at least three. Holm is a prepper and that means he believes in preparation squared. If he’s dug one hole, he’s dug six—and we’ve already found two.

One big shoulder shrugs. “Someone at your office mentioned that possibility. Right now, however, he’s got himself a barbecue.”

“My job is to neutralize him—or bring back irrefutable evidence that he’s dead.”

“And how exactly did you plan on doing that, Vee?”

Like the nickname honey, I haven’t heard that name in years and years. It shouldn’t matter that he was the last person to call me by the nickname, or that I’ve been practical, professional, goal-oriented Olivia ever since. But it kind of does. Something inside me goes soft and gooey, like a marshmallow over a campfire, and I’m desperately afraid it might be my good intentions.

“Olivia,” I say instead. “My name is Olivia.”

“Vee,” he croons because of course he can’t do as I ask.

And damn it, his voice makes me shiver all over again. I stop when we come to a gully. It’s probably a seasonal creek bed, but right now it’s full of leaves instead of water, enough so that I can’t quite judge the depth. It’s too far to jump, and landing in it feet first wouldn’t be prudent.

His hands come up, covering my shoulders. Suddenly it’s too warm in this forest.

He turns me gently southwest, parallel to the stream-gully-ditch-of-death. “You need to leave, honey.”

“That means aborting my mission to bag Holm Arthurs.”

“If he’s hanging around here, he’s a dead man.”

Holm’s death is one way to solve the FBI’s issue, but I need the certainty of an ID. Possibilities aren’t enough when dealing with a man like Holm.

Stone rubs one big hand over his head. “What makes this guy so dangerous you got to go in after him in the middle of a wildland fire?”

What part of “opened fire on a US military installation” did he not understand?

“He’s a lone wolf. He operates by himself and he doesn’t take orders from anyone. There’s no higher-up, no organization running Holm’s show.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” he asks.

“It’s neither. We take him in, though, and we cut his operation off at the knees. Once he’s in custody, he loses the fear factor.  After he took down the two Marines at the guardhouse, he led base security back to a bomb-making safe house. They defused the situation, but Holm Arthurs likes things that go boom.”

Stone slides me a look. “And he’s worth your dying for?”

“Stopping him is worth dying for. So far, his targets have been military, but intel says he’s expanding his base of operations. Civilian targets.” Men like Stone won’t be willing to accept that risk. If I can just make him listen, I’ve got him. “Based on writings we recovered from his safe house, he believes he’s ready to graduate to the next level. Ruby Ridge. Waco. Those places might have nothing on what this guy’s dreamt up.”

Protect and defend. Stone gets that fundamental need in the most primal part of his soul. It’s what he does, what his team does. But he’s also cautious, and I’m sure that’s thanks to years of fighting forest fires. We both know it’s important to have a safety zone and to admit when it’s time to fall back. Good men and women die when they refuse to throw in the towel—but they’ll also die if Holm isn’t stopped.

He gives me that implacable look of his. “It doesn’t matter. You can’t go after him now.  And you can’t make it back to the access road either. It’s too far from here.”

“I move fast.”

“Not fast enough. You see that tree?” He points to a ponderosa where flames spiraled up the trunk, eating greedily into the tree’s crown. “That’s your first clue right there. We’ve got flames laddering up the pines, which means we’re about to have a full-blown crown fire. Once the flames are in the treetops, they’ll hop from tree to tree, faster than we can run. So that means we’re not outrunning the fire, and we’re not headed back to the road because the fire’s headed that way.”

“My team is on that road.”

He shrugs. “Your ride is gone. I ordered them out.”

Oh no. He doesn’t get to run my team. Sure he’s hot when he goes all alpha, but he also thinks he’s top dog. Clearly it’s on me to disabuse him of that notion. Unfortunately, he irritates me so much that the direction connection between my brain and my tongue shorts out. Instead of a non-stop flight from San Francisco to the Big Apple, I’ve got a four-hop path with a twelve-hour layover in Houston. This effect he has on me is the reason why I never tried to get in touch with him after I moved away and why I’ve spent my tenancy at Baby Bear Lodge actively avoiding him. He makes me feel instead of think, and that’s a problem. Fortunately, I’m great at coming up with solutions.

Chapter Six

Stone

Vee picks up the pace—finally—but she’s still headed in the wrong direction. Doing her own thing, like she’s presumably done for years and years. I distinctly recall she could get lost in the supermarket. It frustrated the hell out of her but I thought it was cute and I was always happy to Marco-Polo her back to wherever she needed to be. Time hasn’t improved her sense of direction any. I put a hand on her arm and tug her to a gentle halt.

Yeah.

I get no points at all for not letting her march off and become barbecue.

If looks could kill, Vee’s latest glare promises I’d be dead all right, because she resents my hands-on approach. That’s too bad. I’m not letting her get hurt, not when I can do something to prevent it. Before she can protest, I spin her in the opposite direction from which she was headed. And then, just in case she thinks I’m being arbitrary, I explain. My people skills aren’t the best but this is too important to fuck up.

“Not that way.” I can’t decide if she’s actually listening to me or not. Vee’s got this look on her face, similar to the one the guys on the team get when you tell them a particular slope is off-limits. They have no problem rushing into challenging conditions because they believe that if there’s fire, there should be hotshots. And if I were just one of the guys, I’d be right there with them—but I’m team leader. I have to admit that we’re, none of us, Superman. I have to acknowledge our limitations—and then figure out a way to turn them into super strengths.

Vee’s not a trained firefighter, and that’s a liability at the moment. She hasn’t spent months pushing her body to move faster, carry more, do more. On the other hand, she’s tenacious and capable. She’s also smart, thinks well on her feet, and is more than capable of pulling plan after plan out of her glorious, sweet ass. Or she used to be—and I don’t think she’s changed that much, so that’s what I need to work with. She’ll be the brains, and I’ll be the muscle.

“Let go.” She swipes at my fingers. I guess when you’re a special agent or a super hero or whatever she is at her day job, people don’t manhandle you. I’ve never been good with authority, however, so I just hold on and take the opportunity to stroke her arm. Vee’s face gets tight and she does this thing where she thins her lips and sort of huffs out a breath. As if she’d explode if she kept everything locked up inside her. She’s prettier than she was that summer, even if she does have about a million leaves in her brown hair, along with a nice collection of small sticks. She must have dragged her ponytail through the bush where she ambushed me. My fingers itch to comb through the mess. Vee doesn’t like mess. She likes everything neat and tidy.

Of course that just makes me want to muss her up more. Pull the elastic free and tangle my fingers up in the heavy weight. She looks focused and my brain suggests we kiss her. Just to see if we can still distract her, if she makes that whining noise in the back of her throat when she’s made to wait for her orgasm. Did I miss her? You bet. But there’s shit you don’t do, and hanging onto a woman after she’s said her goodbyes is one of them.

Vee tugs on her hand, eyes narrowing.

Right. I’m breaking my own fucking rule.

I drop her hand because no, I’m not trying to sexually harass her and she is out here alone with me. I don’t want her feeling uncomfortable or scared. It’s also why I’ve given her a wide berth at Baby Bear Lodge, although now I’m rethinking that plan.

“We need to go south.” I don’t tell her that she was headed in the wrong direction. I just point behind us because the compass is Vee’s mortal enemy, or so she used to complain. She prefers front, back, left or right to any north or south specifics. “Even if you get back to the road you came in on, then you’re standing there, alone, or you’re walking out. No way we can get a chopper to land for a pickup. Conditions are too poor.”

She eyeballs the dark plume spreading over the ridge—in the direction she wanted to go—and hits me with a look that I can’t interpret. I do better with words. They’re easier to understand and I can always look them up on my phone. I’ve got a Merriam-Webster app for my phone that totally rocks.

She follows the look with a nod—and more words. “So what do you suggest we do?”

Okay. So we’re having a conversation. That’s something, something I can work with. I focus on her face, watching her eyes. This is me being a gentleman because parts of me think we should laser in on her tits or her ass and refresh our memory about some personal favorites we have. Vee’s eyes were always her tell. They’re absolutely gorgeous, a wicked, tease-you hazel that sucks a guy in before he knows it. The first time I came face-to-face with her, I was certain they had to be brown, but then when I got closer, I could see gold and green. Her eyes hold secrets, like one of those swirly marbles I used to play for when I was eight. I always made a point of winning those, no matter what else I had to sacrifice.

“I’m waiting?” Her fingers smooth over her denim-covered thigh. Sweep-tap-retreat. Over and over with metronome-like precision. It’s not that Vee is impatient—it’s that she needs to be moving forward—on her way, on her plan, on her life. She’s constantly in motion.

“Right.” I watch her out of the corner of my eye and pretend that I’m thinking something insightful as I stare at the wall of trees in front of me. That’s me—the Great Rescuer. I don’t want to admit that I get lost in her eyes the way she gets lost in my woods, so I scramble for words. Sometimes I feel like there’s no getting things right with Vee. We always did our best communicating when I had her naked and in bed because then I could show not tell.

“Do you have a plan?” She’s not judging me, but she’s clearly ready to step in and take control. Vee won’t just have one plan—she’ll have six. She’s just like that.

“I’m not suggesting anything,” I say. Her brows fly up.

“Then—” She nods incisively and I can practically see the words teetering on her lips. She’ll take charge. She’ll figure this out. She’s not worried or scared. She doesn’t need a backwoods hotshot to come charging to her rescuer, but if he falls at her feet, she’ll drag him out with her because she’s a good person and responsible and always up for a challenge.

Yeah. Fuck that noise.

I cut her off.

“I’m telling you, we’re going to fall back some, pick a spot and hunker down. Then we wait for the fire to burn herself out, or for the wind to shift and take her away from us. After that, it’s easy money and we hike out. There’s a team of smoke jumpers working a few miles inland, and we can hook up with them and hitch a ride home.”

Vee opens her mouth. Closes it. Even I know this is a bad sign. She puckers up like a fish, and it’s way too goddamned cute. I fight the urge to lean into her and plant a kiss on those lips. Will she still taste the same? I spent hours kissing her, licking the seam when she was pissed at me or upset or a million other things, coaxing her silently until she sighed and let me in. I loved kissing Olivia Albert.

“Breathe.” I resist the urge to tap her lower lip with my finger. Or my mouth, my dick, any part of me she’d care to kiss.

She exhales and I wince. She’s pissed, but she’s keeping her shit under control. “Since when is fire female?”

I shrug. “Since always?”

And… I’ve just added more fuel to the fire.

She angry breathes in. Out. “This line of conversation is unproductive,” she announces. She lets go of her anger the same way she let go of us. Shit doesn’t fit, won’t work, can’t be fixed? Just move on.

“You’re right,” I say mock solemnly. “We should get this show on the road.”

I opt to show and tell, moving out toward our exit point. Vee falls into step beside me because where else is she going to go? She may not like me much, but between the two of us, I’m the better woodsman and Vee’s never been stupid.

“How about you lay out your master plan for me?”

Vee likes plans.

No. Scratch that.

She loves plans. Complex, simple, one-step, twelve-step—she doesn’t discriminate. She’s organized, detailed, and focused—and I’m not surprised she’s queen bee at the FBI. Because…

Smart. Determined. Protective. Vee looks after what’s hers, whether it’s a single forest ranger turned hotshot firefighter or the whole goddamned country. And yes, I know the heroes in the whole protect-and-defend story are usually men, but Vee’s always blazed her own path. Any guy who gets to walk it at her side is just damned lucky.

Vee nudges me in the ribs.

Right.

She’s waiting for me to lay my plan on her.

And then she’ll think it over, poke it for holes, kick it around some. Vee doesn’t follow blindly, and she makes you earn her trust. It might be easier if she wasn’t so gorgeous because my brain derails at the curiosity in her eyes. She just comes up to my shoulder. Brown hair swept back in a ponytail. Sun-kissed skin. Brown eyes. And the way her face lights up when she laughs sets me on fire.

Yeah.

I’m in so much trouble here.

“We’re gonna hike out,” I tell her. “Eventually. There’s an access road about ten miles from here. Once we’re there, I’ll call for a pick up. Since it’s already close to sun down, however, we’ll camp in the park overnight.”

Hiking in the dark is stupid. Naturally, I’ve done it but I pay close attention to my surroundings and I’ve got the experience to handle the terrain. Vee doesn’t. Not that she couldn’t learn, but tonight isn’t the time for that. She could trip, break an ankle, get hurt a dozen different ways—and I don’t have to tell you that I have one job here and that’s keeping her safe. So we’ll finish our evac tomorrow when it’s light and she’s had a chance to catch some rest.

She’s silent for a moment. She’s mentally fact-checking me and organizing her objections. She’s that reporter who pops up at a press conference and starts hammering the guy at the front of the room with hard-hitting questions that makes him question why the fuck he got into this field in the first place.

She points toward the orange glow of the fire. “Did you forget about the forest fire?”

As if I could. “We’ll camp in the other direction.”

Even I can interpret the sound she makes—my girl’s a regular Doubting Thomas. “Really?”

“Really,” I repeat. “Fire dies back some at night. The wind’s dropping.”

“And you know this for a fact because you routinely host camp outs in the middle of a forest fire?” She raises a brow, resting her case. She’s always been a bit of a control freak, and she’s not wrong to be concerned about the fire—but this is my area of expertise. I need her to trust me.

“I’m not going to get us killed.” I squeeze her arm gently, hoping she gets the message. Things are going to be okay. I’d never let anything bad happen to her.

“Sure seems like the odds aren’t in our favor.” Her eyes flick to the horizon, where a white plume of smoke shoots into the sky above the tree line. Higher up, the smoke is pure white, but darkens where it appears to hit ground. Even from here, the orange glow at the very bottom is obvious. That fire is burning hot, fast—and is headed right towards us.

“Five years in the fire service,” I interrupt. “I’ve been doing this that long, honey. This is what I know, so you come with me and we’ll be fine. Trust me on this one.”

Emotions flicker over her face. Vee isn’t the trusting sort and she has that thing about being in charge that I mentioned. “You’ve said that before.”

“Uh-huh.” I start moving away from the ridge and the smoke and, miracle of miracles, she comes with me. I should give her more words. I should explain what the situation is and what we need to do. But I’ve never been good at talking. I don’t have Colt’s gift of gab, and besides, dealing with Vee twists me into knots. She’s not a team member that I can give order to, not that I want to boss her around. I just want to keep her safe, but she and I have always had different definitions of the word.

This new Olivia Albert 2.0 doesn’t take orders.

Not anymore.

Two seconds later, I’ve abandoned all pretense at restraint and am replaying a very special highlights reel in my head. I’ve nicknamed these Vee Gone Wild and they’re some of the hottest memories of my life. Okay. So if I’m being honest, all of our bedtime moments were hot. As were our wall time, truck bed, picnic table, and mountain lake time (and when a certain woman makes lake shrinkage impossible, you know things are hot). Is it nice of me to run jack off material through my head while the star of my thoughts is standing right here with me?

Nope.

Not at all.

But at least I’m keeping it to myself.

Vee had a thing for my belt. Not the spanky-spanky kind of thing, but more a tie-me-up-and-do-me-big-guy thing, and if my belt happened to make a few fun emergency descents, it was even better. I’d wrap my belt around her wrists, dragging them over her head, and having myself an all-I-can-eat Vee buffet. I was the big, bad explorer/conqueror and she was my virgin continent. Is that fucking PC? Not at all, but it’s the truth.

And I don’t mind admitting to myself that she issued a few directions of her own. Vee had a favorites list and we worked our way through it over and over. There’s nothing sexier than a woman who likes to laugh and try new shit in bed and nothing was off-limits for Vee. She’d had me with her willingness to try anything. Everything. With me. Because she’d made it perfectly clear that she’d only been willing to play those sensual games in my arms.

Made me fucking beat my chest like I was King of the Apes or a barbarian overlord. The problem with setting yourself up as ruler of the world is that there’s this pesky risk of insurrection. I was blissfully happy, wallowing in mutual orgasms, right up until the moment Vee waltzed out of my bed, out of my life, and went to college. This put three thousand miles of the good old U. S. of A. between us, even before I shipped overseas with Uncle Sam. I started with the post office.

I wrote to her.

I’m no fucking poet, but I tried. I grabbed a yellow pad and a Bic and I spewed all my hopes and dreams. The shit I was missing about her and the stuff I wanted to do to her when she came back. Or I came after her. I figured I shouldn’t hold back because she meant goddamned everything, so I’d filled up three pages and I’d mailed my heart off in the mail. Good thing it wasn’t my dick because I’d gotten nothing but radio silence. Not so much as a postcard.

The way I see it, Vee and I have lots of catching up to do.

I just don’t know where to start, not when we’ve both got all our clothes on.

“So,” she says after we’ve been hiking for the better part of an hour. She either has no idea what I’m thinking or she just wants to tap dance around our history. Maybe she’s just not a fan of silence. “You do this often?”

I keep my gaze fixed on the ridge we’re gunning for. I can’t look at her. Not yet. Because the more I think about things, the hornier and the angrier I get. She left me. “Hike away from certain death?”

Maybe she picks up on the tension in my voice, because, while her feet keep on moving, matching my longer stride, she backs off some.

“Sure,” she says agreeably. “You really believe things are that bad?”

She has no idea.

I’m still no poet, but I am a firefighter. The way I felt that summer, the need I had to fuck her, was a slow sleeper of a fire, banked and simmering but waiting to explode to life. She was a summer lightning strike, a quick, bright blow that startled me awake. She gave me a handful of weeks to savor the hot pleasure of her loving and then she up and disappeared. Hell, I’ve been waiting for her to come back ever since then, even if I was too stupid to realize it. I’ve been on fire for her, a slow burn waiting for that final spark to blaze up.

Now here she is.

The flames are fully visible now, a slow orange creep coming up over the ridge far too fast. I’m out of time. We need to find a spot to wait out the fire’s uphill run.

Vee licks her lips, eying the fire’s footsteps through the trees below. Those flames are stripping the lodgepole pines bare, consuming branches and needles and leaving nothing but char behind. “That’s—intense, Stone.”

“Yeah,” I say a little too gruffly, because I sort of wish I didn’t have to put that little spark of fear in her eyes. But we’re facing a forest fire, so it’s not like I can pretend I’ve just spotted a herd of unicorns or a Kate Spade sample sale (which AJ assures me is the pinnacle of shopping, like making it to the top of the Matterhorn or Everest and way better than winning any car race ever). We’re in danger, and even though I’m gonna keep her safe, sugar-coating our situation won’t help.

“Give me the 4-1-1 on my team.” She tries to play the demand off as if she’s asking for the weather report or thanking the pizza delivery guy, but there’s a prickle of concern in her voice. Those guys belong to her and she needs to hear they’re safe. I get that because I’d do anything for my team, too, but I need her to work with me right now.

Team Stone and Vee for the win, right?

“I put them in my pickup.” I scan the woods. There. My new target is on the other side of a pine-studded slope. Fifty feet deep and a product of the Ice Age, the gorge is a big-ass reminder of just how old this park is. A stream runs along the base, watering a growth of sagebrush. Even though those bushes will burn fast, the surrounding rocks guarantee us a solid safety zone. If I need to, I can light a backfire and burn off the brush before we hunker down. And the gorge might pay off in another way, too.

A quick look behind us shows me that we’ve got enough time to make that distance. Barely. It’s time to haul ass.

“Sarah Jane’s a good truck,” I continue. “Unless your team stops to picnic, they’re fine. They’ll drive like hell and they’ll meet up with my crew. Everything’s going to work out.”

For them.

“You still have Sarah Jane?”

“She runs. She’s steady. I know all her gotchas.” I shrug. “We make a good pair.”

Vee snorts. “This is why you’re not married.”

“How do you know I’m not?” I ask.

Vee stumbles and I snag her elbow, steadying her. There’s a hot pink flush on her cheeks that has nothing to do with cardio and everything to do with my question—and her admission. She checked up on me. I try not to get too excited, but she asked. About. Me.

She mumbles something.

“I think I’d like to hear that again,” I say cheerfully.

“Girls talk,” she returns sweetly. “And the Break Up Club really likes to talk. You wouldn’t believe what Lola knows.”

Actually, I totally would. That woman would put both the FBI and TMZ to shame in terms of data collecting and, since she loves to tell a good story, she keeps nothing to herself.

Vee moves along beside me in a slow, steady jog. Long-term, I’m going too fast for her, but she doesn’t complain. The soft catch in her breathing as she works to keep up is only gonna get worse as I push her harder.

“So it’s your job to come after hikers,” she says eventually.

“And military whack jobs, yeah. We’re equal opportunity white knight rescuers.” My grunt of amusement brings an answering curl of laughter to her mouth. I suspect I’d have come out here twice as fast if I’d known it was Vee running around my woods because let’s be honest. I’ll always come for her.

Flames dance through the loose branches littering the forest floor, then ladder up the pines. The forest is a patchwork of flame now, not quite a solid wall yet, but Mother Nature’s working hard on it. The fire has smoked up the sky really good, and sheets of smoke rise relentlessly from the fuel burning on the ground. The treetops stand out black in the white cloud of smoke hitting the sky.

Mother Nature is on a tear. In the years I’ve fought forest fires, this is one of the worst situations I’ve faced. It’s not quite as bad as the shit show earlier this year where the Hotshots and I had to take cover in our protective shelters as a fire blew by overhead, but it’s not looking good, either. I’m certainly not going to stand around admiring the view. Nope, I’m getting the hell out of Dodge, finding my designated safety zone, and waiting this one out. Forest fires come with zero guarantees something won’t go wrong with a man’s best-laid plan.

Beside me, Vee coughs. She doesn’t say anything because she’s not a complainer, but it’s getting harder and harder to breath with all the smoke choking the air.

“Hold up a moment.” I pull my breathing gear out of my pack. The yellow Nomex mask sports a kick-ass filter in addition to strips of Day-glo neon to make me more obvious when the going gets dark and my team is more hurry than wait-and-see. Breathing through that mask will buy Vee eight hours of better air. “Let’s get this on you.”

“Why?” Vee eyes my offering like I’ve pulled a corn snake out of my pack and told her it’s even better than Cheetos and chocolate. I know we didn’t part on the best of terms, but it’s not like it’s my dick I’m waving around. I’m not the bad guy here.

“Because breathing’s a good thing, Vee.” Look at me, practicing patience. “Come here.”

She squints at the trees ahead of us, like she’s already moved on. “I can’t take your mask.”

“Of course you can.” It’s a no-brainer. I don’t like hearing her cough and I have a solution. I waggle the mask in her direction. As gifts go, it’s not romantic Victoria’s Secret shit and it doesn’t come with a big bow, so there’s no reason for me to feel nervous.

Or fucking victorious when she actually caves and comes trotting over to me. I tilt her head up and slid the mask over her nose and mouth.

“You rock the surgeon look.”

The mask’s filter muffles her voice, cutting off her response. I adjust her hood, pulling the nylon fabric up over her head and adding my hard hat for good measure. I don’t need her getting hit by a falling snag. I, on the other hand, have a hard head. You could bounce pines off the thing and I’d be fine. And happy. It may have something to do with the satisfaction I get from seeing her wearing my things, even if Nomex is about as unsexy as it gets. She looks safe. And like she belongs on my team.

“You satisfied, boy scout?” She laughs at me with her eyes.

Satisfied. No. I’m not. It’s stupid, but I’m pretending that she cares. I know I’m part of her past, and that she’s not thinking about a future with me. I’m just her escort out of this forest, and she’d have been happy to tackle her exit on her own. So my dick has no business perking up and getting a hard-on when she smiles at me. She’s not coming onto me at all. My dick’s not getting the message, though. That summer we first met, I spent most of my time around Olivia Albert in a state of arousal. So, of course, it’s just a bad habit and makes perfect sense for my dick to salute and send insta-lust messages to my brain. In the middle of a fucking forest fire. Christ.

“Safety first.” I give up my dick and start hiking again. I should listen to myself, that’s what I should do.

Naturally, this means that the next words out of my mouth are about as far from safe as I can get. Instead of dipping my feet into the kiddie pool, I’m about to do one of those cartoon dives off a very high diving board into a very, very tiny bucket of water. There’s no way I don’t smash.

“Since we’re stuck out here until the fire burns over, I’ll help you look for your tango,” I say. “I’ve got your back while you do what you need to do. Whatever time I can give you, it’s yours.”

Smash. That’s me.

The smile that lights up Vee’s face is pure trouble.

Chapter Seven

Olivia

The smoke grows thicker behind us (and around and over us because that stuff spreads thicker and faster than a San Francisco fog), but Stone moves as unhurriedly and deliberately as ever. He tackles the seemingly endless forest with a nice, even jog as if he’s just knocking out his five miles around the neighborhood park on a Saturday morning. Despite his laidback nonchalance, however, I bet he knows precisely how tall the plume behind us is—and that’s been growing steadily over the last hour until it has more colors than a layered candle. The white cap at the top of the plume is followed by black, down to the base where it turns orange. I’m no fire expert, but I’m certain orange isn’t good.

My mountain man apparently agrees, because his gaze flicks to the plume, then back to my face and he picks up his pace. His face gives nothing away, but I’m not really expecting to see an Oh, shit message displayed there, either. Stone was always annoyingly calm. And put together. He’s the exact opposite of me, in fact, although I like to think of myself as a work in progress with the best yet to come. It’s why I plan so hard and so often. A good plan makes all the difference in the not-falling-apart department.

“Almost there,” he volunteers when I make a give-it-up gesture towards him.

Almost doesn’t count. Almost is for horseshoes and hand grenades—right now I’d like to see our ride or, barring that, a blinking, neon exit-here sign. I’d even take a helicopter hovering overhead with one of those horrible rope ladders—I’d scale it in a heartbeat and I wouldn’t complain. Instead, I’ve got trees with a side of bushes and flames. It’s also rapidly approaching bikini weather and I’m wearing far too many clothes. I swipe at the sweat on my forehead and scan the forest for any sign of Holm Arthurs.

At this point, it feels like I’ve eyeballed every bank of dirt, every stick and log, and definitely every game trail disappearing into the thick underbrush. If Holm Arthurs was here, there’s no evidence of him now. I was so certain I was on top of him. That flash of camo and skin earlier wasn’t a figment of my imagination. I’m lots of things, but crazy isn’t one of them. So where is he? This manhunt should be a success. I did my homework and I ended up almost close enough to touch him. And it doesn’t count. I’m out of time and have nothing to show for my efforts.

Failing at anything sucks, but taking Holm Arthurs down has never been optional. Not only is he truly dangerous, but he’s also completely remorseless. He has an agenda and he’s a whatever it takes kind of guy. His last success story is burned into my brain. I’d arrived at the scene to kick off my investigation—and had stood there, frozen for a long moment, because the charred sentry box still smelled of burning rubber hours after his backpack bomb had detonated, eliminating two American soldiers with ten pounds of triacetone triperoxide and scrap metal. You don’t forget that kind of sightseeing anytime soon. Stone’s forest may be greener and smell better, but Holm still intends to blow a hole in it and I won’t let him.

I don’t know how I’m going to prevent him, but I will. I have no idea where he’s gone to ground in all these trees, but I’ll search one by one if I have to. It’s just going to take time. Lots and lots of time.

Stone turns his head, his cool gaze examining my face. During our summer together, I had a hard time telling what he was thinking, and time hasn’t improved my interpretive skills. I could have ash on my face, or he could be about to tell me that we’re entirely, really, and truly screwed.

“No luck,” he announces.

I hate to admit that he’s right—but he is. Damn it. “I don’t see any sign of him.”

Stone nods slowly, like he’s replaying a surveillance tape of our steps in his head. “Nothing yet,” he agrees. “Still some time, though, for him to turn up. If I were him, I’d be hunkered down near the gorges. Pick a good spot there, and wait the fire out.”

As a matter of fact, there’s a gorge up ahead. I can see it, which means Stone can too. Even if he were the kind of guy who likes to share his internal monologue about the crapton of trees and leaves we’ve passed, this isn’t a random observation on his part. He’s not trying to fill in the silence because he’s perfectly okay with never speaking another word. Stone’s always done best with his hands.

“You didn’t seem surprised to hear about Holm Arthurs.” Smoke clogs my throat despite Stone’s mask and I cough. Stone promptly stops jogging and passes me his canteen. Drinks are on him tonight.

“Water.” He waits until I’ve nudged the mask up and swallowed before taking the canteen back and capping it. We’re moving again before he gets around to answering my question, but there’s no rushing Stone. “Surprised? No. Lots of stuff happens out here in the park. You meet all sorts, including plenty of survivalists. We’re prepper central.”

The trees give way to a thin trickle of stream, and Stone turns and heads upriver. The steep walls of the gorge rise beyond the treeline. We’re going to make it. Things will be okay. I don’t know whether or not I believe myself, but it helps.

Stone’s fine ass leads the way across the streambed. Water splashes around his boots as he picks out the straightest, quickest path to safety. Right. Because he’s a forest ranger and a hotshot, just doing his job, and if our lives weren’t in danger, I’d be giving serious consideration to sexually harassing him on that job. Still, I can’t ignore the pleasure I take in watching him, despite the danger.

I’m not going to let myself need him again.

I wade after him into the stream. It’s a little known fact that even the combined effect of a raging forest fire and a California summer can’t raise the temperature of mountain stream water above freezing. My hiking boots are water resistant, but they’re not miraculous. Before I’m even halfway across, my feet are soaked. To distract myself from the wet cotton squishing between my toes, I bring Stone up to date.

“Holm isn’t a survivalist; he’s a killer. At first, he was just one more white, middle-class, gun enthusiast. He mail-ordered a few rounds of the interesting stuff, picked up a few legal firearms at his local gun shop. Filled in his paperwork and passed the background searches. He owns a three-bedroom ranch in the suburbs, works a nine-to-five, and not much else. Not much that was on our radar, that is.”

Stone scrubs a hand over his hair, ruffling the short strands.

“What turned you on to him?”

“He made a few visits to some chat rooms, did a few meet-and-greets at regional gun shows. Could have been simple curiosity. But, the FBI got photos of him at a protest and, bam, he was on our radar.”

Stone’s boots hit deeper water and he holds out a hand to me. He’s got the surer footing, so he’ll help me. It’s just that simple to him. I could read him a lecture about how I’m a strong, independent woman (which is true), but I don’t need to face plant in a mountain stream just to prove my point. I take his hand.

Clearly, it’s been far too long since I had sex because the sensation of his fingers curling around mine is incredible. Rough, slightly callused, certain. He won’t slip or let go or allow me to fall, which makes him the perfect oasis of safety. And even though I can’t get much wetter, at least not in the boots or panties department, I need to take this stream one rock at a time. Stone is hard enough on my ego—I don’t need to butt-plant in the water at his feet.

“So say he succeeds. He blows up something big, hurts lots of people. Then what?”

I hang on a little tighter and the corner of his mouth quirks up. He won’t give me too much shit, however, because the rocks are slippery and he really doesn’t want me to fall in.

“He probably believes that his explosion is going to start something a whole lot bigger. That his bomb will be the start of a revolution and the end of the U. S. government.” When Stone snorts, I smile. His bullshit meter’s going off. “Yeah. Unbelievable to us, but he’s fully invested. And he’s damned hard to catch. When it’s a small operation, there aren’t that many people to talk. Holm wasn’t a Chatty Cathy online. He engaged occasionally, but he didn’t post a blueprint of his plans, either.”

Stone points out my next step. “You’re chasing a ghost.”

“Out here? Maybe.” I shoot him a look. “But I’m almost certain I saw someone moving around earlier.”

“Could have been an animal or a bird,” he suggest amiably. “You really think Holm Arthurs was watching you hike through the woods?”

“It’s a possibility,” I argue, “and I know what I saw. That was no animal.”

His hand slides up mine, gripping my wrist supportively when my stupid boot slips on the loose stones on the bottom of the streambed, the warm weight of his fingers penetrating the thin fabric of my sleeve. For a moment, I let myself imagine that fording the stream is just an excuse to get a little closer to me. He lets go as soon as I’ve found my footing, however, so I guess not.

“All right,” he says. “So your target is out here. We’ll find him.”

I slosh after him, liking the we far too much. Like me, the man crossing the stream next to me is simply doing his job. His words don’t have to mean anything else, even if I sort of want them to.

Still, clarifying is good, right? “Are you offering to help?”

His long-legged stride means he reaches the opposite bank first, and he turns, waiting for me to catch up. His dark eyes don’t dip below my chin. Maybe I look like I’m going to fall in, because he takes a step closer.

Come closer.

“I don’t want this guy running around my park any more than you do,” he offers slowly. “I don’t want innocent people getting hurt. You know me better than that, Vee.”

I do. Stone is 100 percent hero material. And while he’d never call himself heroic and it’s damned certain he won’t want the label, there’s no escaping the truth. Stone Clayton does what has to be done to keep everyone else safe and that makes him grade-A hero. Safety comes at a price and he’s always, always paid up so no one else has to. I’d be crazy to turn down a helping hand from a man like this.

“Where would you build a bunker?”

“Me?” He looks around. Really looks. That’s another thing about Stone—he doesn’t half-ass his help. He’s all in. I asked him a question, so he’ll give me his best, most honest answer. “I’d want to be off-trail, to keep a low profile, but not too far because packing stuff in is easier and less obvious if there’s a well-known trail and a trailhead with parking. I’d want water. And I’d want to be able to see anyone coming. Maybe a backdoor exit, too, in case, I had to leave real quick.”

“You see those conditions here?”

He gives me a look. “Pretty much, honey. There’s a reason we’re headed for this particular canyon. If I were digging a bunker, I’d pick the eastern downslope.”

He points and—what do you know?—there in the distance, I spot an irregularity in the underbrush. The man is either a genius or supremely frustrating. I could have spent days and days combing the forest, but he’s nailed it and found the bunker I’d almost given up hope of spotting. I’m on it in minutes, toeing away pine needles from the plywood that covers up a hole dug into the dirt slope at the bottom of the canyon.

Stone winks at me. “Needle, meet haystack.” 

Chapter Eight

Stone

It’s not that I try to be right. I just am. That’s what happens when you’ve got experience on your side and you apply logic and geographical know-how. Of course, I’m equally certain that Vee would have found Holm’s bunker eventually because she’s tenacious.

I remember the way she used to keep going and going that summer ten years ago in the park. She didn’t know the meaning of the word quit. I found her clinging to a near-vertical rock wall once, staring out over the valley like she was just hanging, enjoying a Zen moment. Like being the operative word because she was stuck, unable to go up or down. It took me thirty minutes to work my way down to her and even then she wouldn’t let me carry her out. She said she had to figure it out for herself and she didn’t need any help.

Vee’s obsessed with doing shit on her own. She has to stand on her own two feet (or hang by her own two hands) and there’s no budging her. I coached her up the rock wall that day, pointing out handholds and toeholds, but she did it. There was no stopping her.

And while that’s an awesome quality when it comes to blow jobs or single-minded pursuit of orgasms, it doesn’t always work out in the real world. A big part of my job is knowing when to press ahead—and when to fall back. Vee wouldn’t last a week on the hotshot team. She’d ended up singed like a marshmallow over a campfire because she’d just want to finish the job. The only thing I ever remember her quitting was us.

Danger.

Today, however, her determination has paid off. There really is a goddamned needle in a haystack in the middle of my three-hundred-acre wildfire. Too bad Vee can’t wish us up a nice steak and a cold beer as well. I watch her check out the area surrounding the plywood that overs up what is undoubtedly the entrance to one man’s particular hell. I hang back because this is her show and I won’t get in her way. She wants this takedown, and it looks like she’ll get her heart’s desire after all. It’s one of the advantages to not quitting. That’s how she was admitted to a top school.

Maybe that was also why her leaving hurt so badly. She didn’t want me enough to fight for me.

Right now, though, her eyes light up like a kid’s on Christmas morning as she drops to the ground, smoothing away the pine needles covering the industrial-sized sheet of plywood. It’s hard to imagine that Holm Arthurs somehow dragged this much crap through my forest without anyone noticing or stopping him, but the proof is staring right at me. Fire isn’t the only danger in the woods tonight.

“You want a hand?” It’s a rhetorical question—she’s getting an assist because the sooner she pops the lid off this unexpected hole in the ground, the sooner I can move her along. Because no way she doesn’t stop and check things out. I’d do the same if I were her.

When I drop down beside her and reach in, her hand slaps mine away. “Hang on. A man like Holm, he might have wired his hidey-hole to blow.”

That’s a kicker. I watch her explore the area for a trip wire, while I mull her words over. “You think he’s in there?”

I don’t actually have a problem with rousting Holm from wherever he’s holed up, but I seriously doubt the man is the come-out-with-his-hands-up type. If Vee’s to be believed, he’s crazy. He’s out for blood. And since he’s gone to all this trouble to conceal himself, he won’t make anything easy and we’re operating under a timeline here.

Vee shakes her head. “I doubt it, not the way this thing’s covered up and not after I chased him through the woods earlier. But I’m not taking chances.”

She grins like it’s Christmas, Valentine’s Day, and Easter rolled into one—and she’s just found the biggest, baddest egg of them all. Christ, she’s got a gorgeous smile. Did I think that I was over her? I’m not. She smiles and I go all stupid inside because I just want her happy.

Naked and happy would be even better.

Oblivious to my internal horny debate, Vee palms her gun, gaze trained on the plywood. My attraction to her ratchets up another notch. That look of fierce concentration on her face is familiar—she gets the same little crinkle between her eyebrows when she’s about to come. I used to tease her and ask if we were there, and then I’d make damned sure she was.

But then we broke up, and her O face became none of my business. It still isn’t and this isn’t a great time to be mooning after her. There’s a solid chance we’re about to play Whack-A-Mole with a terrorist hiding in a big dirt hole he dug in the middle of a national park. And just in case an armed bad guy is insufficient reason to pull a cease and desist on sexy thoughts, we’ve got that wildland fire beating down on us. My head understands and is all for prioritizing a safe exit strategy, but the rest of me—the rest of me is too pleased to be standing next to her again.

Even if she’ll up and leave as soon as she has Holm Arthurs bagged and tagged.

The real question is if I should try and change things. I’m an expert on fighting last-ditch battles. I’ve pitted myself against hundreds of fires. I’ve held my line most of those times, too. Vee leans forward, balancing on the balls of her feet, and flips the safety off her gun. So I have to ask. Do I want Olivia Albert and is she worth fighting for, even if there’s a strong possibility I get my ass kicked and my heart overrun?

Let me think.

For an entire fucking second.

Yes.

Yes.

And hell yes.

My enthusiasm isn’t just because she’s a strong, take-charge woman or because I’m feeling nostalgic. Sure, I’d like to take a turn down memory lane and get naked with her. The sex was awesome, but I think I like this woman, too. Even though I’ve been doing my best to avoid her at Baby Bear Lodge, I’ve paid attention. Lots of attention. Ten years older and wiser, Olivia Albert is even more dangerous to my peace of mind. The younger version was like a yard fire, but this newer woman threatens to set my entire mountain on fire. She knows what she wants and how to go after it. So, really, it’s simple. I just have to convince her that I’m what she want. Easy peasy.

Yes, I can feel your skepticism.

I’ve never lacked for confidence. You’re shocked. But we were good together, right up until we weren’t, so if I can figure out exactly where things went wrong, I can fix it. I’ll avoid whatever mistake I made ten years ago, and we can pick up where we left off. Usually, women like me. It doesn’t require a heroic effort. A smile, a friendly story or two, a few Mr. Fix-It jobs. Women love my tool belt. After that, we get to know each other, the clothes come off, and a good time is had by all.

The long-term relationship concept, however, is not so familiar. Vee was my longest, and we know how that ended. She moved out-of-state and I had to nurse my broken heart back to health. Or lust. My younger self wasn’t particularly picky, but apparently that’s suddenly changed. I’m entirely, one hundred percent Team Vee.

I figure it’ll take some time to coax her into dropping her clothes. I’m happy to go first if it helps, but Vee likes to talk. She was always going on about intimacy, and she didn’t mean the kind that came with a tube of KY Jelly and some creative use of fingers. I’ll have to open up and give her the words. All the words. She’ll make me work for her.

She’s totally worth it.

“Ready?” She doesn’t take her eyes off the plywood and her gun is rock steady. Did I mention how sexy I find the gun?

“Always,” I tell her.

“When I say go, you kick the plywood off. I’ll cover you.” Some things haven’t changed. Vee still loves to give orders. In this case, however, I’m happy to oblige.

Oblivious to the new direction our relationship has just taken, she mouths a countdown. On three, she gestures sharp and fast, and I dutifully spring into action.

I lift, smooth and fast, the whoosh of air followed by the harsh bang of the wood hitting the ground. A pine-fresh burst of scent explodes out of the dark, as needles scatter, followed by a hit of stale air from the yawning hole in the ground. We’re in.

I hang in front of her for as long as I can, despite her order, because if we are met by a hail of bullets, I’m the one who’s going to get shot, not her. Some things are non-negotiable. Behind me, she mutters something and jams her hand into my side.

“Move,” she hisses.

She’s not a fan of my plan, or my blocking her access. When I’m certain Holm isn’t about to come bursting out—I can practically hear Vee grinding her teeth—I move and let her take over. Yes, this means I qualify for the blue ribbon first prize in assholery. She has a job to do here, and I’m cockblocking her. I don’t want her hurt, so I’m holding her back even though it’s clear she kicks ass at her job.

She moves past me and drops down into the hole as nonchalant as if she’s grabbing coffee at Starbucks. My own military training puts me on edge. Silence doesn’t guarantee there’s no one home, but I spot no signs of motion. Plus, shoving back the cover knocked plenty of dirt loose and I hear no telltale cough. No quick intake of air. Nothing at all.

Still, I’ve got her back. I’ll stay up here and stand watch. Just in case Holm Arthurs is hanging back, watching this little party.

I’m a world class expert in watching and waiting.

“Clear,” she calls an eternity later and I settle back on my heels, scanning the trees. Holm is a survivor. He’ll be out there somewhere, doing a little wait-and-see of his own. Vee disappears into the darkness and it’s like waiting at the end of the runway for a pilot to guide in his distressed plane. Maybe the soldier makes it, or maybe he hits the end of the runway in a spectacular flameout. Either I slap him on the back and atta-boy him, or I hose down the flames and scrape up what’s left.

I shift my gaze to the pool of blackness at the bottom of the hole. Earthy scents waft up toward me and I have a ringside view of a dozen tree roots. I’m tired of waiting for shit to hit the fan.

I scan the forest one last time—still clear—and drop down inside the hole.

Holm’s bunker is a big, raw hole dug into the ground, the sides shored up with four-by-fours. Somehow, the man has brought in metal shelving and enough camping supplies to keep him going for weeks. It’s like he has a magic fucking portal to CostCo helping him to load up. I spot a neatly rolled sleeping bag leaning against an orderly row of plastic water jugs. Ammo is lined up on metal shelving with military precision. If a man wants to wait out an apocalypse, this is the place to do it.

Vee raises her head from whatever she’s examining in the corner. “You down here?”

I look at her. Her expression isn’t pissed off, which bodes well for me.

“Yeah. Unless you want me keeping watch up there?”

Look at me, offering to take orders.

She shakes her head. “I think either he’s long gone, or this is a fallback site for him. There’s dust on the shelves and nothing’s been disturbed recently.”

“Doesn’t mean he’s not watching from the woods right now,” I point out, even though that begs the question of why I’m here if the danger is above us.

“I doubt it.” She shrugs. “And although I’d be happy to flush him out, you said we were on a deadline.”

“Yeah.” I rock back on my heels, running options through my head. “We still are. You got ten here.”

“I need more time than that.” She doesn’t argue, just spins on her heel and disappears deeper into the bunker. The place must stretch fifty or sixty feet into the ground and once again I admire Holm’s tenacity. Given the lack of construction equipment in the middle of a forest, digging this place out took time and effort. And while I’d like to give her whatever she wants, some things are non-negotiable. We’re at risk of being overrun by the flames, so she’ll have to play nice with me.

“Make it enough.” I stick my head outside again, scanning the woods around us one more time, but in addition to the smoke, the light is going fast. Fuck it. If Holm is out there, he’s out there. The best thing to do now is to get in and get out. Fast.

I pull back inside into the bunker, pulling the plywood partially over the entrance to cut the smoke. Even so, it’s like crouching inside a gigantic smoker.

Dark. Shadows cover the dirt walls, lit up by orange pinpricks of light and smoke. Christ. The familiar dark-and-smoky catapults me back through the years to the last crash I saw before leaving the military. The twisted mess of a plane is burned into my brain, and I swear I smell the unmistakable smell of metal super-heating right before the gas tanks blow, leaving no time to get to the pilot who hasn’t ejected. I suck in air and force myself to breathe. Slow and even. In and out.

“Stone?” Vee turns towards me, as if she senses my distress.

I can’t afford to come apart now. Vee isn’t trapped. She’s not a shit-out-of-luck pilot and I can get her out of here by giving our plywood cover up a quick shove. Too bad my stupid brain doesn’t seem to get that memo.

“Is Holm a vet?” Sex or distraction is my best bet, so I get busy calculating the number of narrow, dark crawl spaces feeding off the twelve-by-twelve the survivalist carved out for himself. Holm is either smaller than me or doesn’t mind a tight fit. There are no marks of recent passage, though.

Vee pulls out a camera out of her backpack and starts photographing the bunker as if she’s got all day. “He’s an accountant. But he likes the Discovery Channel. He also spent most of his childhood hunting.”

“You’ve got eight minutes.” The plywood can’t keep all of the smoke out. The bunker is too hot, too lacking in air—and I like not knowing where those tunnels go even less than I do the possibility of our getting trapped here as a forest fire burns overhead.

“Don’t touch anything,” Vee snaps when I grab a folded-up tarp from the shelving nearest me.

I ignore her. While I appreciate her respect for a potential crime scene, I’m not going to leave behind anything I might need to keep her safe. She grumbles something, but she lets it go.

While she does her thing, snapping pics and cursing the lack of cell phone reception that prevents her from contacting her team, I rifle through the contents of the shelves. Behind me, Vee inventories the bunker quickly, her inspection thorough and methodical. She’s done this before and I don’t know how I feel about that, but it isn’t as if I work a desk job myself. I’m in no position to complain.

“Five minutes left. Make them count.” I won’t argue with her, so I ignore her pointed comments about who exactly is in charge here. It’s not her—and I’d be happy to show her later.

Instead, I salvage what I can, pulling anything useful off shelves and throwing my finds onto the tarp. The shelves are meticulous, the cans lined up with military precision. It’s not the standard food shelf special, either. Holm favors all-organic, high-end stuff. It’ll still taste like cardboard, but at least we’ll be swimming in nutrients.

The cans weigh too much to haul. Instead, I go for vacuum-sealed trail mix and dried meat. Holm has an assortment of freeze-dried products as well, but those will require soaking. I grab a handful anyhow. The gorge has a stream and we might be here all night or longer.

Vee pulls on my arm when I sweep a packet from the shelf where she’s working. “You can’t do that!”

“You going to stop me?”

I grab a can of peaches. One sweet thing, even if it isn’t a lightweight, can’t hurt. We shouldn’t be forced to shelter in place for more than a night, but why go without if Holm here has been stockpiling? The nights got cool, so I’m taking the sleeping bag, too. The little space age silver blankets I carry in my own pack are nowhere near as plush. You can feel every stick and stone through them, plus it sounds like you’re rolling around in tinfoil.

“This is a crime scene.” The camera clicks and then she murmurs something into her handheld. “Evidence. That means don’t touch, Stone. It’s not a Quickstop.”

“If there’s anything we can use in here, I want it.” I toss three more packages into the tarp, then tentatively heft the plastic load. My collection is heavy, but I won’t have to carry it too far. My spot is nearby, even if it is uphill. I bet that’s where Vee’s survivalist has one of his exit spots.

“You really think we’re camping out in the woods tonight?” She snaps a half-dozen more pics before sliding the camera back inside her pack. That’s my cue to get the party started again—somewhere else.

I motion towards the bunker’s entrance. “Yeah, because I’d prefer not to die today.”

She pauses in mid-step. “You think it comes to that?”

As if I’d let anything or anyone get to her. I won’t, but I also won’t take chances. Not with anyone, but especially not with Vee.

“My boys can’t get a helicopter in to us right now. The prevailing winds are still too strong.” I shrug like it’s NBFD that we’ll be camping in the middle of a wildfire. Confidence is the key. I’ve done it, survived, and got the T-shirt. “There’s only five miles between us and them, but we might as well be barefoot in the Sahara with no water. Our bird isn’t flying until conditions calm down some. Plus, it’s going to be dark soon and no one flies at night.”

“So we really are stuck.” She moves towards the bunker’s exit, but I get there first. She doesn’t go out there until I’ve had a look around first.

Her muttered “Stone” warns me loud and clear how she feels about my protective instincts, but that’s too damned bad. I take my time finishing my visual sweep of the surrounding woods. All clear. She does her job. I do mine.

“Stuck?” I gesture for her to leave. “No. I’ve done this before. I’m prepared and I know these woods. We’re going to wait things out upslope in this canyon, and we’re going to be fine. I get that bringing down Holm Arthurs is important, but you’re not helping anyone if you’re dead. Let’s get you out of here, and then you can go all show-and-tell with your team.”

She pushes past me, because the bunker isn’t built for two and I haven’t given her much clearance. For a moment, we’re thigh-to-thigh, her ass rubbing against my hip. Part of me—the erect part—hopes the move is deliberate.

“Okay then. Catch you on the other side.” She climbs up and I give into temptation and stare at her ass. She’s wearing jeans, which aren’t the world’s greatest hiking material to begin with. If denim gets wet, it stays wet. And I’m back to staring at her ass, watching it move as she conquers the stupid ladder one rung at a time. Heart-shaped, curvy, a perfect handful—I’m voting A, B, C, and D, all of the above. My brain’s still offline, all the blood left in my body rushing below my belt, when she disappears into the clearing outside.

Right. Mr. Responsible needs to come back online and Mr. Lusty needs to take a rain check. I pause, casting a last look around the bunker.

Holm’s rack of firearms catches my eye. I swore off firearms after leaving the Marines. I carry a shotgun in my truck because meeting unfriendly bears in the woods isn’t on my list of favorite activities, but bears aren’t people and the shotgun is a last resort.

Holm has stockpiled ammo with the single-mindedness of a hoarder. Multiple boxes of shells are stacked neatly on the shelf nearest the exit. I count enough rounds to outfit a small militia, and that’s discounting the wall of guns. The man has a serious love for fire power, and while his hoard consists mostly of inexpensive carries, they’re reliable defensives. I take in a Bersa Thunder, a half-dozen .38 specials, and two 9mm pistols intended for concealed carry. I have to agree with Vee. Holm Arthurs is dangerous for a hundred different reasons. Remaining inside the bunker is no safer than sitting on a hand grenade and pulling the pin if the fire got too close.

So I’ll be smart about this. My one job here is to keep Vee safe. I palm two handguns and some ammo. If Holm is lurking in the woods, preparation will be key, and peaches aren’t all I’ll need.

The gun slides into my palm, cool and familiar. Wrapping my fingers around the grip, I ease the slide back and chamber a round. Hopefully, the Glock turns out to be just decorative, but I won’t take chances, not with Vee’s safety.

Chapter Nine

Olivia

When we leave the bunker, Stone barks an order to haul ass. I’d like to argue for a longer look around Holm’s hidey hole. I’d like to inventory the entire freaking thing and get an FBI team out here. If wishes were horses, I’d have an entire herd to ride. I hate to admit it, but Stone’s right. The fire is already catching up. Sparks hang in the air like fireflies. On the other side of the stream, I can actually see the grass wilting and then turning to flame. I’d be all for watching this on the Discovery Channel, but my ringside seat is discomforting. I’m certain that the cute little matchhead-sized embers that pop into life will hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, even if they do look kind of pretty strung out over the vegetation. When I pull an imitation of Lot’s wife and look behind me, the forest is visibly expanding and contracting with heat. As the smoke eddies around them, I’m grateful for Stone’s mask. The man gives the best Christmas presents.

Since I’ve got his mask and he refuses to take it back because he’s an over-protective caveman, Stone had a bandana pulled up over his nose and mouth. With his Nomex hood tugged low over his head, he looks like a dangerous bad boy bandit with a latex fetish. Maybe if we get through this in one piece, it will be time to indulge my cowboy fantasies. It’s amazing what a woman can do with a vibrator and a stack of paperbacks.

Oblivious to my entirely inappropriate dirty thoughts, he points towards the rocky upslope. “We’ll go there. I want to get us upslope where it’s going to be harder for the fire to catch us. You see those rocks? That means less fuel for the fire riding our asses.”

I’m all for minimizing the chances of an FBI agent barbecue.

“You think it’s safe?”

“You blow things up.” His steady gaze meets mine. “I pick up the pieces. I’ll keep you safe, Vi.”

This is not the first time he’s made me promises. And the thing is, Stone always keeps them. If he says he’ll do a thing, he does. It’s actually one of the reasons why we broke up. He always swore he’d stay here in Big Bear, and so I knew better than to ask him to come with me. He was made for staying, and I was made for leaving.

He increases the pace, taking us uphill. My breath catches and burns in my lungs. It’s definitely time to add another mile to my morning run. Stone, of course, keeps right on eating up the ground with his long-legged stride. He doesn’t look bothered by the steep incline or the weight he’s packing. He’s not even checking the fire’s progress behind us, although I suspect he knows exactly how close the fire is. He probably can do some fine imitation of Daniel Boone and read the air like it’s a forty-foot billboard announcing the fire’s intentions. I’m not so sanguine, so when he slows his patch to mine, I kind of want to protest. Unfortunately, I’m too out of breath. Speaking is a luxury.

Stone’s hand cups my butt, boosting me when my hiking boots slip on loose rock.

I shoot him a look. “Is that a park-sanctioned safety move?”

He returns my look with an innocent one of his own. Am I buying? Not a chance. “It’s a long way down, honey. I’m simply lending you a hand.”

“And my butt’s a convenient handle?”

He grins and my panties spontaneously combust. “How about it’s my favorite?”

He pats and releases while I’m still trying to come up with a witty come back, so I go for the subject change.

“Bet you’ve seen plenty. Out here in the park,” I clarify when he snorts. Sure enough, when I turn my head to look at him, he totally has that small masculine quirk of his lips going on. He finds me amusing and I’m not sure how I feel about that. I’d like to be sophisticated, more Mata Hari than Angela Lansbury.

“You get everything out here. Pot growers. Survivalists. Kids on a weekend bender gone bad. Two consenting adults banging to glory on top of a picnic table.”

One of those things is more dangerous than the others. I feel a grin creasing my own face at the mental image of Stone breaking up some unsuspecting couple’s good times.

“You get all the fun calls.”

He acknowledges my words with a tip of his head and is right-back-at-me. “And you don’t?”

Since I’m an explosives specialist, I do get the best boomiest toys. “Point taken.”

“We do what has to be done, that’s for sure.”

Moments later, I get my first good look at Stone’s safety zone. Steep, rocky walls line both sides of the gorge with razor-sharp formations. A dirt trail meanders along the bottom, following a thin ribbon of river. I’ve never been a fan of camping—I’m more Four Seasons—but this is sort of pretty.

“We’re aiming for the crest.” Stone points to the top of the canyon. Already, the bottom is dark. The lower areas of the canyon walls are thickly forested, with trees rapidly thinning out nearer the crest line. The smoke’s minimal due to the up-canyon breeze clearing out the air. If only we’d brought a picnic and maybe a helicopter, this would be a pretty spot to spend some time.

The sunset is spectacular, the sun an angry red ball surrounded by a halo of bright light. Black, red, and not much in-between, it’s boldly dramatic rather than all romantic pink-and-gold. Mother Nature gets my thumbs-up.

I peer down into the gathering shadows. “We’re camping at the bottom?”

I see no hotel, no cabin, no tent. It appears to be rocks, water, and an abundance of bushes. Tonight’s going to be rough in many senses of the word.

Stone points upward. “We stay on top. You get the right winds sweeping through a gorge like that, and you’ve got a fire tunnel. If we have to, we can duck down inside, but for now we stay put right here. This is our home sweet home for the night.”

Chapter Ten

Olivia

The canyon serves up a bird’s-eye view of the surrounding forest and a smoky slice of access road. The Humvee must be right around the corner so, despite our hiking and climbing, we’ve come full circle. After a dinner of MREs and canned peaches from Holm’s stash, Stone hikes up higher still to get a better look. When I go with him, he doesn’t say anything. I’m not sure if that’s a good sign or a bad one, but he sets a slow, steady pace that I can maintain without a problem.

It takes ten minutes to reach the tippy top of our campsite. Stone bounds effortlessly up the last few yards, his long legs eating up the trail like it’s NBD. When I reach the top a few seconds later, he’s standing there, the Forest Service’s very own sexy Colossus, with his legs apart and his arms folded over his chest. He’s right on the edge, where the stone lip turns into a thousand foot free fall. He could be just standing in his front yard checking to see if the grass needs a trim and not one misstep from a whole lot of empty air and sudden death. Good for him. I’m not getting that close to anything that could kill me.

This isn’t the first time he’s taken me to some off-the-map place, as far from civilization as his hiking boots could carry him. I was a suburban kid, despite a childhood stint in the Girl Scouts. Stone, however, initiated me into the joys of hiking out to a primitive campsite with just a sleeping bag and some food. I’d spent the first night on my back, just staring up at the stars and wondering how they could be so far away and yet so bright.

Stone was always a gentleman. He never pushed. The first few nights we hiked out together, we laid out the bags side-by-side and did a little hand holding, but nothing else. Not until we were both been ready. Later, when I asked him why he was so ready to wait, he simply said that I should always take all the time I wanted and that good things were always worth waiting for.

I’m in trouble now, because I’m not in the mood to wait tonight. Maybe it’s the fact that I came a little closer to death and sudden immolation today than I’m comfortable with, but I don’t want to be alone and I don’t want to star gaze. The smoke obscures most of the stars, anyhow. I just have to figure out how to make it happen.

“That’s the last drop for tonight.” Stone points towards an air tanker doing slurry drops in the near dark. As if he’s just there to be our own personal show, the pilot hits the release and three thousand gallons of red go into targeted free fall, coating the vegetation below with protective moisture. “It’s too dangerous to fly at night, so they’ll head back to base, grab some sleep, and be ready to go again at dawn.”

I don’t really want to discuss wildland firefighting techniques, but Stone isn’t much of a talker at the best of times, so I volley the question back at him. “The fire doesn’t get out of control if everyone packs it in for the night?”

Stone shrugs, as if the chaotic flames make perfect sense to him and he can see exactly how this will all play out. “Fire lies down at night. She likes her beauty sleep. The wind’s already dropping, and the temp’s going to follow. Humidity goes up and there’s your evening coffee break. As soon as the sun rises, the fire heats up, too, so the guys will sleep while they can.”

Huh.

That’s one hell of an action plan.

“You don’t want to go down and stick near the water?” I’m not entirely comfortable risking my life on the possibility of the fire lying down for a freaking beauty sleep. Hunkering down in the stream below looks like a fine option to me.

He shakes his head. “You don’t want to go in there if the fire’s coming. That’s a death trap. We stay up here on the crest.”

“Safety zone?” I say the words lightly, as if my heart isn’t suddenly jackhammering in my chest. It’s just adrenaline.

“You bet.” He tightens his arms across his chest, watching the fire with single-minded intensity.

“Have you ever been overrun?” I’m not sure why I’m introducing such a ghoulish topic, but I want to know. Obviously, he’s still here so he’s either really lucky or super good at his job. I’m betting both.

“Yes.” His jaw tightens.

“Was it bad?” This is not the smartest, most sympathetic thing I could say, but there’s something about the look in his eyes that warns me that the man by my side has paid a pretty intense price to keep the rest of the world sage.

“We had to shelter in place a couple of months ago.” He doesn’t stop looking at the forest below us, but I don’t think he sees those trees. He’s seeing something else altogether, and they’re not happy memories. “We deployed our shelters and waited until the fire had blown overhead.”

He makes it sound so simple. Just another day at work—hey yeah, I almost got burned alive, but my gear was good and I lived to fight another day. It’s like when one agent tells another about a firefight where the bullets came a little too close and for a few moments or hours you thought that might really be it and you’d bleed out on the sidewalk and never make it home. I have two of those moments under my belt and you never forget them. They outweigh the good moments, the times when you win the fight and you know the bad guy will never, ever hurt another person again. It’s like an elephant versus a dandelion—the weight of one just crushes the other.

But you also have to move past it or you’d never move again. I think Stone knows this and his next words confirm it.

“It’s hard,” he says roughly. “There’s no amount of practice that prepares you for lying down and just waiting for shit to happen or to pass over you. There was nothing I could do that day but wait.”

Stone doesn’t do waiting. He’s big on doing. Diving in and helping out and hauling ass and making shit happen. Lying down on the ground must have felt like waving the white flag. Like failing.

“What did you think about?”

I lean into him tentatively and he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he tucks an arm around my shoulders, pulling me farther into his side. We’ve stood like this a hundred times before and it feels just as good now as it did ten years ago.

“Nothing.” His voice is a low, rough growl. “I thought about nothing. Everything and everyone I cared about was lying on the ground near me and there was nothing I could do to keep them safe. I had to lie there too and fucking wait.”

Stone is such a fixer.

We stand there in silence for a long time, staring at the forest as it grows darker and darker. The sun’s gone completely when something flares up over in the vicinity of the access road. I can practically feel Stone shake off his dark mood. He thinks he still has a job to do here—me—so he’s going to do it and not dwell on his thoughts. I admire his dedication even though it makes me want to grit my teeth and do a little screaming.

“I hope your boys know how to drive. The pickup’s not going to notice a few more scratches and dents, but I’d hate like hell to find the remnants in a ditch. Particularly if the military’s finest are still strapped inside.”

I second that feeling.

But I also know my team. We’ve worked side-by-side for over a year, hunting Holm. “They’ll be fine.”

It’s not a promise—I can’t promise their safety—but it is the likeliest outcome. My team is well-trained. They have excellent instincts, and they’re like Stone in that the mission comes first. They’d never do anything to jeopardize our chance at Holm, and dying in a literal blaze of glory would do just that.

Still, Stone’s concern is sweet. Mayne would chew off his own arm if he ever caught wind of it, but I like it. I have to wonder, though, if Stone ever worries about himself. Granted, he’s not big on talking, but he seems unconcerned about the fire breathing down our necks. Maybe it’s simply his boundless confidence in his ability to get himself out of whatever mess lands in his lap, or maybe he’s willing to go down, knowing he’s given the job his all.

“Should be,” he says finally, turning away from the mouth of the canyon. “We’ll find out tomorrow.”

Neither of us can really promise each other tomorrow, and the fire is only partially to blame for that. But the truth is that we have tonight. That’s something no one and nothing can take away. And I’d like to make these next hours count—just, you know, in case they do turn out to be my last ones on earth. Going out with an orgasm and up-close-and-personal time with Ranger McHottie is a plan my body is totally onboard with. It’s been a long time since I had non-solo sex and I’m lonely. And this is Stone. Not-quite-my-Stone but still…

Not that nostalgia entirely explains why my fingers do some walking and discover that his Nomex has buttons. And nostalgia certainly has nothing to do with how much thinking time I’ve devoted to remembering what his big body looks like naked and how much he likes to take his time. At everything.

One button slips free, followed by the next. Naughty, wicked buttons. Or maybe I should blame my fingers? Because they appear to be hardwired into my libido, and neither is interested in talking to my brain. I shove his T-shirt up, greedy to touch bare skin. He’s six-plus feet of sex on a stick—and pure trouble.

Bring it on.

Listen for a moment. Take a good look. He’s not stopping me. Not at all.

His hand cups my shoulder, his thumb rubbing a small, sure circle against my skin. “Vee.”

I love the way he says my name, drawing the single syllable out into a rough, husky plea. I may be a tiny bit obsessed with him, but who could blame me? He’s completely obsession-worthy. I’ve checked him out since we reconnected at the start of my Baby Bear Lodge residency, and if that seems fast, let me just say that I may have thought about him once, twice, or a thousand times since we parted ways ten years ago.

I can’t help but notice that he’s not stripping off his shirt for me. Or removing a few of my clothes. He just keeps making those slow, sexy circles on my skin. As fabulous as that feels, however, I need more to come.

“You want to listen to me for a minute? I need to explain something here.”

“No good conversation starts that way.”

He makes another rough sound that might possibly be agreement. Wait—

“Are you seeing someone?” I should have asked before I touched. Just because Lola claims he’s super, super single and in desperate need of a date doesn’t make it incontrovertible fact. I’m an asshole of the highest degree. I’m…

“No,” he says.

Okay. So definitely no girlfriend. That’s good.

There’s a pause that I should use to wriggle backward, to put some physical space between us to match the distance his words have created. In fact, I’m not sure I’m in the mood any more for hot reunion sex. He’s missed his chance. The window has closed. We’ll just hunker down for the night and won’t even have to cuddle close to share body heat because of that mother freaking fire that’s heated the forest to near-sauna temperatures.

Crap.

“Start talking,” I order.

The thing about Stone is that he doesn’t take direction any better than I do. We both know how to function in a team, but we also both like to be the leader of that team. This works great for fighting forest fires and bad guys, but not so well in Relationship Land. He swears softly under his breath, but that’s also not the kind of talking I had in mind.

“I’m not going to believe you’ve suddenly gone mute,” I point out. He snorts and pulls me in close, planting my back against his chest. This is promising, as are the arms he wraps around my middle. Stone is toasty warm, a solid, reassuring presence that only gets better when he rests his cheek against the top of my head. The moment is sweet and totally Hallmark-worthy, but I have no idea what he’s trying to say to me.

“I’ve always waited for you.” He says those words as if he’s continuing a conversation. Just picking up the thread and running with it—except it’s a conversation I’ve walked in on halfway through and I’m thoroughly confused.

I’m also acutely aware of Stone’s enormous—and enormously hard—dick. He’s the one who hauled me backward, so it’s not like I asked to feel him up but… if there’s a problem here, it’s not in the I-want-you department because Stone clearly wants to have sex with me.

“You waited for ten years?” Color me skeptical. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from the overshares that characterize the Break Up Club, it’s that guys don’t wait. Not for their girls. They’ll wait for the train, for the game to come on, for the fire to blow over. But they won’t wait for us. Sarah Jo, Lola, me—we’ve been the ones to do the waiting. And the picking, the chasing, and the sexual acrobatics. Frankly, it’s exhausting. And demoralizing.

“Yeah.” Stone clears his throat. Maybe he’s aware that he’s on thin ice here. “And maybe part of me’s always hoped you’d come back when you were ready.”

Houston, we have a problem.

First, I’m not some kind of boomerang. And second…

“I came back to do a job. This isn’t a romantic rendezvous.” That’s me—incurably honest. I brush my fingers over the hand he’s got planted on my stomach. I shouldn’t because it’s already clear this conversation isn’t headed in the best of directions, but Stone’s addictive.

I’ve dated a few guys in the ten years since I last saw Stone mentioned, and those nights out were fun for the most part, but they were also sorely lacking in chemistry. Stone, on the other hand, makes me go up in flames.

He makes me melt.

“We can’t pick up where we left off,” I warn him. Or myself.

I probably should be talking to myself because this is all on me. You don’t waltz into the forest looking for a bad guy and come out with a relationship. Life doesn’t work that way. A one-and-done hook up might just be manageable, however. And who am I kidding? I’m wet. So wet and sensitive that each step I take has my panties rubbing against me, driving me crazy. He drives me crazy—and that’s not even a new development. Ten years ago, the intensity with which I needed him scared me and it appears that time hasn’t dialed our attraction down a notch, either.

But it doesn’t stop me from having taken that first step toward him.

I’d take a second but I’m already glued to the man.

“All right.” He agrees with me, the slow rumble of his voice more fuel for her fire. I love his voice. I told him once that he could read me the phone book and I’d come on the spot—and he made me prove it. The man did so many creative things halfway between the As and the Bs that we never made it to Z.

“If we have to camp out here tonight”—and, if my choices are an overnight camping trip with the man I’ve fantasized about for years or self-immolation, the choice is perfectly clear—“you should probably stick to your side of the campfire.”

Mature Me actually gets those words out with a straight face. Inner Hussy, however, is already making plans to sneak on over to the dark side and have her way with the hotshot.

Stone shrugs, and I decide that’s not particularly flattering. “I wasn’t planning on building a campfire, honey. There’s enough fire out here already. You want to hold me to an imaginary line instead?”

I open my mouth. Close it. His literalness is cute, but it’s also a pain in my butt.

“Ten years.” I don’t hide the skepticism in my voice as I return to his earlier point. We should unpack it because I’m one thousand percent Doubting Thomas. “You really want me to believe you spent that time waiting for me?”

“Job-like patience,” he agrees. “Feel free to make it up to me now. Shower me with the sweet rewards of heaven and all that.”

“Probably not.” Honesty is a virtue and you can canonize me right now. If I offer anything, it will be sex—and not of the make up variety. “I work with bombs for a living. You put out fires. There couldn’t be two people more different.”

“I like different. I’ve never been the kind of guy who owns matching towels or even matching socks. The differences between us don’t scare me. I like our differences just fine.”

He’s been warned, but it bears repeating. “This doesn’t mean we’re starting over.”

“Whatever you want, honey.”

“I want a room for the night, not a thirty-year mortgage.”

I feel his chest shake. Great. Now he’s laughing at me.

“No white picket fence.” His voice sounds thick and husky, like barrel-aged whiskey, the kind they lock up in the stores and you have to beg to taste. “Absolutely no money lending or interest. Got it.”

“This is just tonight. We’ll figure tomorrow out tomorrow, okay?” I want this moment. No regrets. No worrying about later.

“I’m holding you to that, honey.”

Now that we’ve sealed the terms of our deal, I take what I want.

I turn in his arms, reaching up to slide a hand around the back of his neck. When I tug, he meets me halfway but I don’t fool myself. There’s no budging Stone once he’s made up his mind to stay put. Stubborn. Strong. The line blurs between the two with him. His familiar face comes closer and I have just enough time to wonder if he’ll taste as good as he did ten years ago before he’s here and there’s no more guessing.

Just knowing.

His mouth lands on mine with a soft, amused chuckle but I don’t want him laughing. I want him needing. Impatient. So I brush my mouth against his. So good. I repeat the caress again. No rush, right? We have all night.

“Vee,” he growls, drawing back a little, and there. There’s that rough, needy sound. He’s remembering, too.

“Uh-huh.” I thread my fingers through his hair as much as I can. He used to wear it longer, but now it’s cut shorter and closer. Maybe it’s the military in him. “Shut up and kiss me, hotshot.”

“I thought I was in charge here.” The laughter’s back in his voice, but he maneuvers me closer, his thigh pressing between mine and kicking my arousal up a notch.

“In your dreams,” I tell him.

“Good.” His smile belongs to a man who has more than a few fantasies in his mind. “I’ve had some damn fine dreams since you left me.”

His mouth covers mine again and the chemistry surges between us. God, he can kiss. His mouth is wild and hot, devouring mine like the best of fires. Our tongues tangle as he strokes deep into my mouth. This kiss? It’s not enough. It makes me hungry, an empty, hot feeling that burns south from my heart to other parts. Somehow, I’ve forgotten just how perfect he tastes and how insatiable kissing him makes me. I push him back against the canyon wall, pinning his hands against the stone with mine. Taking him. And he lets me, right up until he takes charge.

Takes over.

It’s not the forest fire making me hot.

I’ve kissed the boy before and enjoyed it, but Stone is a kissing master. He’s Picasso and all those other guys were merely finger painting. And… he’s definitely improved with age. As my body goes up in flames and my brain flips on the DO NOT DISTURB sign, I admit something.

Just to myself.

I’ll deny it out loud.

I’m curious.

I missed Stone. I might have run hard and fast from him, and I totally should do so again. But this might also be my last chance—my only chance—at holding Stone Clayton again. And, on the off chance that the world ends tonight and we don’t make it out of here, I don’t want to go with regrets.

Stone kisses me deeper and he tastes… I have no words. I wish I could imagine a poem, a four-star menu, some special, unique name for the spice that is Stone. He’s everything I didn’t know I was missing.

Somewhere, in the back of my head, I’ve always wondered. I came back to Big Bear Lake, knowing the job might land me on Stone’s doorstep but unable to resist the lure of seeing him once more. These feelings I have for him are like the sleeper fires he fights, one quick, bright lightning bolt and then a slow simmer in fallen trees until finally, one day, the fire explodes out of its woody cocoon and burns and burns and burns. I waited, telling myself year after year that he was an old flame. That I was over him.

Liar, liar, pants on fire.

I pull back and he lets me go. Mostly. Our fingers still tangle together, our arms stretching as I weigh space over Stone, safety over eating him up and then… what?

“Ten years,” he says roughly and I want to ask what he means, but I’m too chicken. Ten years when we could have been doing this but weren’t? Ten years and now he doesn’t care, doesn’t want me, doesn’t want us for even one night more?

I can’t stop touching him, even though it scares me just a little, how much I want him. He doesn’t let go either, not even when I turn and start walking the short distance back to our campsite. We’re connected by more than our hands, and we both know it even if we won’t admit it. When he finally pulls free, he walks beside me, saying nothing, one big hand cupping my elbow in case I trip in the dark and need another rescue. My big, silent hero.

Stone has never been full of words. No, that was me, right up until it came time to answer his letter. It broke my heart, but our fiery summer romance had no future. He was my last high school sweetheart and, when I left for college, he stayed behind. It was better to end it quick and on a sweet note rather than letting what we’d enjoyed die a slow, distance death. He never wrote again. A hundred maybes were followed by relief and disappointment. No letters meant I was free.

Now I wonder. What did I miss?

And what will happen now I’m back? Is work really the only reason I’m here at Big Bear?

“You really missed me?” The question that hangs in the air? That’s a mistake. I didn’t mean to say it, but now it’s out there. And even though we have safer places to be, places where I’m at no risk of dying a fiery death, my feet stop moving and I stand there, waiting for his answer. That’s another thing about Stone. He may not talk much, but he always answers a direct question and he never lies. It’s like the man was born a Boy Scout.

He stops, probably because I’ve stopped. I wonder if he knows his fingers are rubbing my elbow, tracing the sensitive skin just inside. He looks at me when he talks, really looks. His eyes search mine out because Stone’s not big on secrets. He prefers to have everything in the open.

“I’m not the one who left,” he says.

Ouch.

He’s not wrong. The exit was all mine and I have to own up to it.

“That’s true.” I pause, but of course he doesn’t rush to fill the silence with any extravagant declarations. It’s silly to wish for them. Stone doesn’t love me anymore. We’ve both grown up, moved on. Maybe you think there’s some to hold onto. Maybe I would have made the effort nine years ago, eight, five. Ten years is a long time and hotshots and FBI agents are no more compatible now. Stone will always be a local boy. He has to be. He stays where the fire threats are and he holds an important line.

But it’s a dangerous job. Good men die every year fighting fire. All it takes is one mistake, one act of God. The long hours, the physicality of digging line, the intensity of fire season followed by the longer, slower winter season—it’s not surprising that hotshots don’t do as well in the marital department as they do in the field. How can you kiss someone goodbye, knowing that he’ll be gone days, weeks, forever?

I couldn’t.

And I desperately wanted to get out of Big Bear, to leave behind my crappy family life and see what I could do on my own two feet. And if that meant leaving Stone behind? I thought I was okay with that. Tonight, however, I wonder. Did I make a mistake? I hate regrets. I don’t do them. Live, learn, move on. That’s my motto.

Stone starts walking again. He’s sure-footed, and the near dark trail doesn’t seem to faze him in the slightest. He heads toward our campsite as if the spot were lit up like Fenway Park. He’s not a doubter. I bob and weave in his wake, my boots skidding occasionally on loose gravel. At least if I trip and fall, I’ll smash into him—and we both know he’ll catch me.

It’s what he’s always done, remember?

When he gets to the bare patch of dirt and rocks that he’s anointed our campsite for the night, he gets to work. He rifles through his pack and starts pulling out what looks like small squares of tinfoil.

“His and hers,” he jokes, tossing me one.

I tear open the plastic pouch—it’s some kind of space-age-looking thermal blanket. It feels like wrapping myself up in a Kleenex, but the packaging promises it will keep me warm even in Alaska and Antarctica. I’d rather be climbing into my bed down at Baby Bear Lodge even if the cabin I’ve been renting there for the last couple of months is the size of a small closet or a New York City apartment.

I shake out the blanket. It doesn’t look any warmer—or softer—now that I’ve got it unfolded in all its crinkly glory. Huh.

“I don’t suppose you’ve got a duvet hiding in there? Or an air mattress?”

“Nope,” he says casually.

Our gazes meet and hold, and I’d bet we’re both remembering the same thing. He used to volunteer to be my pillow. I’d poke and push and complain about how hard he was, and then we’d kiss—and do other fun, bedtime things—until I didn’t care that he was all cut muscle instead of plush pillow top. Somewhere underneath all that gruff, a T-shirt, and a layer of Nomex is a spectacular chest. Even fully dressed, crouched over the backpack he’s MacGyvering, Stone is spectacular. He looks rough, hot, and more dangerous than the fire he thinks he’s protecting me from.

“Any suggestions?”

That’s my voice asking that oh-so-slightly dirty question. Oops. I blame it on the long hike-run followed by too much exposure to Hotshot McHottie.

“Vee?” The way he says my name doesn’t help.

It’s not Vee, stop it or even Vee, we’re never, ever going to be a thing. My name is a husky growl on his lips, part surprised, part surly need, and I suddenly feel the urge to kiss him. Bite him. Eat him up.

I lean back against the rocky wall of the canyon. Stone watches me until my butt’s planted on the ground. I’m still pretty certain I’ll never be a fan of camping, but I’ve got a few ideas about how we can pass the nighttime hours.

I snap my silver blanket thingie in Stone’s direction like I’m a professional bull fighter. “What if I get cold?”

His eyes are glued to my legs. Olé.

Naturally, this means I get inappropriately excited at the possibility that he’s enjoying this as much as I am. So instead of slapping my thighs together and doing something useful like collecting firewood or checking for a cell phone signal, I move my legs further apart. I’m somewhat discreet—I don’t let them flop open and start masturbating like a crazy woman. It feels good. The seam of my jeans presses against the girltown, and I’d kill for my vibrator right now.

And since it’s convenient to blame Stone for my current camping and vibrator-less predicament, I think he should fix things for me.

Chapter Eleven

Stone

Jesus, Vee’s hot. I can’t tell if she’s playing with me on purpose or if God’s decided it’s my night for a heavenly reward, but I swear she’s seconds away from shoving her fingers down her jeans and climaxing. And being a gentleman, I’d be happy to help her with that if she asked.

She shakes a handful of Mylar at me. “How good is this blanket?”

Not as good as me.

“It won’t get you through a blizzard, but it should keep you warm enough tonight. It can get cold out here in the mountains.”

Okay. So we’re not technically in the mountains. We’re in the forest at the base of the mountains, possibly ever so slightly upslope. But we’re outdoors, it’s November, and despite the raging forest fire that’s not so far away, it’s going to be a chilly camp out.

Vee puffs out her cheeks and exhales. That’s her thinking face. I’m not sure she even knows she does it, but she sends all the air rushing out of her mouth in a noisy, pug-like burst of sound.

“So we don’t need to conserve body heat?”

Does she want to? I will her to use a few more words. I like specifics. Do me, Stone works. Touch me here, here, and here is also a favorite. I’m crap at guessing, so launching myself across out campsite and making like a Viking with her tits could be a big mistake. Fun, but a mistake.

Vee grins at me. “Stone?”

“Yeah?” I set down the backpack. It’s not as if I remember what I was looking for.

“Yes,” she says.

Halle-fucking-lujah.

The thing about having a shared past is that Vee knows me, too. She knows I’m not so good with words and that I like to have everything spelled out. Mr. Enthusiastic Consent, that’s me. I close the space between us. Vee’s eyes are glued to the crotch of my jeans like I’m a Christmas present she’s dying to unwrap. I’m not sure why she’s suddenly so eager to pick up where we left off, but I’m game.

Very, very game.

“Don’t disappoint me,” she orders, twisting her fingers in the front of my T-shirt and yanking me to her.

I probably shouldn’t be turned on by her bossiness, but it’s sexy. She’s always known what she wants and she’s never been afraid to use her words. I take the hint and find her mouth with mine. I expect her to taste familiar, and she does. But there’s something else, too. She’s changed, grown up, grown older, grown different. It’s not bad thing, just not the same.

I kind of miss the old Vee, even if I think I might really, really like Vee 2.0.

She presses her mouth against mine, her tongue opening me up even as she fists my shirt tighter. Her boobs are pressed against me and her own hand, the best pillow ever.

I really shouldn’t kiss her. I should back away and make it clear that there can’t be anything between us. We shouldn’t have sex out here in the middle of the forest. Raging wildland fire, crazy psycho killer with an enormous fire power arsenal—these are the very definition of unsafe sex. But let’s be honest. A burning snag would have to clobber me on the head right now to get me to stop kissing Vee.

She feels the same way.

Vee’s surprisingly quiet in bed for someone who likes to give orders and choreograph the whole thing from kiss to come. Once she gets started, it’s like she shuts down, entirely focused on what—or who—is making her come. She doesn’t make much sound at all other the odd sigh or soft whimper when I find one of her favorite spots with my tongue.

I have an excellent memory—I know exactly where to touch. I start easing her shirt up and she helps by shrugging out of her jacket. It hits the ground and I sweep the cotton over her head. She’s wearing a simple pink cotton bra that lifts her tits up like the sweetest scoops on a cone. I need to lick those soft swells. Do some sucking. Bite a little. Christmas has come early—it opens in the front. One quick flick on my thumb and the cups part.

Her tits are more apple-sized than melon but every bit as sweet. They’re definitely worthy of appreciation. I move my mouth down her neck, licking and kissing. And then I pause, lips skimming over the soft skin of her shoulder as I nudge her bra strap down. Pretty as it is, it needs to go. She makes a happy noise, trying to push closer. I don’t mind if I do.

“Do you like this? And may I?” Manners are important. My dick’s hard and jumping up and down, yelling pick me, but there are two of us here and my mission is to make this good for her. From the whimpers she tries to muffle, I’m getting an “E” for “Exceeds expectations.”

“So much,” she groans, moving against me.

Vee’s an equal opportunity giver. While I kiss my way down to her boobs, wishing I could be in two places at once and suck both nipples, her hands get busy. She runs them over my hair, along my shoulders, and down as much of my arms as she can reach until she skims the waistband of my pants and palms my ass. This makes it a little hard to focus on loving the ever-loving fuck out of her tits, but I man up and pull it together.

“Too slow,” she mutters.

I bite down gently and she shuts up. “Too good.”

She starts using my ass as a handle, trying to shift my body into hers. This is just a hook up. It’s only for tonight. I know she has no intention of keeping me—I’m the fish she already threw back once and amazing sex couldn’t fix everything that went wrong with our relationship before. She works the tips of her fingers down the back of my jeans and I’m suddenly at serious risk of a false start.

Her hands yank at my shirt, dragging the cotton up. I should keep it on. Stripping down tonight isn’t my smartest move. Mosquitoes, poison ivy, terrorist bullets, heartbreak—any number of things could go wrong. I don’t care because Vee steps back as I haul my shirt over my head, a naughty grin curving the corner of her mouth. She hooks a finger in the waistband of her jeans and shimmies right out of them. I have two seconds to admire her pretty pink panties, and then they join the pile on the ground and she’s standing there naked.

Best. Night. Ever.

I shove my pants and boxer briefs off, grab them, and shove them into my pack. And because I’m a total fucking gentlemen, I do hers too. My after care plans don’t include stray pine needles or creepy crawlies. She’s laughing and her shaking her head when I turn around, but trust me when I say nothing kills the mood faster than an eight-legged friend getting up close and personal with your balls. I spread the sleeping bag out, drop my jacket on top, and hold out my hand.

“Come on over.”

“Promises, promises.”

She inhales and I breathe with her. In. Out. I’m not rushing this. No way.

Except her hands are tugging at me, sliding down my sides and going straight for my dick. How’s a guy supposed to think straight?

“Vee?”

“Stone.” There’s laughter in her voice, warm and bright and so impossibly, perfectly sexy.

“We should slow down.”

“Next time,” she says in a throaty whisper that makes my dick agree one thousand percent.

My bigger, thinking head spares a second to figure out logistics. The problem with camping is that there’s no mattress. There’s not even a wall, the backseat of a truck, or any options at all. Cowgirl style, I decide. That way I won’t accidentally pound her into a stray rock or six.

I drag her closer, running my hand down the straight line of her spine, over the round curve of her ass—Christ, I love her ass—and go low. It takes me all of a hot, delicious second to stroke my fingers into her pussy. She’s wet, she’s driving me crazy, and…

“I missed you.” The words fly out of my mouth and I blame the lack of blood in my big head, the airless state of my lungs, anything but admit the truth to myself. Those words are too much for the inches between us. Stupid. That’s me.

Her eyes fly open. She looks at me, and whatever she’s about to say, it won’t be tell me more or me too or anything that I want to hear.

“Ignore me.” I think I growl the words. I know I’m not nice about it, but… I was her first. I knew that. And she was mine, too. What I hadn’t realized, until now, though, was that she’d also been my best. I’d wanted her and not because we got up to any sexual gymnastics. The sex was good, but we’d been close. The closest I’ve ever felt to someone else. We learned about sex together and now I really, really want to do it again. Whatever it is.

With her.

“You missed this.” She counters my not-so-genius argument for us banging like love-crazed, centuries-parted bunnies, by rocking backward. The motion rubs her pussy against the tips of my fingers. She’s so soft, like the sweetest, warmest welcome mat in the whole world. There’s no way I ignore her invitation to come in and play.

“Say yes.” I stroke her there, even though this is probably both a terrible idea and an amazing one. Her desire for a one-night hook up, my need for more—I forget about making my case as I trace my fingers along the slick edges of her folds.

“Yes.” She moans the word, making me feel like a king. Her fucking king, king of the world. “Just for tonight, Stone.”

Okay. I can work with tonight. Particularly since her hands reaching behind her, grabbing and squeezing what she can. I need to not talk, to not screw up, so I’ll just have to show her how I feel.

“Part your legs,” I order. “I want all the way in, honey.”

She does.

Christ, she does.

Her sweet, hot pussy covers my palm, the delicious dullness begging for my attention. I hold her like that for a long moment, then move my middle finger in deliberate, slow strokes. She follows my hand, a husky moan spilling from her.

“You going to tell me what you want here, or are you going to make me guess?” I give her another slow stroke of my finger while I wait for her answer.

“You’re doing just fine.” Her fingers clench and release. I want her hands on me, her nails biting into my skin, marking me up and digging in deep.

She sets me on fire.

And being an equal opportunity kind of guy, I want to return the favor. I’m not a dirty talker, so I show her want I’m fantasizing about. I stroke deeper, my hands between her legs, as I kiss her. Her mouth’s as sweet and sensitive as the rest of her, and we may not be so good at using our words, but we fucking rock our kiss. We kiss and kiss for a long time, my fingers still busy. She feels amazing.

Eventually she tears her mouth away from mine, her breathing changing, the shallow pants warning me she’s close. She pushes her head against her arm like she needs an anchor or she’ll fly apart and I wrap an arm around her waist, bracing her against my body. Taking her weight so all she has to do is hang on and enjoy. She’s the sexiest fucking sight ever.

“More, Stone.” She twists, trying to take it from me.

Her thighs tremble, the muscles of her ass clenching desperately. She’s so close. My dick jerks, wanting inside, but I need to feel her coming for me first.

I kiss my way up the side of her neck, loving her throaty gasps, and find her ear. And once I’m there, I do some more kissing, because no way I ever get enough of her.

“You know how good you feel?” Fuck. That hoarse rasp is my voice. She wants an orgasm, but me… I might want something more.

I freeze. Shut the thought down. This is a one and done, not the start of happily ever after.

Running the fingers of one hand up her neck and through her hair, I find the sensitive scalp. Anchor her in place, tugging gently.

The fingers of my other hand play with her clit. Her thighs tighten around me, her back bowing. “You got to open up, baby. Let me in. Let me make this real good for you.”

“I need—”

“I got what you need.” I grip her hair, giving myself permission to go caveman on her for just a moment. Is this what Neanderthal dicks felt, this out-of-control but feels-so-right urge to toss a girl over their shoulders and lock her up in their cave until she was pregnant? I decide I’d better not be thinking that way. Starting a family in the middle of a forest fire seems like a shitty idea. Probably. Maybe. It’s completely illogical and there must be some weird combination of smoke and adrenaline that’s got me baby-thinking. I’m a guy. I’m a dick. I don’t do pink and blue baby blankets and big babies and Vee beaming up at me because I’ve given her everything and…

God. I’m fucked.

“Okay,” she says.

Great. She’s reading my mind. I’ve got the green light, the buy in, the…

Who the fuck cares? She wants me, too. My fingers are slick from her wet as I explore her pussy. She whines and shifts, rubbing herself against my fingers like I’m her made-to-order dildo. She’s never held back. Now, yesterday, ten years ago—she’s all in and coming apart for me. Caveman Me wants to ask her if she’s let other men touch her like this, but then the thought vanishes. All that matters is that she’s back and I’m here, losing myself in her again.

She pants out something. Moans a couple of throaty syllables. Might be words, my name, her fucking shopping list. The only thing I know is that the words aren’t no and that’s good enough for me. I mean, she can recite the Kama Sutra and point out her favorite bits next. Or rap a love song or do whatever the fuck she wants. Because she goes up on tiptoe, pushing hard against my hand in silent demand.

“Just like that, honey.” That’s my voice whispering rough words of praise, telling her how pretty she is as she comes against my fingers. How sweet. Guess I do know how to say something after all. “I love feeling you like this.”

And part of me knows the secret, the goddamned elephant in the forest with us.

I could have stopped with two words. Three.

I love.

You.

Chapter Twelve

Olivia

Hello, orgasm central. Some things don’t change, and one of those immutable, wonderful, never altering facts? Stone is a man with very, very talented fingers. He’s also a man of great focus—and right now I’m a very appreciative recipient of his gifts. I come so hard I see stars, an entire galaxy of whirling, glittering, oh-my-God-how-did-we-live-without-this stars. Everything in me seizes up and shuts down, concentrating on each exquisite, satisfying pulse. I moan his name as if the louder I shout it, the better I’ll feel. It’s ridiculous. I’m not a screamer or a yeller. I don’t unleash my inner porn star even when I’m alone and it’s just me, my bed, and the best part of a dirty book.

Apparently Stone is the exception to my ever. He strokes and teases and then he delivers, his fingers finding all my favorite spots. He’s not doing anything I haven’t begged him to do, and it’s hard to remember that we haven’t seen each other for ten years. I can’t believe I’ve let him hammer and fix his way around Baby Bear Lodge without dragging him into my tiny cabin and having my wicked way with him.

My brain gives out about when my knees do. I’m naked, wet, and way more open than I’d like to be. His arm around my waist is the only thing holding me up—and I’m strangely okay with that. Even more okay when he turns me around and scoops me up into his arms. I’m not a small woman. I stand on my own two feet because otherwise I’d get run over in the world and that’s no fun. But right now? It feels more than a little bit okay to let him do the holding and the standing for both of us. I’m sure I’ll get over it soon. As soon as I’ve had his dick one last time.

Okay. This wasn’t what I had planned for tonight. If I’d imagined how my evening was going to go, it would have involved nailing Arthurs’ ass and accepting the congratulations of my team. Dropping my panties for my sexy landlord?

Yeah.

So not on my agenda.

But my girl parts are throbbing in the best possible way, my whole body humming with an orgasm that’s an eleven out of ten in off-the-charts goodness. All that unexpected happiness has to explain the next words out of my mouth.

“Tell me you have a condom.”

Yes, that’s my voice. I’d fall through the ground in embarrassment, but Stone’s still holding me. Maybe he’ll give me credit for being practical. And then a dire thought occurs to me and of course I have to blurt it right out.

“Tell me,” I say, “that you have a condom that didn’t come from Holm Arthurs’s bunker.”

Stone stares at me for a long second. You could probably fit every Lord of the Rings movie and most of the Star Wars franchise into the silence. Possibly an Ice Age or six. I’m considering the best way to exit from his arms when the corners of his eyes crinkle.

“I’ve got condoms,” he says. “Of my own.”

“The one every guy carries around in his wallet for a million years? Because you have to check the expiration date on those things.”

God, I need to shut up.

The smile reaches his mouth. “Fresh out of the box condoms.”

“You planned ahead.”

And… I may sound a little judgey—sue me.

“Condoms are the number one choice of the U.S. Forest Service for transporting water from point A to point B.” He recites this fun fact like he’s a kid presenting a poster at a science fair. And while his facts are… impressive? I’d really like to put his condoms to good use right now.

Stone has always been bigger on actions than words. He unbuckles, unzips, reaches into his pocket, and produces a condom in record-breaking time. I almost don’t notice because I’m too busy staring at his dick. I really thought my memories were exaggerating, but there are inches and glorious inches of hard, hot hotshot standing to attention and…

He’s just as spectacular now as he was then.

Maybe more so.

Are dicks like wine or whiskey? Do they just get better with age? Viagra seems to argue the contrary, but damn. Stone’s fine. He tears open the condom package with his teeth and one hand, then smooths the rubber down. His dick jerks. He looks hungry and really, really focused.

He’s pretty much staring at me like he wants to eat me up, as if I’m Goldilocks and I’ve just found the biggest, baddest bear in the whole woods. It reminds me of how he used to be, all those years ago. I told myself I’d forgotten, but I’m a liar. I totally remember. I mean, I can have sex whenever I want if I make a little effort—but it’s generally not worth my time. It’s a sad truth that most guys are a disappointment. In, out, and done if you take my meaning.

What if Stone’s changed? What if I have? What if he’s still got a magical penis but my hoohah isn’t quite as… whatever it was. When I was younger. Hotter. Firmer. I should have done Kegels or Googled or…

Stone curls his big hands around my hips, urging me closer. “Stop thinking,” he growls.

Right.

It’s a nice idea, even if he’s got the delivery of a cave man, but he looks like a Greek god and I look like me.

He shakes his head, as if he can hear my internal monologue, and then plants his mouth on mine. I guess he’s going for kiss her senseless. His plan totally works for me. I can hear myself moaning as he runs his tongue over my lips, opening me up so he can come on in. Our tongues meet and tangle, pushing and fighting. I’m not going to back down, and apparently neither is he. God. I can feel him smiling against mouth, his fingers tightening, lifting.

My feet leave the ground and I wrap my arms around his neck, partly to hold on and partly just because I can. I get my fingers beneath his shirt, dragging my nails over his skin. He groans something into my mouth. He likes this, and so do I.

So I kiss him more, driving my tongue deeper, harder into his mouth as I tunnel my fingers into his hair and use his head as a steering wheel. Kiss me this way, right here, yes. His hands work beneath my butt and I scissor my legs around his lean waist. Who knew Nomex could feel so sexy on my thighs. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m in the forest. At night. With an out-of-control wildfire and a homicidal terrorist breathing down my neck. These are not fantasy materials. I have never, ever jilled off thinking ooh, I could die—let’s rub one out!

I totally blame Stone. Maybe it’s the effortless way he lifts me, maneuvering me until we’re perfectly aligned. I’m a good six inches shorter than him and he’s packing some serious muscle thanks to all that firefighting, so he makes me feel like a sexy sprite. Plus, my bare parts keep brushing against him and he’s hard and ripped. He supports me like it’s no big deal.

I want to eat him up, strip him down. Ride him hard. Instead, I kiss him some more and grind against his dick. The bastard’s playing with me. He lifts me up, but only puts the tip of himself inside me. He’s holding out, so I pull back from our kiss and bite his bottom lip.

He groans. “Play nice.”

“You too,” I pant. “Give it to me.”

He slides into me another inch. The man is such a tease. His mouth brushes over mine, pressing, warning. If I bite, he’ll bite. That’s how it’s always worked between us.

“Soon,” he promises.

“Now,” I counter. “You’re not getting a better offer than that.”

His laugh is more grunt than not, but he grips me harder, lifts me higher, and then he’s shoving deep inside me the way I need him. My body makes him work for each inch he takes and it’s so good. So, so good. I tighten around him, making sure he can’t leave me now, and I kiss him again. If I kiss him, neither of us can talk and that’s perfect.

Stone fucks me with a long, slow roll of his hips, driving deep inside me before lifting me up and almost off his dick. Then he drags me back down. It’s like a great big sexy tidal wave of pleasure. He makes me feel crazy good, so good that I shimmy and shake, riding him harder, faster, better. Screw waiting or taking my time—I want all of Stone and I want him now.

He hammers into me with a groan, working me against his dick, and my brain shuts off. I tighten and arch and all dignity goes flying out the non-existent window. The pressure inside me increases as I squeeze down on him and he exhales, driving into me faster. I can’t breathe, can’t think. All I can do is feel as I tear my mouth away from his, gulping in air before I bury my face in his neck. And then he slips his fingers between us, holding me in place with one hand while the knuckles of his other work my clit, drawing wet, juicy circles over me.

I bow and come apart. I might yell his name and invoke a pagan deity or six. He moves deeper and faster, slamming into me until I’m aware of each glorious, hot, hard inch of Stone. Thank God for those inches. The man’s packing a ruler, a yardstick, my fucking gold standard. I might even cling to him as the orgasm detonates through me and I hang on. I’m definitely hollering his name.

I think he whisper-groans mine, too.

Right at the end.

When he’s boned me into quivering happiness and he pumps into me one last time, dick working, hips pistoning. He says something, and I’m almost certain it’s Vee. I know his eyes close as he gives in and gives it up because I cheat and watch him. He’s so beautiful.

It’s a long time later when I remember how to breathe and Stone finally disengages me from his wonder dick. When he sets me on my feet, I’m proud of the fact that I don’t stagger or clutch his muscled forearms. I don’t think he knows just how thoroughly he’s boned me into oblivion.

Thank God.

There’s a not unexpected moment of awkwardness as we stand face to face (or more like face to chest because he’s so much taller than me). I’ve lost my pants and his dick is hanging out. It’s one of those moments that works if you’re close with your partner, the kind of moment that’s cute but definitely not romantic. I turn away and grab for my clothes. In addition to the indignity and possible Peeping Tom terrorist, there are mosquitoes, low-hanging branches, and a definite draft out here in the woods. Panties are a must.

Plus, I need a distraction, or I’ll climb the man like a monkey. It’s like I just discovered sex and now I can’t get enough. You’d think our makeshift campsite would dampen the mood, but no. It’s still more rustic than Four Seasons, and nothing in the ginormous makeshift bag of supplies that Stone pilfered from Arthurs’s bunker can possibly fix that. I’m not into camping. I like twelve-inch memory foam mattresses, four-hundred count sheets, and room service. I love running water, indoor plumbing, and Jacuzzi tubs.

I’m still contemplating the myriad sins that must have led me here to outdoor sex in public without so much as an air mattress or a tent for decency when Stone sort of locks up like a pointer finding game. He looks over my shoulder and I instinctively follow his gaze. It’s not bears or raccoons or even rabid terrorists that’s captured his attention, however. It’s the visible glow of fire. I almost expect him to go bounding away toward the not-distant-enough flames because he’s all hotshot at the moment. He’s like a dog, forced to heel when he so clearly wants to be out there doing things. Stone Clayton doesn’t sit still, never has.

I ease away from him, all virtuous restraint. “You don’t have to stay.”

This new, saintly me should probably shut up. I mean, I have zero desire to spend the night in the woods, but spending the night in the woods alone holds even less appeal and it’s not just because I’m worried about freezing, mosquitoes, and random animal incursions.

Stone gives me one of his patented looks, the kind that clearly means something in the Stone-verse but that us lesser mortals either can’t interpret or chalk up to cranky. Maybe I can give him cards to hold up, kind of like Olympic judges. He can indicate from 1 to 10 just how happy or unhappy he is. Things would be much clearer that way.

He drags his gaze away from the fire. And since I’m pretty much naked as a jaybird, my nipples diamond hard thanks to some chilly mountain air, I’m not feeling too flattered. I want him looking at me. In fact, I want him on his knees, and not just so he can admire my southern regions, but because…

Yeah. I’m all kinds of screwed up. Or screwed. I drag my shirt around me because I don’t have a handy set of body armor lying around. Stupid hiking gear.

“Let’s get you ready for the night.” He’d hollowed out the ground earlier, layering dry grass with plastic tarp, and now he unzips a sleeping bag.

“Boy scout?”

“Marines.”

“Tell me about it?”

He doesn’t answer right away, and I’m sure he’s just thinking about what to say, that his silence is a totally normal response to a pretty mundane question, and not something I need to read anything into. So of course I have to poke him.

“It’s a conversation, Stone. I say something. You say something. Rinse and repeat.”

He gives me another look, but then, miracle of miracles (and yes, I want to sing that out loud like I’m starring in my own personal revival of Fiddler on the Roof), he opens his mouth and words come out. A lot of words.

“Two tours. Couple of hops to the Middle East. I was kind of done when my Crash, Fire and Rescue team went out after a pilot came in more crash than land. We hosed down the pieces and got the guy out when we could. Some of the other men I served with went on to become smoke jumpers, but I came back here, because I knew fighting wildland fires and the U. S. Forest Service was where I wanted to be. I like having my feet on the ground, being right there on the frontlines.”

He shakes out the sleeping bag and it settles onto his makeshift mattress perfectly. Go figure. Stone drops to his haunches, tucking and smoothing anyhow. I’m tempted to ask him if I get a chocolate for my pillow.

“You were expecting a fight in a national park?” Stupid.

He tilts his head back, looking at me. This time his gaze doesn’t quite make it to my face—it gets stuck on the generous amount of boob I’m flashing him since I haven’t bothered fastening my shirt.

“You came here hunting for a domestic terrorist,” he points out.

I know that Stone’s dad was a park ranger, so he has parks in his blood. In all truth, he was probably conceived on a picnic table or underneath some giant redwood. It’s like a park ranger fertility rite.

“I thought you never wanted to leave.”

He shrugs. “I was at loose ends.”

Wait. What?

He curls a hand around my ankle. “And maybe I wanted to see the world some, Vee.”

“And then you came back.” Stone—the human boomerang.

He nods. “I can do something here.”

Right. Because some guys fix plumbing or drive trucks or perform open heart surgery—and he stops great big raging infernos from devouring entire mountains.

“Every day’s another chance to be a hero?”

I grin at him as I ask my question, and answering smile curls his mouth. His delicious, hard, way too lickable mouth. Stubble and a streak of soot roughens his jaw, like he’s rubbed a hand over his face at some point during a really long day. He’s not smooth or polished, not like the handful of men I’ve dated since our summer together. I haven’t been a monk. A sister. Whatever a female celibate is. I like sex and I like men, so most of me figures that hooking up with Stone isn’t a big deal. We’ll bang, the chemistry between us will subside, and then we can go back to ignoring each other for the rest of the summer.

“Most days, my job’s all about the shovel. Why’d you do it?”

He’s spread out the sleeping bag, fleece-side up. I debate for a nanosecond how I feel about borrowing a terrorist’s sleeping bag, but it’s not particularly warm despite the fire. And the bag looks new if slightly dusty.

“The FBI?”

Stone pats the edge of the sleeping bag. I think that’s my queue to crawl in, but I’m not ready to do so.

“Quantico was a challenge, but a good one. What I’d learned in the classroom at college was interesting, but it didn’t push me. Not the way the academy did. We were being asked to solve real problems, for real people. The missions were important. We kept people safe.”

Stone rocks back on his heels. “Funny to think that maybe we’re not so different after all, huh?”

“Yeah.” I smile back. “Other than the obvious.”

I let my gaze drift over that difference. God, he’s huge. I mean, it’s not like I thought he’d have shrunk over the years like a shirt in the wash, but I clearly didn’t remember all of the specifics. The inches and inches of really thick-looking specific outlined beneath his Nomex pants. The fabric highlights his dick and his powerful thighs. Instead of sequined thongs, they should dress the Chippendales in this stuff. They’d make a fortune.

Stone stands up. For a big guy, he’s surprisingly light on his feet. He comes upright so quickly that we’re practically pressed front to front. He gestures toward the canyon entrance. “This not being the St. Regis, you’re going to have to step outside to take care of any business you might have.”

Potty call. Gotcha.

I go. Stone being Stone, he follows right on my heels. Yeah. As if I’m going to pee with an audience. I stop and point. I think it’s important we understand each other. “This is where you stay, Boy Scout. Privacy is a definite requirement here.”

He shakes his head and doesn’t back up. “If there’s so much as a chance that Holm Arthurs is running around out there, you get an escort service.”

“I’m armed.” I pick out a thick stand of bushes and make for them, Stone still dogging my every step. Right. I stop and smack my hand against his chest. “No further.”

He scans, but nothing moves. Right now the night holds shadows, not terrorists. Of course it’s still not safe enough for Stone. He’d probably bubblewrap the world if he thought he could get away with it.

His fingers curl around mine. “You show me how well you draw, aim, and fire when your pants are down around your ankles.”

“Keep standing here watching me and I’ll be happy to demonstrate,” I warn.

Will I shoot him?

Probably not, but I think it’s important to make my point.

As awesome as the sex is, I don’t need him to protect me. That’s a job I can do, and he needs to understand that. There’s another moment of silence and then he nods and steps back. Halle-fucking-lujah, Stone actually does what I ask.

It doesn’t mean I don’t miss him.

Chapter Thirteen

Stone

Olivia disappears behind the bushes. Okay. So yes, I totally want to follow her and not because I’ve got my kink going and I want to suggest a round of golden showers. As awesome as sex between us is, I’m a vanilla man. Ask me what kind of ice cream cone I want, and I’m vanilla. Chocolate. Maybe twist on a really adventuresome day. And I’m okay with that. I don’t have to be the praline chocolate chip sea salt caramel dingleberry whorl because I know how to savor what I’ve got and I can lick for hours.

Vee has always been the more adventuresome of the two of us. She likes to push our boundaries, and while I don’t think sexy-dirty peeing is really her thing, she’s having an awesome time teasing me about it. My whole body’s still on fire from what we did. My dick’s hard again, demanding an instant return to paradise. My brain, on the other hand, now that it’s got some blood and a decent supply of oxygen, keeps sending urgent memos about our current situation. We’re camping overnight because we’re pinned down by a forest fire. I don’t have all my supplies. And there’s a possibly a terrorist on the loose and I doubt he’d hesitate to hurt Vee, seeing as how he’s willing to shoot innocent civilians to make his point.

So yes, let me say it again. I want to follow her and stand over her while she pees because I don’t want her getting hurt. Not on my watch, not ever. Rustling sounds come from the bushes, followed by a soft patter as she does what needs doing. I focus on the night sounds and our surroundings, giving her what privacy I can. I wouldn’t put it past her to shoot me just on principle.

When she emerges, I lead the way back into the canyon. We had sex. Hot reunion sex, hook up sex, let-me-die-happy sex. It was unbelievable, and I have to resist reaching out to touch her to make sure I’m not dreaming. Because I’ve had a lot of dreams about Vee, and none of them came close to the reality.

When we reach our makeshift campsite, I gesture toward the sleeping bag and leaf sandwich I’ve made. She gives it a once-over, but that’s another thing I remember about Vee. She’s not a complainer, not a whiner, a bitcher, or a venter. She just accepts a situation and moves on. So she doesn’t point out that impromptu camping is uncomfortable and a little too primitive for her tastes. She doesn’t make jokes about the four-star accommodations or even make a face. She just nods and drops down onto the place I’ve made for her.

“Thanks,” she says. She means it. There’s not an ounce of sarcasm in her voice and it’s hot. Okay. So I find everything about her hot. Way, way too hot.

She eyes her hiking boots and I can practically hear her weighing the odds of taking them off versus keeping them on and laced in case we need to run.

“It’s safe,” I tell her. “The fire won’t overwhelm us

“How do you know that?” It’s not that she’s dismissing my statement—she just wants me to provide supporting facts.

I’m not the weather guy. I don’t predict fire’s path. I just go out and try to convince it to go in an entirely different direction from the other Mother Nature has picked out. Words aren’t going to help, though, so I drop down beside her and start unlacing her boots. She lets me tug them off and set them down beside her. With a groan, she flops down. Her steel-toed hiking boot probably cost more than my truck is worth. They haven’t done their job, though, because she makes a sound that’s a cross between a moan and a groan as the first boot comes off. My dick promptly stands to attention. She wiggles toes in practical white cotton socks and I discover a previously unknown foot fetish—and that’s before she starts doing some kind of weird, twisty bendy thing. Yoga? Pilates? Tantric sex? Fuck if I know, but it’s also hot. I’m still not sure why she decided to give me a temporary second chance, but I’m happy.

Stupidly so.

I focus on her feet, tucking them onto my thighs and dragging my thumb along the sensitive arch. She groans and does an awesome imitation of a boneless starfish.

“You’re amazing.” She blurts the words out and then flushes. “As a masseuse.”

Right. I’d like to point out to her that there are clearly a few other areas in which I excel—orgasms one, two, and three being my proof—but I bite my tongue. I don’t want to spoil this moment, and I already knew that it couldn’t last. Instead, I find the pad of her foot and rub in a firm circle. She sighs and wiggles her foot deeper into my touch.

“Here.” I ease down beside her and pat my thigh. Her gaze flicks between my face and my hand. I consider making a few other gestures but then my good guy wins and I grab her feet, hauling them onto my lap.

She sinks back with a groan. “You’re a man of many talents, Mr. Clayton.”

There’s an easy camaraderie to this night. If I were like some of the other hotshots, I’d be working the moment. I’d talk up the first, promise to keep her safe, crawl right into the sleeping bag beside her. But that’s not me. It’s not that I won’t keep her safe—because I will. It’s that it’s not a game or a way to flirt until I’m in her pants. I don’t want her hanging on me because she’s scared or even because she looks at me and sees some kind of hero.

I don’t think she’s on the hunt for a hero anyhow. Vee makes her own luck, her own life, her own safe places. She was already like that as a kid. She wanted to do things for herself, not rely on others. She’s not the kind of woman who forwards hot firefighter memes to her girlfriends or who hangs around the bar looking to pick a hotshot up. I wish I did know what she wanted.

I just rub her feet and kind of… hope. Which is stupid. I don’t even say anything because what’s left to say? We’ve covered the fire; we’ve had enthusiastic sex and not-so-safe sex. So I sit across from her, digging my thumbs into feet and doing my best to work out the pain and the soreness. And if I’m watching her like a dog waiting for its next meal, that’s my problem, not hers.

She pulls her hair tie free like she’s tired of the drag on her scalp and honey brown hair brushes against her face and shoulders. This is something else I used to do for her. I move behind her and braid it. She doesn’t like sleeping with it loose, or maybe it’s just that Vee, being Vee, she has to be super organized even when she’s not awake. She probably still does this every night because little strands have broken off around her face, curling madly. Those little bits and pieces make her look softer, kind of fluffier. She’s not one hundred percent a bad ass.

“Thanks,” she murmurs. Her voice sounds sleepy. She checks for cell phone service but she’s still got nothing. It’s not the fire’s fault. Smoke doesn’t screw up the reception—it’s the trees and the distance from a cell phone site.

I had sex with Vee. With a wildland fire and a terrorist nearby. Possibly. The fire I’m certain about, but the terrorist is a little iffier. And while my timing sucks, the sex was amazing. I’d definitely like to do it again.

Now totally works for me.

But she’s tired and she’s clearly checked me off her to do list for tonight.

“I’ll take the first watch.” I’m taking the second, too, but she doesn’t need to know that.

Neither of us says anything for the next few minutes. I’m too busy seizing the fucking moment and keeping an ear out for anything that might come crashing out of the darkness with lethal intent—flames, homicidal bears, deranged kills, a lost hotshot—and she’s winding down for the night, about to check out on me.

She breathes in. Out. Her lashes drift down. Once Vee decides to go to sleep, it’s like someone pulled the plug. She just drops.

“You coming to bed?” The words sound slurred.

“I’m going to watch for a while.” She’d never agree to let me watch out for her if I outright asked. Vee likes to pull her own weight, and that quiet strength is one of the things I find attractive about her. But the truth is, I have more experience and training when it comes to woodcraft. I hope I’d be smart enough to let her take charge if we were in her milieu. Whatever and wherever that is.

Huh.

It’s weird thinking that she must have a whole other life, probably somewhere on the other side of the country. While I’ve split my time between this forest and whichever sandbox or theater Uncle Sam needed me in, she’s been building her own life. I amuse myself by imagining the kind of home she might have. Maybe she has a fancy condo that’s all steel and glass. Or a fixer-upper Victorian—it’s easy to imagine her barking out orders to a contractor and transforming something that was rundown and derelict into the perfect space. Or maybe she’s an HGTV fan who worships the gods of shiplap and farmhouse?

“Good night.” Her eyes are closed, but I know what she’s thinking. She likes to visualize what went right today and then what will go right tomorrow, the same way a gymnast mentally runs through her routine right before she launches herself onto the beam and backflips the shit out of life.

Am I the part that went right—or the part that went FUBAR? Was our dirty reunion sex just a blip and now she’s back to business as usual? Like it doesn’t matter that we fucked each other senseless. I’m still thinking these thoughts when Vee falls asleep, a smile on her face.

Chapter Fourteen

Stone

I love the night hours. Daylight’s pretty, but sometimes less is more and nighttime in the mountains is something special. When I tilt my head back, looking up, all I see are layers of black and gray, a sort of ever-shifting pattern or curtain. The sky’s like a puzzle or one of those scratch off pictures where you pick away the black and underneath is color.

After Vee passed out, I got up and took care of some business. Not that kind—I went around our perimeter and set out the welcome mat, so to speak. I’ve left more than a few traps for anyone trying to sneak up on us. It’s a skill I learned from Uncle Sam, and I think he’d approve. I don’t like anyone or anything sneaking up on me. You come at me from the front.

Unless Holm has wings and/or is Superman, he can’t drop down on top of us. There’s only one path up to the canyon top and we’ve got it blocked. And now that the perimeter is secured… I let myself relax just a little. Okay, I’m also still buzzing from the awesome sex we had, so it’s not hard.

Vee is a messy sleeper. When she’s awake, she’s all rules and order. The woman’s almost never rumpled—although tonight’s impromptu camp-out is going to challenge her—and she’s always liked everything in her place. You’d think it would make her predictable and yet it doesn’t. When she’s asleep, however, she lets go of some of that control and sprawls all over the place. The arms and legs that she had wrapped so tightly around me reach for all four corners of the sleeping bag, which has come unzipped. She doesn’t seem to mind the bite to the night air, but I tuck my jacket over her anyhow.

Our campsite’s not much. Park visitors fight over the sites near the river or with a view of the mountains or whatever shit they think belongs on the front of a post card. We’ve got a canyon wall at our backs, a few Manzanita bushes, and a whole lot of dirt and scrub. When I tilt my head back and look up, however, the sky looks like a black marble. Smoke and stars break up the black and there’s a wispy bit of cloud up there, too. The moon won’t be full for a few more days, but it’s still fucking gorgeous and I’ve got plenty of light. I’m not a Four Seasons kind of guy. This is my happy place right here.

I set a hand on Vee’s back. Right now, she’s not going anywhere, but I like touching her. And while I touch her, I scan the darkness, making note of each small sound or shift in the shadows. Something larger moves through a nearby treetop—a raccoon. His bandit face peers down at me before disappearing back into the leaves and branches as he gets on with his night. The nearby fire doesn’t have him spooked yet, which is a good sign. The animals always know first when fire’s about to overrun an area. Oblivious, Vee flops over, tossing her arms wide, and I resettle my hand on her stomach. She breathes softly, deeply, settling into sleep, and like the idiot I am I pretend she’s dreaming about me.

Yeah, we had sex. Hot, dirty, make-her-scream sex—and it already seems like a dream. And while sure, it’s a really awesome, fucking fantastic dream, I’m also ready for some reality in my life. Great, wish for the moon and a fucking miracle, why don’t you? Wishes are for the weak. I plan. I get shit done. When I sniff my fingers, I smell Vee. They should make a card for this because it’s not like I’ve got the words to describe her scent, but it’s absolute perfection. Sweet and salty and something that’s always been just her. She’d have plenty to say if she busted me, but I don’t care. Bottom line is that she smells fucking fantastic and I’ll do her again, just as soon as she lets me.

Her hair bunches up around her face as she sleeps, and she’s still wearing the T-shirt, the flannel, and the expensive little wanna-be-an-outdoors-man jacket that’s nowhere near rugged enough for tonight’s campout. At least that’s the excuse I’ll give when I lie down beside her. She somehow manages to look vulnerable and firmly in-charge at the same time. Maybe it’s because she’s the one who’s decided she’ll let go and sleep, so she still thinks she’s making the rules.

My fingers itch to slide up the sweet curve of her stomach and cup her tits. They’re bigger than I remember, but just as soft. They’re more than a handful and sucking on them is one of my new priorities. Shoving them together and fucking my dick between them also comes to mind.

At some point, I’ll steal twenty minutes. I won’t be any good to Vee if I’m delirious from lack of sleep and I’ve already been out in the field for twenty hours. But I’m a hotshot, I function just fine on minimal sleep, so for now I wait and watch. The sky changes slowly overhead as first the minutes and then the hours tick by. The smoke from the wildfires slowly creeps over the stars, hiding all but the brightest points of lights. It’s like a dark smudge on an even darker expanse. After two hours, there’s nothing left to see but the moon. Everything else disappears behind the fire-haze, as if the world is slowly winking out and giving way to the wildfire. The sun will rise shortly before six, but as soon as it’s light enough, the boys in the tankers will get the go ahead to go airborne with the next load of water or fire retardant.

I’m not sure what catches my attention. I’m leaning back against the canyon wall and Vee has rolled over until she’s got an arm and a leg tossed across my lap. It’s strangely comfortable, plus it’s like cozying up to a space heater. Yes, I plan on staying exactly like this all night.

Except…

“Don’t move.” I breathe the words against Vee’s ear. Adrenaline pumps through me, my body readying for the coming fight. We have company, of the two-legged variety. If the newcomer was a fellow firefighter, he’d call out, do something to alert me to his presence. He sure as fuck wouldn’t be sticking to the shadows, watching. Not unless Vee and I were having sex again, and even then… Let’s just say my boys and I have an understanding. There is shit you just don’t do.

Vee comes awake with a start and I press my fingers against her lips. They probably still smell like her pussy because her eyes widen. I’d like to follow up on that, but now isn’t the time. She must figure shit out because she stops looking riled up and nods her instead. She gets it. We’re on radio silence.

“Holm?” She mouths the name and I nod.

Has to be.

Unfortunately, I also smell smoke now and that’s bad. The lighter smudge of light on the horizon announces loud and clear that dawn’s coming fast. The main fire should have died down some over the night, but the air around us is light enough now to see the tendrils of smoke eddy around our campsite. They’re closer and thicker with each passing second, which means our night has officially gone to hell.

Vee reaches down inside the bag, sliding her boots on and lacing them with quick efficiency. Whatever happens next, she’s ready.

I can just make out Vee’s face in the dim light. Her hair has slipped from its braid on one side and it gives her a lopsided look. Little pieces curl at random angles and I fight the urge to smooth them back. My control’s for shit around this woman and I need to focus. She doesn’t have that problem, her eyes are calm and steady, as she reaches for her weapon.

“Six o’clock,” I whisper, zeroing in on the barely-there movement in the shadows in front of us. No matter what happens next, I’ll make sure Vee is ready to run or to fight. Whichever keeps her safest.

She’s mine.

For the second time in my life, I want more than a handful of stolen nights.

I want it all. All of Vee. She was my first, and now I’d like her to be my last. And my best. She’s definitely that, and yes, the primitive need to protect her against the threat lurking in the darkness has my inner caveman rising to the surface. You can argue about it later when Vee’s safe and I’ve kicked the ass of the bad guy.

Gravel hits metal thirty feet to my right.

I roll to my feet silently. Son of a bitch. Someone’s set off the trip wire I set up on the camp’s northwest perimeter. His—or I suppose her—line of sight will be blocked by two enormous Ponderosa pine, but they’ll have a clear shot if they get past that. Vee comes up on her knees. When I motion for her to stay, she makes a frowny face. She’s pissed. Too bad.

She yanks on my shirt. Hard. Yeah. She definitely has something to say about tonight’s plan—everybody’s a critic. She gestures that she’s coming with me.

That’s a big negative. I motion for her to stay and her frown deepens.

“Don’t little lady me,” she growls quietly.

“You walk too loudly,” I tell her. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

Her forehead crinkles as she thinks that through. She must agree with me because she sinks back down into the bag, checking her piece with casual efficiency beneath the concealing cotton. If Holm can see her, he won’t be alarmed. Some men are fucking idiots and that’s the truth.

I tuck the handgun I borrowed from the bunker into my waistband. Although the gun is fully loaded, using the weapon isn’t my first choice. It’s too goddamned easy to shoot the wrong target in the dark. Instead, palming my hunting knife, I move out. The blade is a reassuring weight in his hand and slipping through the dark reminds me both of boot camp training and the hunting trips I used to take with my dad. The stakes tonight are personal, though. Adrenaline pumps through me hard, but damned if I’ll let anyone get the drop on me here.

I sense rather than hear Vee move. Damn it. I should have insisted on a verbal okay. This puts a little pickup in my step and I move deeper into the shadows, away from our sleeping bag. I just have to find our target first.

Holm Arthurs shoots out of the shadows with no warning. Despite the camouflage paint on his face, I read his lethal intent loud and clear. He’s packing, too. The man wears more knives than a Christmas tree does balls, and the ammo belt strapped to his chest is impressive. He’s set up to hunt bear. Me? I stopped hunting after my last tour. I’d rather live and let live unless it’s a life or death situation. Goddamn it, but Holm isn’t hunting bear.

He’s hunting Vee.

Holm thrusts, straight and hard, punching twelve inches of lethal nasty toward my gut. I evade, keeping my eye on the second blade he holds in reserve in his left hand.

“Park’s closed,” I tell him. Yes, we both know I’m being Captain Obvious, but the words distract Holm and I twist, moving out of the danger zone. I shove my arms down hard in an X-block, forcing Holm’s blade hand to follow me as my steel toe makes satisfying contact with Holm’s thigh. Two seconds later, I’ve pulled Holm’s arm over and back into a wristlock.

“Looks like you’re open for business to me.” Holm’s lips peel back in a rictus of anger and pain as he fights my hold. The man won’t give up and from the crazed look in those eyes, I’m betting no one’s home upstairs, either. “You like my fire, ranger?”

Those are fighting words. I’ve got three hundred acres and my team on the line. Vee is on the line. Finding the arsenal Holm stashed in his illegal woodland bunker wasn’t happy-making, but these words are the final straw.

Holm isn’t done yet, though. He curses a blue streak as he fights my wristlock. Since he’s maybe forty-five, I’m younger than him. I also have the advantage of height. But Holm knows he has to get away if he wants to have even a chance at bringing his evil plans to fruition. He doesn’t care what it costs. He forces his wrist free, ignoring the vicious snap of bone.

“You got to be willing to sacrifice,” he snarls, putting a few feet between him and me.

It’s time for Plan B—especially since I can hear Vee coming up behind me.

Holm charges and it’s like being hit by a freight train. He rains down lethal punches, and I return them with interest, striking hard and fast as I do my best to keep my body between the other man and Vee, leading him away from our campsite. Another blow and then Holm and I are locked arm in arm, grappling fiercely.

Strike. Hit hard. Block.

The world shrinks to the man trying to kill me.

Olivia

I’m used to guys trying to bubble-wrap me. To keep me safe and out of danger, even when it’s in my description. So it’s not really surprising when Stone tries to sideline me and go charging off after my tango by himself. Not unexpected, but still disappointing. I thought maybe he’d get that my job matters to me as much as his does to him.

I count to thirty, letting him get ahead of me and giving myself time for my eyes to adjust to the near-pitch-black forest. My weeks at Baby Bear Lodge haven’t completely prepared me for the lack of light out here at night. The few stars peeping through the cloudy, smoky sky don’t come close to packing the wattage I prefer.

Stone’s protective, fabulous ass disappears into the bushes before I even reach ten. As much as I had to admit it, he does have a point. He moves much, much more quietly than I do. I’m going to have to learn how to do that, too. That’s fine. I don’t mind having a long to do list.

At the count of thirty, I get to my feet and do a quick visual sweep of our campsite. Nothing’s out of place, and I don’t think there’s anything here that Holm could use as a weapon or to aid his cause. A quick check of my phone shows it’s two in the morning. This is coming-home-from-the-bar or appreciate-the-Sealy-Posturpedic time. It is so not the right time to be up and about, especially without coffee. Since it is in my job description, however, I get on with it.

Stone’s He-man behavior is supremely annoying and needs to be nipped in the bud and I’m just the woman to do it. It’s not as if this side of Stone is entirely unfamiliar, either. He’s always been Mr. Protective. It’s just that now that he’s served in the military, it’s really easy to spot his warrior side. The man who ordered me to stay put and then melted into the shadows is the man who fought overseas, who picked up a gun and did what needed doing to keep his country safe. So I do appreciate that he simply wants to keep me safe—it’s just that I have a job to do here, too.

I follow him into the darkness, trying to walk as quietly I can. I suspect he’s going to know I’m coming, but I also think he’ll engage Holm before I can catch up and that’s both supremely irritating and a lucky break. I’ve trained for this kind of confrontation and I’m far from helpless.

The warmth and something else I feel at his fierce protectiveness are satisfying, but I won’t hang back and wait for him to take care of my business for me. This is FBI business. My business. It’s possible this could simply turn out to be a false alarm, a nocturnal four-legged visitor who wandered into Stone’s trip wire.

Or not.

Definitely not.

Twenty feet downslope, Stone is a dark shadow. And he’s not alone, not by a long shot. Stone lunges in a blur of motion and the other male grunts. Someone’s fists slams into someone else with a thick, wet sound. I need to engage, to wade in, but my gun is a liability in the near dark. I can’t see to aim—and I don’t want to run the risk of hitting Stone. My eyes are still adjusting to the lack of light and the chance of hitting him is too high. It seems rude to plug his mighty fine butt with lead after all those orgasms. God, the man is a giver.

And hello problem number two… the sharp, acrid smell of smoke almost chokes me. Downslope, the smoke is thicker and denser, a moving carpet of gray. The forest fire that kept us here overnight is still burning on the horizon. The night sky is black, the stars smoked out, except along that deadly orange edge. There’s the occasional bright, hot flicker as a ponderosa candles and flames up. It’s as if Mother Nature baked herself a birthday cake and is now blowing out the candles one by one.

That smoke was drifting away; the twinkle of spot fires was like some kind of otherworldly Christmas lights. The slope here, however, is lit up bright enough to make out individual pines and the thick haze of smoke. Holm has started another fire. I’d bet everything on that.

Drawing, I point my weapon at the combatants.

“FBI. Stand down,” I yell. “Get your hands up, Holm Arthurs.”

I have to play this by the book. An arrest is risky, but my job is to bring him in. Not stand here like a damsel-in-distress and watch Stone pummel him. Or get pummeled.

Holm lands a punch, a hard left hook to Stone’s jaw that snaps Stone’s head back. Stone growls, shaking the hit off as if it’s water, and returns the blow. Even with an injured wrist, Holm fights like a demon.

“You’re not leaving my woods.” Holm spits the words out along with a mouthful of blood. Stone’s definitely inflicting damage.

He pulls a blade and Stone rolls, pinning the other man’s arm to the ground. Holm promptly scissors his legs up, jackhammering into Stone’s back. The knife disappears between the two men.

“Take the shot,” Stone roars. “Vee, just fucking do it!”

I have my finger on the trigger. The gun’s aimed. All I have to do is fire. It’s what I’ve trained to do. It’s my freaking job. And I can’t, won’t. I hesitate because Stone’s in the way and I could hit him. He clearly doesn’t mind being collateral damage but I can’t bring myself to shoot him.

God, love sucks.

Love.

Stupid, ill-timed revelation. I don’t have time to deal with feelings now, so I shove them away. I can pick out a Hallmark card later, but right now I need a plan that puts Holm down and leaves Stone unhurt. Okay. Mostly unhurt. The two men roll again, reversing positions, grunts filling the air. Stone’s good, but Holm is desperate and he has no qualms about using Stone as his punching bag.

Think. This is just basic project management. I have a goal—take down the bad guy—so it’s a question of time, money, and resources. I need this done quick, but I’m not willing to pay the obvious price and sacrifice Stone. So that leaves resources. I simply need to throw more resources at the takedown. A tank, an Army battalion, something. I scan the forest, looking for makeshift weapons or some kind of use me clue from universe. Wait. The trees around us are burning. Fire’s good. In fact, fire’s freaking great.

I grab a burning branch, wait for the next roll and bring my makeshift weapon down hard. Holm rears up, blade coming down, and Stone pushes back.

Failure is not an option. I clearly didn’t hit hard enough, so I’ll do it again.

I raise the branch over my head, but Holm is suddenly screaming, a high-pitched animal noise. Stone brings his feet up and slams them into Holm’s chest, sending the man staggering downhill. On fire. I hit him with a lit branch and… he’s burning like a marshmallow in a campfire. Maybe it’s the camouflage paint on his face. Maybe it’s something else. It doesn’t matter because Holm takes off and the flames leap greedily, feeding on the air generated by his run, and crawling over his forehead. His hair. Down his clothes.

The heat from the branch sears my fingers and I drop it. I think a tank would have been a better option. Pull it together.

Setting Holm on fire wasn’t part of the plan, but getting him off Stone was. I need to focus on that. I turn to see if I can extinguish the flames and render first aid but Holm disappears into the forest fire he’d set. The screaming stops a few seconds later and then there’s nothing left but the sounds of the flames.

Today sucks. Tonight. Whatever.

“Christ.” Stone rolls, extinguishing flames, and pushes to his feet. “Are you trying to set me on fire?”

Chapter Fifteen

Olivia

Okay. The sun is barely scratching at the horizon when Stone declares it’s time to move out. ASAP. He’s jonesing to reach the pick up point—I think he’d flat out run if I weren’t here. Based on yesterday’s intel, he says the jumpers are working five miles inland in rough terrain and have been for two days. That means some of their number will fly out soon for a little R&R before rejoining the firefight. If we hurry, we can catch a ride with them.

As plans go, it’s actually not bad, but part of me wishes he wasn’t in such a rush. Our makeshift campsite’s grown on me, and just when I think I’m fully recovered from my Stone exposure, he does something like level that rough grin at me. The corner of his mouth quirks up and his eyes warm, but he doesn’t full on smile. I’m not sure he knows how, but I do know one thing. Last night we made each other happy and leaving our makeshift campsite seems way too final. We just had sex, I remind myself. Hot, dirty, reunion sex—but it wasn’t like we held some kind of outdoors, woowoo commitment ceremony.

Except I kind of feel like we did.

I did.

Or maybe that’s the after effects of the monster orgasm he gave me. The man gives the best presents.

I don’t want to keep him, do I? I still have my career, plans, a life outside this park. Stone motions towards some invisible-except-to-him path that looks an awful lot like a dense clump of bushes to me. He wants to leave. I want to get on with my life.

I think.

I size up the path-masquerading-as-a-bush and feel kind of like Brer Rabbit begging life (that sneaky, predatory fox) not to chuck me into the briar patch of love. Unlike the rabbit, though, I’m not sure I’m going to thrive. I might get pricked (har de har har).

Stone grunts something that probably makes perfect to sense to him and then he shrugs and moves ahead of me, blazing a clear path for me to follow. He makes it look effortless, his lean, muscled legs plowing through the dense underbrush and other forest crap like it’s nothing. He’s strong and certain, exactly the way he was last night when he was busy getting me naked. God, I think I could…

Danger.

He looks over his shoulder at me and I guess that’s my cue. I fall in behind him, crunching over leaves and sticks and God knows what else. The forest is all up and down here, so I have to concentrate more than I’d like on where I put my feet. After a while, the path becomes more obvious and I move up beside Stone, tired of trailing behind him, the caboose to his engine.

The forest hasn’t burned here, although that ominous plume of smoke—smaller today—still boils up on our left. I can almost pretend we’re just out for a nice hike and maybe a picnic and some outdoor, picnic table sex. It’s quiet but companionable, and somehow the minutes and then the hours slip away. Not that I’m counting. Or sort of wishing we’d end up lost and wandering in big, friendly, us-time circles until we have to spend a second night sleeping under the stars.

Wishing fills the rest of the time, until Stone eventually pauses and points to something. As far as I can tell, it’s either a tree, two trees, or three skinny trees doing a mating dance. I check again. Definitely trees, so I’m not sure why he’s looking pleased.

“That’s our pickup point,” he says.

Oh.

Gotcha. He’s found the happy Exit sign. I fall behind him again as he strides towards the tree/trees, and moments later we step out of (more) trees and are standing on the edge of a large-ish clearing.

A tanker drones by overhead, startling me. I’ve been so lost in my Stone fantasies that I haven’t paid attention to my surroundings. The plane’s underbelly has been painted a bright red to match the engines and it looks cheerful enough to be a child’s toy. It banks, dropping a load of orange retardant that falls away toward the forest below. As the tanker lumbers away southeast, another smaller, sleeker plane takes its place. Stone eyes the newcomer from behind his aviator glasses.

“That’s a DC-13, a Donovan Brothers plane, so they’ll have Spotted Dick running the controls. He’s one of the best in the business. Watch—he and his kicker will put that load down square in the bottom of the canyon.”

Stone follows the plane moving into position like a man eying a football and the distance to the uprights down field. He’s all hotshot now, his concentration sexy as hell as he measures the tall ponderosas lining the clearing with obvious concern. I guess he’s concerned those trees will end up being shish-kebab sticks for whatever the new plane ejects.

Thin ribbons of colored streamers fly out the door of the DC-13, riding the air down until I lose sight of them in the treetops. I wonder if that’s on purpose or if Spotted Dick is having an off day.

“They’ll unload now.” Unexpectedly, Stone grabs my hand, tugging me up against his side. His fingers tangle with mine and I stop caring about planes, trains, or automobiles. I just want to be skin to skin with this man.

“Yeah, baby,” he mutters, squeezing my hand, as the plane finishes the ribbon-tossing pass, turns steeply, and the pilot—this Spotted Dick—lines it up with the patch of bare ground in front of us. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that’s today’s drop zone.

Spotted Dick comes back, smooth and steady down the canyon, the sun lighting up the plane’s tail. Before the plane reaches the field, a series of cardboard boxes wrapped in webbing harness shoot out the open side door one after the other and fall towards the ground. Seconds later, chutes snap open above the boxes, slowing the free fall. One after another, the boxes float lazily down and slam into the cleared space with a bone-jarring thud. Whooping, the guys hanging back on the edge of the clearing swarm the cargo, thumbs-upping the pilot. Since they’re not retrieving their shit from the nearby trees, I guess the pilot nailed it.

Stone lets go of my hand and starts towards the jumpers.

“We should be able to hitch you a ride back to Big Bear with the jumpers who are ready to pack out.”

I give him a look that he entirely fails to appreciate since he’s facing away from me and my view is of his butt. We may be setting up the ride, but apparently only I am leaving. Stone intends to stick around?

Logically, I understand that we both have jobs to do—and our jobs are once again pulling us in separate directions just like that last summer ten years ago. We don’t get to kiss and ride off into the sunset on a helicopter, a white horse, or even a not-so-sexy mountain goat. Stone needs to get back to his hotshot crew, and I need to visit the local FBI office and debrief. I took down a domestic terrorist last night with an assist from fire boy. I’ve earned my promotion. So why do I feel so lost? Why can’t I stop thinking about last night and about Stone and second chances?

It doesn’t seem like he’s thinking. He picks up the pace, closing the distance between himself and the other firefighters. The closer we get, the louder the noise gets. Smoke jumpers catcall and tease one another, filling the air with good-natured, creative cursing and instructions that are almost drowned out by the deafening roar of the tankers overhead. There’s fire here, too, but less than what I saw yesterday, and none of it crosses the raw, black line of earth cutting along the edge of the clearing.

Maybe that’s because there has to be—I do a quick headcount—at least ten smoke jumpers digging hard and fast like their shovels are extensions of their arms and they’re in the world’s most important race. The dig and dig, muscles flexing, dirt flying—and the fire slowly gives way before their fierce determination. If sheer strength of will could put out flames, Stone’s boys have this fire contained.

When Stone pushes through the last patch of brush and approaches, they slap him on the back, give me a quick head nod, and then go right back to dig. Like two more people popping out of a wildfire is just par for the course and nothing matters more than the line they’re carving into the dirt.

Stone heads straight for Pick. Pick’s the big-ass man at the end of the line and he makes the Jolly Green Giant look small. “You got room for one more on your next pickup?”

Pick directs a curious look towards me. “You hosting slumber parties out here now?”

Stone grunts something that neither of us understands.

Pick winks at me. “Because she’d have way more fun back at fire camp and Sarah Jo wouldn’t be texting me shit about her friend being AWOL and in danger of imminent immolation.”

I roll my eyes. One night away from Baby Bear Lodge and my girlfriends have been transformed into mother hens? Pick smiles ruefully as if he feels my pain—I know Sarah Jo worries about him when he’s out in the field—and waves towards the middle of the field.

“Bird’s inbound now,” he says, “and will be here in five. Take a seat in the departure lounge and we’ll be boarding soon.”

We head over to Air Hotshot, which appears to consist of five exhausted-looking, soot-covered guys sacked out on the ground. It’s certainly different from my last attempt to board a United Airlines flight. For one, no one’s concerned about the size of the carry-on luggage. The guys lounge on the ground, using their enormous, lumpy packs as impromptu seats and pillows. They look bone-weary, dirty, and smoky as they swap war stories about fires fought and one-up each other. The flames grow bigger and longer with each re-telling until you’d swear there was a Godzilla-size fire raging just on the other side of the ridge. Maybe it’s a guy thing.

A few stories later, a plane roars overhead, dropping its load of retardant over the ridge before swinging round in a wide arc and heading for our clearing. The plume of white falls away beneath the chopper like a veil settling on the ground. It would be pretty if I wasn’t pretty sure it signaled imminent death by fiery immolation.

For the next few minutes, my world narrows to the chopper coming in, the rotors beating a heavy rhythm as the red-and-white bird drops fast over the treeline. Dust explodes up from the ground as the pilot puts her down. Or almost down. The chopper bobs in the air a few feet above the ground. The guys next to us spring to their feet and mob the bird.

“Go,” Stone roars in my ear, his hand gripping my elbow and pulling me up. This isn’t the first time I’ve boarded a chopper, but now’s not the time to point that out. I’m pretty certain the bird’s not sticking around or doing a passenger head count before she leaves. I run with Stone, making for the chopper’s side. The pilot flashes a thumbs-up when we cross his sight line. Dirt, rocks, and the odd twig slam into our legs, kicked up by the rotor wash.

Stone grabs the frame as he swings me off my feet and inside. Then he looks down and gives me a knowing wink. He knows I’m not a fan of being treated like a damsel in distress. I’m getting ready to rib him or to get even (choices, choices) when he lets go of the door and takes a step backward.

“You’re not coming?” I have to fight to be heard over the chopper’s noise.

“Not yet.” The noise of the rotors swallows up anything else he says, but his actions speak plenty loud. He gives me one of those hotshot head tips and then turns around and heads back towards the fire.

I’d like to say I laugh his departure off or admire his work ethic, but I can’t. Probably because there’s a stupid lump the size of an asteroid lodged in my throat. My five companions look away, up, out—anywhere but at the crazy lady they’ve just acquired. Right. Time to woman up and enjoy the scenic flight back to reality.

I slide into the first empty seat I spot and buckle in. Someone hands me a headset that I slide on. There’s no point in going deaf, and besides, I prefer to stay in the loop. Two minutes later and the chopper goes air bound, the forest falling away beneath us. This makes it disturbingly clear that our pick up point is smack in the path of the inferno, which just figures. The forest is all untouched green on one side, fuel waiting to burn, and a maelstrom of white, black, and orange on the other. As the chopper moves, black char replaces the smoking trees below where the fire has already come and gone. I can’t tell if anything is left besides the smoldering trunks.

The pilot radios back to base. “Base, this is X-ray-Four-Foxtrot.”

“X-ray-Four-Foxtrot, Base. Go ahead.”

“I’m inbound to base from the Big Bear fire with a load of five jumpers and one civilian pickup. ETA is thirty minutes.”

I’m not sure how I ended up as a hotshot plus-one, but I settle back in my seat and try to enjoy the view. To my left, I spot trees, more trees, and a whole lot of mountain and sky. To my right, I have five way too curious hotshots pretending to catnap while they not so surreptitiously check me out. I’m not sure what they’re looking for.

I settle back in my seat, picking at the buckle while the blades chew up the air with ruthless efficiency. The firefight is part of my past now. As is my night on the crest line with Stone Clayton. I should debrief, figure out what went right and what did not. Learn and move on.

The firefighter nearest me leans in. “Can I ask you something?”

There’s no right answer to that question so I just look at him.

He plows on as if I’ve greenlit our conversation. “Are you with Stone?”

I jab a finger toward the open space. “Seeing as how there’s now most of a mountain and a raging forest fire between us, I’d say the answer is no.”

He shrugs. “But you spent the night together?”

“Because we were trapped by a ginormous fire?”

He shrugs again. I think I make him nervous. “You guys seemed friendly. I figured maybe there was hope for Stone’s dating life after all.”

I’m a bad person. I should put a stop to this conversation. Explain that we were both out there on the mountain in purely professional capacities. Except… there were a whole lot of moments that weren’t professional unless one of us has a secret career as a hooker. And now I’m curious.

“Stone doesn’t date?”

My new firefighter friend shakes his head. There’s an immediate chorus of hell, nos and slightly more profane agreement from the other four passengers. I think the pilot may join in too. Jeez. I totally forgot about the headset and I can only hope it’s a local channel and not being broadcast back at base.

“Stone’s all work and no play,” my new buddy admits. “But he looked pretty relaxed today. I figured maybe you were the reason why.”

I like the sound of that, but I’m also not going to admit it. Instead, I go for the partial truth. “He was pretty busy kicking me off his mountain.”

The guy actually looks disappointed.

I close my eyes because I’m sleepy. Someone kept me up last night—the same someone whose buddies are now quizzing me. I pretend as if I’m catching a quick catnap. Mostly I am. But I’m also thinking about last night. About Stone and his almost smile and how much I like the idea of making him happy. It means I’m getting too attached. Or I’m projecting. The odds of us having a future together are slim.

Chapter Sixteen

Stone

Hunter leans on his shovel and stares at me. He’s clearly expecting me to say something, but he should know by now that words aren’t my thing. So I meet his stare with one of my own until he groans something that sounds suspiciously like a curse. Or a rather judgey opinion of my intellect and dating capabilities.

He points north, where the helicopter carrying Vee disappeared. I’d like to say I don’t look, but I do. It’s a safety check, I tell myself. I’m just making sure the chopper hasn’t crashed or gone off course toward Cabo. And there’s always the possibility that she somehow falls out and then I’ll have to run and catch her and… Yeah. I’m an idiot. Clearly, my dick has taken over all thinking and the results are about as dumb as you’d expect.

“That’s likely the last chopper out of here until tomorrow,” Hunter announces. This isn’t news. It’s why we hauled ass to get here. I knew we had a limited window to get her a ride out of here.

“Wasn’t planning on going anywhere.” I grab a tool from the neat stack and set to work. Hunter is a big, dark, irritable bear of a man who would fit in just fine on a medieval battlefield. Until he met Lola Miller, who was renting a cabin from me and pretending that she was running some kind of woowoo girls’ club, he didn’t talk much either. Frankly, I was fine with the muter version of Hunter, although Lola claims words are good. I figure she’s just biased because she’s an actress and a playwright, so words are her stock in trade. I feel the same way about a nice, sharp Pulaski.

Hunter rubs a hand over his jaw, adding a generous helping of soot to all the stubble he’s sporting. He’s clearly spent the night working his ass off to hold the fire, while I spent the better part of my night holding Vee. I pick up my Pulaski and swing it down into the dirt. I can still smell Vee on my skin, so I kind of want to stand around and… fuck. Breathe her in. Remember. Do all the stupid shit I know I shouldn’t do. I don’t get what happened last night. We had sex. Awesome, amazing, mind-blowing sex. And I know she enjoyed herself. I wouldn’t have missed that. And then she went back to her life and I went back to mine. We both have jobs to do and she made it clear at the start that she wasn’t interested in anything permanent.

Asking her to hang out at an active fire sight wasn’t possible. But should I have asked her if I could stop by and see her? Take her out on a date? I mean, I know I’ll see her around because she rents a cabin from me and the woman manages to break more things than I ever knew was possible. But… should I have said something to her?

I officially suck.

“We have a full crew,” Hunter says. He punches the Pulaski’s sharp edge through the ground in front of him. Flips a load over. God’s gifted him with enough forearm muscle to dig line for hours more if he has to.

Somehow, the idea of pulling an all-nighter no longer holds any appeal for me. I dig and think shit over. Yes, I want to be headed back to Big Bear Lake. If I go for one hundred percent honesty, my ideal destination’s more specific than that. In a perfect world, I’d be headed home to Olivia Albert, even though she hasn’t given me any indication that she’ll consider something permanent with me. I just hope to hell that those thoughts aren’t written across my face.

“You don’t need me here?” I counter Hunter’s four words with five of my own.

Hunter thinks it over, the bastard. It’s a good minute before he shakes his head, and then he clears another foot on his part of the line before he actually opens his mouth. “Needing isn’t the problem.”

There’s more than enough daylight for the chopper to make it safely back to base—hours and hours of time. I figure Vee will be on the ground in thirty, forty minutes tops. She’ll probably have to debrief with the FBI—or whatever it is the feds did when someone takes out the man riding the top of the most wanted list—but then she’ll probably be done for the day. And it’s logical to think she’ll head back to Baby Bear Lodge.

“You saying I’m the problem?” I know I sound defensive. Hell. I’m still half watching that chopper wing away like some kind of lovesick hero in the movies. The rest of me is just glad that Vee is well on her way to safety. No matter how capable she is, I don’t want her out here in the middle of a wildland fire.

“Maybe,” Hunter says finally. “You want that girl and you let her go. A blind man could see that.”

“Letting her go is the right thing to do.”

“Shit.” Hunter actually stops shoveling for a moment and rests his arms on the handle. Not because he’s tired or needs to catch his breath—but because he’s winding up to kick my ass. “Did you ask her what she wanted? Or did you just jump in to rescue her? Because I’ve got it on good authority that women like asking.”

“Jumped,” I finally admit.

At least our line is shaping up well. Beautifully straight, that line is eighteen inches of raw dirt. We’ve dug straight down to the mineral soil, clearing out the vegetation on either side. Swipe and step, following in the footsteps of the guy in front of you with another guy behind you. Colt complained once that digging line was like a line of dancing elephants, linked trunk to tail, but I like the simplicity of it all.

Hunter shoots me a commiserating look. “Well, she’s got twenty-four hours to calm down before you see her again. At which point, I recommend doing some apologizing.”

“And groveling,” Colt calls, grinning. His teeth are a wicked slash of white in his soot-streaked face. If anyone knows women, it’s Colt. The man’s dated his way through most of the Western states and, as far as I can tell, the majority of those women are still talking to him. He’s either got serious talent or has had way too much practice.

“You think it’ll come to that?”

“Man.” Colt mock sighs. “How long did you watch that chopper fly away?”

Not willing to incriminate myself, I shut the fuck up. Hunter, however, nods like a bobblehead. He clearly knows exactly where Colt’s headed with this line of questioning. “Yeah. I think groveling is going to be involved.”

“You want to practice, just lay it on us,” Colt invites, then dances away when I toss a shovelful of dirt at him.

Chapter Seventeen

Olivia

Turns out some facts become indisputable after you spend the night boning a hot firefighter in the woods. The first indisputable fact is that you’ll have a whole new appreciation for firefighter puns. Big hoses, hot fires, getting… things wet. Yes, yes, and oh yes. The second indisputable fact is that firefighters set the bar high for other men. It’s like my love life went from a nice, easy limbo where I barely had to bend at all to make it under the bar to an Olympic-worthy pole vault. The third indisputable fun fact of the day? Stone’s still the hottest man I’ve ever laid eyes on. He kisses me and I drop my panties. It’s like two plus two adding up to four. No matter how hard I try to come up with a different answer, there’s only one right one.

After I debrief about Arthurs’s death by immolation, I go back to Baby Bear Lodge. I should pack up and move out, but instead I put in for a couple of weeks of R&R. This leads to indisputable fun fact number four which is: I really, really want to see Stone again, preferably naked, but also any way he’ll let me.

Ergo, indisputable fun fact of the day number five? My hard-headed, practical self has been hijacked by a sentimental optimist who is cautiously optimistic that this time, Stone is all ours. There are some serious logistical issues preventing this optimistic fantasy from panning out, however. First of all, the man doesn’t come by Baby Bear Lodge. At all.

The next morning after my return from the field, I sort of expect him. This has to explain why I spend way too much time agonizing over what to wear. My undies weren’t at their best out in the forest, so I’d like a chance at a second impression. I don’t know why I care so much, or maybe I do. Our night was amazing, but I’ve been secretly amazed by Stone for the last ten years. I want to rewind those years and pick up right where we left off. Or sort of trim them out like they’re empty frames that belong on the cutting room floor. Not that I regret going off, getting my degree, launching my career—but I definitely regret not coming back, not chasing Stone, not making time for us.

The first two days I hang around Baby Bear Lodge exactly like the naïve teenager I was 

Any. Moment. Now.

On day three, when my heart is sure that I’ll hear his battered, beloved pick up truck whining up the drive any moment now, the FBI agent finally reasserts herself. I’m not the kind of person who can sit around and wait. I do a little stealth calling and some meticulous research because it’s possible that the Rogues are, in fact, still out in the field and that Stone’s absence is entirely out of his—and my—control. 

On day four, Lola takes me out for coffee and the world’s biggest piece of cake (which bills itself as a muffin in the coffee shop case and is therefore a legitimate breakfast food), and Sarah Jo offers her own brand of silent solidarity. I only have five days left of my leave before I have to go back to my real life. My internal clock tick tick ticks the seconds ruthlessly away, and it feels suspiciously to me as if Stone isn’t interested.

What if he doesn’t want me?

What if he’s perfectly happy without me in his life?

Maybe I was the only one who thought our camp out felt suspiciously like the beginning of a second chance. I plan out a half-dozen opening gambits. Plumbing woes (so not sex). A leaky roof (maybe he can discover me in a wet T-shirt). A broken furnace (forcing him to manfully share body heat with me). I give up trying to figure it out and settle for a second muffin—and a third to go.

As the founder and president of the Break Up Club, Lola’s made it her personal mission to guide us ladies through the aftermath of failed relationships. Not only is she bubbly, outgoing, and loud, but she’s also an actress, which means she’s not afraid to star in a scene. There have been a few incidents since I moved in, mostly involving fire, Lola, and Hunter. It’s been surprisingly fun, like having a front row seat for a reality show or some really spectacular fireworks. Club rule number three is to feel it. Suppressing emotions is strictly forbidden—Lola believes the louder you say it, the more you mean it. By day five, I’m pretty sure she’s decided to stage in an intervention.

Lola plops down beside me on my “porch.” It’s roughly the size of a small Amazon box and it shudders beneath our combined weight.

“So,” she says. It’s a loud so. It practically ricochets off the trees and reverberates back on us.

I wait.

“Did you or did you not hook up with one Stone Clayton?” She waggles her eyebrows as she says this and I’m not sure if that’s a reference to my hook up skills, Stone’s anatomy, or something completely irrelevant.

“Hold that thought.” She throws up a hand before I can decide if I even want to answer. “Is it true that you and he have history From Before?”

She makes it sound like we were an item back in the Pleistocene era, but I nod.

“So is he your break up?”

“It was ten years ago,” I tell her.

She blows out a breath. “Ten years and then a really hot night in the field?”

I should be able to deal with this myself, but I cave. It feels good to let it all out, to talk about it. “Insanely hot. And yes.”

“Are you together?”

I shrug. I have no idea what we are.

“Apart?”

Another shrug from me.

Lola taps her finger against her lower lip. “So the Break Up Club rules may not apply yet.”

“Absolutely not,” I say.

Lola keeps the rules on a ginormous piece of sparkly poster board. As happy campers, we’re supposed to work our way through the rules. Following the steps in sequential order, however, appears to be optional. Lola has claimed on more than one occasion that they’re “guidelines.” I suspect they’re more like those trail markers they use in the Iditarod. It seems like every time they run that race, there’s a blizzard and some poor schmuck who’s out in front gets lost in all the snow, fails to spot a marker, and ends up miles from the finish line despite a promising start.

What are the rules, you ask? They’re Lola’s guaranteed, eight-step plan to relationship happiness and clawing your way out of the pit of despair in which your late, lamented ex has cast you.

Accept the empty spots in your life: heart, head, bed, laundry basket, and that drawer in the bathroom you cleaned out just for him.

Cut it off. No texts, no tweets, no Facebook pokes, pings, or any other blip or beep on the social media radar. Distance is your new best friend and beer goggles have nothing on your ability to overlook the 1001 reasons that relationship was doomed.

Feel it. Don’t suppress! Let it all out!

No negative thoughts. Own your self-worth. Move out of the hermit shell and back into the real world. It's time to talk to people.

Be honest. Acknowledge why you broke up—and rip the Band-Aid off that sucker.

It’s all about you. Self-improve, shop, and be nice to yourself.

Get back out there.

Onward! Upward! Don’t look back. You’ve come this far, now be open to the possibilities.

None of these rules apply to me and Stone. Our break up was so long ago that it’s ancient history, and our more recent connection was too temporary to need rules or steps. When I point this out to Lola, however, she makes a face. Since she’s an actress, it’s impressive. It looks like her entire mouth is morphing into some gigantic I’m so sad billboard. “Make him come out here.”

I can’t even play dumb. “Ummmm.”

Lola pats my cheek, her monster engagement ring flashing in the sunshine. “You know you want to.”

I totally do. “He’s a big boy. It’s hard to make him do anything.”

Hunter, Lola’s fiancé, should probably be worried if she ever gets that gleeful, devious look on her face when she’s thinking about him. She claps her hands dramatically. “We could set the cabin on fire!”

“Felony,” I say.

“Pfffft.” Lola waves a hand. “It would get his attention.”

“Plus, there’s nowhere else to stay,” I point out. “You and Sarah Jo have options, but I’d be in my car or headed down the road. Can we find a less destructive way of getting Stone’s attention?”

There’s a brief pause. A really brief pause. Lola really does think quickly on her feet. Her hand shoots up into the air and she bounces up and down. The mini-porch shudders.

“You could flush a tampon!”

Umm. Gross. My face must broadcast my opinion of that because Lola gives me a grin. “Not a used one.” 

I’m not sure stuffing clean feminine hygiene products down the Lodge’s antiquated plumbing is somehow better. From the groans the pipes make, we’re already one flush away from being demoted to outhouses.

“Let’s do it!” Lola claps her hands, gives one more enthusiastic bounce—and the entire freaking porch, all three feet of it—gives way, dumping us onto the ground. It’s like the cabin itself is on Stone’s side. 

“Mission accomplished,” Lola says happily. She clambers to her feet, brushing off splinters and a covering of old leaves that must have been lurking beneath the porch. “Call him. Let him make you feel better.”

She ambles off toward her cabin, muttering something under her breath. Then well, well above it. I think she’s rehearsing something again.

I pick myself up off the ground and survey the damage. OMG. I can still get into my cabin, but now it requires an upward step. A big upward step. It’s a good thing Stone is too laidback to require a security deposit, but this level of broken requires reporting. Repairs. Something.

I could call him. I have the number he provided for emergencies. Granted, the man meant “the roof caved in beneath a horde of rabid squirrels” emergencies and not “OMFG you’re killing me with your silence” panic but still… I could text him. Something cute. I give up on the cute, settle for a brief Porch is broken—needs expert repair text accompanied by a photo and then I head out. 

Because I just can’t sit around waiting for him to show up. I’m not a damsel even if I am in distress, and I don’t need rescuing.

I just need him.

Lots and lots of Stone time. Far more time, in fact, than I could possibly fit in my remaining days off even if he were willing. 

I don’t realize I’m headed for the state park until I reach the front gates. I guess my feet would like to wander down good old Memory Lane. On the surface, not much has changed. The trail’s still the same, as are the campsite. Everything’s sunbaked, that golden color of Honey Grahams cereal, real wood floors, and droughty plants. The ranger’s cabin is right where I left it ten years ago. It’s a little more weather-worn and beat up around the edges, but so I am. From a brief check at the park’s front gate, I learned that it’s also currently unoccupied due to budget cuts. I’m briefly tempted to pick the locks and let myself in, but it seems unnecessary. The cabin is just four walls and (most of) a roof. Stone’s the important part of that summer.

I go around behind the cabin. The playground’s still here, the park’s answer to the whole no electricity thing. My parents sent us here to “play” years after we outgrew swings and slides. The equipment looks like it’s in decent shape, so I pick the swing in the middle of the set and sit down. 

Moments later, I’m pumping hard, the swing flying up and up. It’s been a long time since I swung. I’ve forgotten the feeling of soaring, the temptation to let go and jump when the swing’s at its highest point. Instead, I focus on my view. The strip of forest expands with each pulse of my arms and legs. The wooden seat bites into my butt and the effort shoves my sundress up my thighs, but there’s no one around to see. Down the road, the park’s ranger station swelters in the afternoon heat but, up here, the whisper of a breeze cools the back of my neck and urges me higher. That airy tease is almost enough to pretend the California heat hasn’t stuck my dress to my back.

The clearing around me is just large enough to accommodate the ranger’s cabin. The summer heat, however, swells out of the too-small space, the air hot and dry, even as the punch of black smoke far off on the horizon tells me the fire isn’t all the way out yet. There’s an R missing from the sign, rechristening my temporary pit stop an ANGER STATION. Like my life, the sign is missing something, something my mind fills in almost automatically, glossing over the absence.

Ten years and here I am again. The campground still has the same fifty sites. The sites are laid out side by side and all come with a full-on view of Big Bear Lake. I used to park my teenage ass on those picnic tables and stare out at the lake and the watercraft buzzing cheerfully over the placid surface. The place was an easy jumping off point for day trippers into Sequoia National Park, but still civilized enough to offer running water, plus there was a small grocery that sold Frosted Flakes, white bread, and Folger’s.

The whine of a truck jolting along the dirt track between the trees breaks my rhythm. When my feet lower and my butt hits the bottom of the swing’s downward arc, I spot the pickup, a rugged, battered, been-through-hell-and-back vehicle. Like its owner, that truck never quits. Scorch damage blackens one side and the bed is full of enough gear to weather an apocalypse. I make lists; Stone stockpiles supplies. Between the two of us, we’re the perfect prepper.

Stone kills the motor and opens the door. Two powerful, very masculine legs slide out, wrapped up in blue jeans. No Nomex today, so I guess he’s finally off duty.

After my quick check-in at the gate, I blew past the closed and keep-out signs, because my FBI training has taught me to out-balls any guy. Except Stone. He’s a force of nature, immovable as a rock and twice as hardheaded. Somehow, though, we need to figure out how to make things work between us. So I keep right on swinging, waiting for him to come back to me.

As if on cue, he slams the truck door. 

“Park’s not open,” he drawls. Déjà vu.

His eyes drop to my bare legs and stay there. There’s a reason that I’ve always liked this dress. The material is filmy and light, the kind of deliciously feminine fabric that makes pretending to be a princess easy work even now that I’m far too old to believe in fairy tales. Each hard forward push shoves the skirt up, until the return arc settles everything back into place. God, I love teasing him. From the looks of Stone, though, he likes his view just fine.

He smiles, slow and hot, an impressive erection punching at the front of his jeans.

“It looks open to me,” I say, pumping my legs harder. Some differences between now and that last summer ten years ago are obvious. Stone, for example, has fine lines around his eyes now—he’s pushing thirty-five. He hooks a thumb in his belt and my eyes follow the confident movement. That could be the same leather belt with the silver buckle that he sported back then. When we’d been a pair and summer seemed like it could last forever. I’d had a lot of fantasies about undoing that belt.

“Uh-huh. You off-duty today?” Like we’ve seen each other just a week or a month ago and the absence is due to a busy stretch at the office or a cruise or a dozen other, planned reasons. Rather than the truth.

I pump my legs harder. “I am. We caught the bad guy, remember?”

“I remember plenty,” he says. I look down on top of his head as I soar. Too much time, too much distance. I’m not sure what I hoped to find here or if I even got a start on it two nights ago on the crest line.

“Good memories?” Say yes. I want to stop, want to say the right things, but where do you start when there are ten years of saying nothing when you should have been saying everything?

Stone, being Stone, doesn’t hesitate.

He eyes me like I’m a fire and plunges right in, fighting for what’s his.

“You never wrote,” he says quietly. Stone’s not a yeller, he never has been. He just says what he needs to and watches me calmly, his eyes following my legs as I stretch towards the sky again. He won’t overlook the elephant in the room.

I stop pumping, letting the momentum carry me up, up, up. “I did.” 

Once. Before I chickened out.

He shakes his head. “I didn’t get any letters from you.” His thumbs hook into his belt, not moving closer. “I wrote but you never answered.” 

“I never mailed it,” I admit. Stone has never given me anything but the truth; I owe him the same.

“Your letter is still AWOL.” Reaching out his hand, he drags the swing to a standstill. My fingers tighten around the rope, the rough jerk breaking the smooth glide. Tension thickens the air, the charged calm before the storm.

“You can’t be here,” he repeats, but he pulls the swing back towards him, his fingers wrapping over mine, pinning me in place. 

“Because the park is closed.” I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that I’ve fantasized about this meeting. Wondered what he would say when he saw me again. What he would do. I have a long list of suggestions and an even longer list of hopes and wishes.

The swing stops moving and his fingers slide down the rope, finding my arm. Maybe coming back wasn’t crazy after all and maybe I don’t have to make the first move this time.

“Because then I’d want to do this.” The rough hunger in Stone’s voice doesn’t prepare me for the sensation of his hand dropping to my thigh. Just the sight of his hand on my skin makes my panties damp. He runs his fingers lightly over me, finding the muscles of my inner thigh and massaging. Like there’s nothing he’d rather be doing right now than this.

“When did you become a tease?” Desire makes my voice hoarse. Or maybe that’s all the unspoken things that I sort of want to say.

“You always did like that,” he says roughly. “I’m not stopping, Vee.”

“Not stopping what?”

I should move away, should close my thighs and slip off the swing and back into my own life. But what ifs are a bitch and now I want to know. He hasn’t married, I know that much. His ring finger is bare and Stone Clayton is the kind of man who would want a wedding ring, a man who wouldn’t be afraid to claim or be claimed. Stone has never been afraid of anything.

I’m the one who ran scared.

Stone

I’ve spent days and month—years—pushing my body. I’ve worked hard and always driven myself to my physical limits. That kind of burn and tired is good, a feeling that tells a man he’s done everything he can and that now whatever happens is out of his hands. I’ve cut line and I’ve held my ground, fighting fire however, whenever, I could.

And I’ve fought.

For each inch of ground and, now, for each moment in Vee’s arms. She’s done a number on me, and yet I want more. I want everything—sun, moon, stars, and a goddamned huge sundae of life with an Olivia cherry on top. People look at me and they see a big, rough-cut man who works with his hands and spends just about every hour he can outdoors. I’m not one for inside or for offices. About as inside as I get is the cab of my truck. Working outside is all kinds of right.

So I know the place I belong when I see it—or her. Vee is my right place, where I need to be. I get the same sense of right when I look at her. She teases me with that little skirt of hers and I love her games. I love her, and that scares me more than any fire ever can.

I move my hand higher, relearning the soft curve of her thigh where it meets the sweet mound of her pussy. This is heaven, right here, her letting me love her and touch her, showing her everything I can’t find the words for. I can’t tell from the little sounds she makes whether she has her own doubts about this meet up or not. Ten years she’s been gone, and I want to pick up where we left off. In some ways, it’s like no time at all has passed. 

“Swing some more with me?” she asks.

“Whatever you want, honey.” Lifting her up, I slide onto the swing and deposit her onto my lap, facing me. Her breath catches, her eyes heating up, and fuck but I agree with her. This is the best position of them all, skin to skin, heart to heart, eye to eye.

“You should tell me now,” I suggest, pushing us off the ground, “if all you’re after is a quick ride in the sky.”

“Meaning?” She tilts her head back, lashes drifting shut. Her thighs grip my hips and I can feel the heat of her through my jeans. 

“You want me to swing—or do you want something else?” I don’t need two hands to swing, so I trace the length of her spine, pressing her closer. She arches into my touch.

“Mmmm.” Her throaty murmur makes parts of me stand to attention. “Definitely something else, hotshot.”

Something else is everything, but I’m not sure she’s ready to hear that yet. So I compromise.

“This.” My hand heads south.

Our swing moves faster, but the world slows down around us when I touch her. I know the moment she stops thinking and lets herself just feel the lush, slow sensations building in her pussy. I stroke her gently up and down. Short strokes after that first, possessive touch. Over and over. I could do this for hours.  There’s no rush here and nowhere to be, no need to tear towards sex or orgasm or anything other than this.

This moment.

I focus entirely on that connection between my finger and her clit. All those summers ago, she was the good girl, the scientist, and the observer. She watched and hung back, while I was always right in the middle of things. We discovered each other and I never imagined how sexy questions could be. “Try this,” she’d say. “Or how does that feel?” And I’d laugh and do exactly that. I answered her questions with my hands and my mouth. I loved her curiosity. 

She was special even then. Smart. Always lost in a book—or three—until the day she looked up and saw me. She looked at me as if I were some kind of delicious puzzle she just had to figure out. Christ, her explorations about killed him. All sensual curiosity and no inhibitions, even though she was brimful of questions. She wanted to understand—and I wanted to share. We had one hot, wild, glorious summer.

And now we’ve had one more night.

And I want more. One more, any more, all the mores. 

I plan to spin this afternoon out as long as I can. I touch the very core of her with my fingers, pumping my legs as the swing arcs higher and higher into the sky. I’ll take whatever she’ll give me.

She’s hot and wet beneath the silky tease of her panties. Little moans and whispers spill from her mouth, as if she’s trying to find a way to tell me this is good. I know. Fuck but I know. Vee is the best thing that has ever happened to me.

Chapter Eighteen

Olivia

Stone touches me. Over and over. At first, I have to work to feel the sensations, then sink into them. I can feel myself melting, thawing in his arms.

His touching me isn’t enough after a while, so I trust him with the job of hanging on to us both and slip my hands between us, finding the buttons on his jeans. I pop them free, one by one, enjoying the contrast of soft cotton and his amazing dick. Even better, when I slip the tips of my fingers through the space I’ve made for myself, he’s hot, slick and eager for more.

“We really doing this here?”

He’s the king of logistics—so yes. Yes, we are.

“You bet, hotshot,” I whisper against his throat. “Make it happen.”

“No worries.” He covers my mouth with his. Still not rushing, he just kisses and kisses me, while another part of him definitely rises to my challenge. His fingers find the tiny ribbons holding together the sides of my panties. One hard tug and the nylon scrap comes apart in his hands. The man’s hard on my panties.

“Up,” he growls, cupping my butt in his hand.

I push up, tightening my legs around his hips. His hand opens, closes, and my panties flutter away behind us as we soar back up—a lacy white flag of surrender.

Then, before I can do any more thinking, his fingers sink deep inside me. I ride him, savoring the raw intimate connection. His knuckles press against me and sensation streaks through me. One callused finger strokes the side of my clit. With each gentle stroke, with each long, luscious minute, the swing sails higher and smoother. The muscles in his thighs bunch beneath my legs.

“Don’t make me wait.” Leaning forward, I nip his bottom lip, savoring his harsh groan.

“You feel damned good.”

“Make me feel better.”

“Sure will,” he promises. Swiftly, he rolls on a condom, before lifting me up. The fat head of penis rubs against me and I arch. I have no idea how this is going to work, but Stone seems to have a plan. Just this once I don’t need to discuss it. He lowers me down, the head pushing inside me. His mouth finds my throat, pressing a small kiss against my skin. He’s asking questions, I’m asking questions. Are we really doing this? Can we do this again? Are we doing more than…

Stone groans something and I mark him a little harder. “Like that,” he bites out, going deeper. “Ride me just like that.”

His hands are on my butt. He cups my cheeks, raising me up for his next thrust. In. And then the long, slow slide out. Once. Twice. I lose count as he keeps going.

I’m so close.

God. So close, close, close. Why are we on a fucking swing and not in a bed? The back of his truck? Anywhere where I can… I dig my nails into whichever parts of him I can grab, twisting and reaching for more. The forest rises up, falls away. The whole world can see me riding Stone as he drives us both over the edge. We’re not quiet about it either. He growls something sweet; I curse and bury my face against his throat. The swing shakes and groans, the ropes threatening to break free. I lock my knees, slamming them into his thighs and holding on. “Stone.”

He shoves his fingers through my hair. I think he needs to do some holding of his own.

“Now?”

He shudders out some rough, needy sound, and then he gives it to me, moving faster, harder, until he’s slamming up and I’m sinking down to meet him, our groans and curses bouncing off the trees. There’s no way we hold back. I’m surprised they can’t hear us at the main gate, that the sex police hasn’t sent in a SWAT team to break us up.

I come, holding into his shoulders and chanting his name. It’s amazing. And Stone… watches me the whole time. Hips slamming into mine, fingers gripping, whole world gone crazy around us—and he watches me. Doesn’t kiss me, doesn’t say anything but he watches me as he comes like he sees something—on my face, somewhere in me—that he likes so much that he won’t risk blinking and losing it.

Losing me.

And when he comes, he does say something. Vee. Just my name, just one syllable, like he always does, but… it’s everything.

I hold him close as we collapse, holding each other up as the swing slows and drifts to a stop. His arms are tight around my back, his hand tracing the line of my spine. My cheek’s pressed against his chest, his heart banging out a happy song beneath me. His fingers move over my skin.

“I’m writing you another letter,” he says gruffly, his fingertips tracing letters against my skin.

“Really?”

“Uh-huh,” he drawls. His voice sounds soft and warm. “You can’t read my handwriting now? You want me to read this one out loud to you?”

He scoops me up in his arms and carries me over to the pickup. There’s a whole lot of laughter and juggling as he unfolds an old plaid blanket he’s got stashed in the front, before laying me out in the bed.

“It’s clean,” he promises. His eyes have this warm glow that makes me feel warm. And safety.

And something.

Something new and unfamiliar.

Something really, perfectly wonderful.

I laugh, reaching up to touch his face. It’s cute, this worry of his. The wool is scratchy and the man’s destroyed my panties and I’ve never been happier.

“Do I look worried?” I prop myself up on my elbows and watch as he strips off his clothes. I guess the park really is closed. That, or Stone’s developed a sex-in-public fetish.

I like it.

Stone lies down beside me and things heat up fast. His big shoulders block my view of the sky, but Stone naked is the best sight I can imagine anyhow. Broad shoulders and six-pack abs he’s earned shoveling dirt on the front lines in Sequoia.

Stone is a fighter. He holds on. I’ve always known that.

And me? Well, let’s just say that I’m a letting-go kind of person and yet I lie where he put me, reaching up to pull him down.

He looks at me, sweeping his thumb over my cheek. “You going to undress for me?”

I’m an equal opportunity kind of gal, and since Stone’s naked, it seems only fair that I am, too. I wriggle out of my clothes, enjoying how his eyes darken and his breathing comes quicker. I’m not eighteen anymore, but this body is mine and he makes it clear he likes what he sees.

“You’re beautiful, honey.”

That’s because he makes me feel beautiful.

He shows me so the second he touches me, his hands sliding up my thighs, cupping the backs of my thighs as his thumbs open me up.

“Yes?” he asks.

“Stop and die.” I’m not kidding. Much.

He’s hard, bumping against my thigh as he moves closer. We were together, then we weren’t. Now we’ve killed bad guys, outrun forest fires, and sort of broken up. I’ve been sad and mopey, but this is so much better. This isn’t him and me—this is us. I hold onto him, pulling him closer. I’m never letting him go again.

He’s doing some holding and claiming of his own, his fingers exploring south, parting me with his fingers in decadent slo-mo.

“Remember the rule.”

“No stopping,” he growls.

The man has the memory of an elephant. I love that about him. Even better, he’s a giver because he drops down my body, a man on a mission.

His finger glides over me, taking the scenic route to my clit. His mouth plays follow the leader, tracing the path his finger took. I swear I can feel his eyelashes brush against me. Butterfly kisses.

There’s something about slow, deliberate Stone that makes me hot. He’s sure but tender in a way that lights me up. I don’t know how I came here looking for a bad guy and instead found a hero, but he’s all that and more.

His hands on my hips ground me, the firm pressure holding me in place, a much-needed anchor as he circles his tongue around my clit.

I think I babble something.

Groan.

Fuck if I know but he sucks my clit into his mouth and I don’t care. I’ll recite the Pledge of Allegiance, the Constitution, anything. Got a phone book? I’ll read that to him in my best phone sex operator voice. I tighten my thighs around his head and forget all about self-control. I might even do some writhing because Stone’s a genius at licking.

He runs his tongue up and down my pussy, and I yank at his shoulders chasing the sensations. He makes me feel so good that I forget about the park, about being naked in the back of his truck, about the unfortunate metal ridge that’s starting to dig into my back. Stone is just perfect.

“Do you want to come?”

Pretty sure that’s a rhetorical question, but I give him his answer anyhow.

“Yes.”

Let’s be honest. That yes? It’s a blanket yes. To whatever he wants. I’ve handed the man a signed, blank check to my body—and my heart—and now I really hope he has plans to cash it.

He moves up my body, the heavy weight of his body pressing mine down. The truck bed presses into my back. This is nothing fancy sex. Just me and him. His dick presses, reaching deep inside me as we move together, making the truck bed creak and rock because we’re finally going places together.

Chapter Nineteen

Olivia

Eventually, much later, the radio crackles in the cab. Hello, real life checking in. Stone has work to do. Places to save and lines to dig. We’ve had our alone time, and now I need to share him with the rest of the world.

He turns his head to look at me. The metal ridges of the truck bed dig into my back. You’d think, given the number of people who have sex in trucks, that they’d offer some kind of comfort option. It could totally be part of an add-on package—the hey-I-want-to-bang-my-girlfriend-in-the-bed upgrade. Girlfriend. Is that what I am now? We haven’t discussed next steps, plans, or even tomorrow.

“I have to go.” The whole eyes-are-the-window-to-the-soul thing? It’s crap. I can’t tell what Stone’s thinking.

“I know.” I do, too. Stone has spent years working fires. Firefighters don’t get rich, but I’ll bet he pays his bills and sleeps well at night.

“No regrets?” Sex apparently makes me needy because I might be holding my breath.

“Just the one.” His mouth brushes the corner of mine. “You.”

“Are you going to write to me this time?”

He sits up, pulling on the T-shirt we tossed to the side. Too bad my options don’t include keeping him naked.

“No,” he says, and there’s no misunderstanding his blunt answer. So . . . this was goodbye sex. And not a new beginning?

I’m not okay with that. I wrap a hand around his thigh. He’s warm and solid. I can’t imagine letting go of him again.

“You’re not waiting for me anymore?” Needy Me demands we make him say good-bye clearly and unequivocally. Needy Me insists we hear him say that what we have is over because my heart’s skipping beats as I watch him watch me, all calm and self-possessed.

He shakes his head and that silly organ promptly performs a four-story freefall.

“I’m done waiting,” he says. “It’s time to act.”

“Oh?” I sound… hopeful.

“Definitely.” A little smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, part sexy—and part uncertain? “I’m thinking I’ve spent too long waiting. First in the crash truck at the end of the runway and then out here in the park. I waited for trouble to come to me and then I went in and picked up the pieces.”

“You always were good at swooping in to pick up the pieces,” I say lightly. What I really mean is come grab me and pick me up and say mine. I’m totally willing to cut him some slack on the caveman fantasy.

“But I waited on the sidelines,” he counters. “Until there were pieces. I want something different.”

The fierce note in his voice makes my heart beat out a danger-danger-Will-Robinson rhythm. FYI? Stone’s lethal to my peace of mind.

“This time,” he continues, “I’m going after what I want.”

“Which is?”

“You,” he growls. “I want you, Olivia Albert. I love you and I’m not going. You and me, we’re a reburn.”

I slap his chest because... really? “Now is the moment you choose to talk firefighter?”

“You think it’s hot.” He smiles. “And it’s accurate.”

Okay. So the man has a point about the hotness factor. I move closer, so he can wrap his arms around me. Screw the radio, the fire, and the rest of the world. We’ll stay just like this for another decade and things will work out fine.

His heart beats solidly beneath my cheek. Stone’s a freaking metronome, the one constant in my life. No matter how hotly we fight or love, that steady rhythm is part of what I love so much about him. He’s dependable. He’s here. I’m sure I’ll want to yell at him plenty of times, but there will always be this bedrock strength waiting for me at the end of the day.

I snuggle in. “Tell me more about this reburn.”

“Sometimes,” he says, and his arms tighten around me as he leans back against his truck, “you get an area that’s burned once. Fire’s gone through and burned like hell, but there’s still fuel left. Later on, fire comes back and everything reignites. A second chance fire. Maybe it’s bigger and hotter than the first one, maybe not, but the fire’s burning right when you thought everything was out, over, and done with. We had something good ten years ago, but I thought it was over. I was wrong. There’s still this spark between us.”

“More than a spark.” It’s funny how the little things come into sharp focus, the details of a moment I haven’t quite dared hope for. There’s the soft impact of Stone dropping a kiss on my hair. The feel of the wash-worn cotton T-shirt beneath my cheek that smells faintly of wood smoke and Stone. The gentle tug of his fingers threading through my hair. This moment is one of those moments that you want to stretch on and on. Forever.

“I’m not giving up on this second chance. I’m not giving up on us.”

“I could like that plan.”

“We’ll figure it out,” he continues. “My job. Yours. Those are details. Important ones, but what matters is us. This. The way I feel when I’m holding you.”

“I love you,” I say, finally giving him the words he’s been waiting for. “That’s what I wrote in that letter I never sent.”

“God,” he whispers hoarsely. “I sure hope so, Vee. It feels like I’ve been waiting a lifetime for those words.”

“No more waiting.” Holy crap, do I mean those words. “Just doing.”

“Together,” he adds roughly. “We fight this fire, we feel this together.”

I reach up and cup his jaw. “Together.”

I kiss him and he kisses me, two people who’ve found a second chance and are seizing that moment with both hands.

The End

Prologue

Hunter

I don’t start the fires.

I put them out.

You’d think that would make me the hero, the man in the cape, the guy who stars in the tickertape parades. Which I totally know still happen because the last time the San Francisco Giants won the World Series, city officials shut down Market Street so they could parade their boys in a shower of confetti. Made one hell of a mess too, or so it seemed from my front-row seat in the fire engine I was driving. That was me when I was still in the driver’s seat, still in charge of my life and my firefighters.

I wasn’t anybody’s hero yet. I was still months away from answering my front door and coming face to face with the life-altering moment that would eventually lead me right where I belonged. But before that, my days were pretty routine, and being a firefighter is all about the routine. You wait for someone to call a fire in and you run, you lift, you do whatever you need to do to make your body into the perfect weapon because once out there on the fire line, there are no excuses. You either stop the fire or you don’t. From day one at the fire academy, I’d never let a fire get away from me because I was too weak to hump my gear up one more flight of stairs or one second faster.

I like rules, I like order, and I’m a big, big fan of staying disciplined. Women tell me they like that in a man. Once upon a time, I took advantage of that. I’ve still got the big dick, the rock-hard body, and the focus to make sure the woman in my arms has one hell of a time, but I’m not the man I was. I’m not the man who opened his front door a few months after that parade, and got the worst surprise of his life. I’ve learned a few things since then. Things like what and who are important—and that sometimes you meet a woman and even though she’s everything wrong, she turns out to be perfectly right. Guy meets girl, girl starts a fire, boy falls in love.

Sometimes, it’s as simple and as complicated as that.

Chapter One

Hunter

She’s a screamer.

My ears assure me of this fact even as other parts of me perk up and take notice. For a guy in the act of smothering a fire with a blanket, sex should occupy no part of the real estate in my brain. I should be focused entirely on the job at hand, which is making the world safer for the brunette bouncing up and down on my left as words pour from her mouth. Unfortunately the words aren’t kind. Whoever she is, she’s most definitely displeased with me, and she’s got two equally unhappy girlfriends playing very loud back up to her unhappy. She’ll have to take a number. Once I’ve got this fire out, I’ll pretend to listen to her complaints and then I’ll go on my way, knowing that there’s one less chance of a catastrophic fire starting tonight.

Automatically, I bring the blanket down over the flames, cutting off the flow of oxygen, and then start kicking dirt onto stray embers.

The feminine shrieks as I go caveman on the fire sound like a chorus of Greek furies. Yeah. I do know what that is, courtesy of the required English lit class for my fire management degree. Part pissed off, part startled, the sound is my heads-up that they’re more than ready to go ballistic on my male ass. Doesn’t matter who I am or who my audience is because Mother Nature has already divided us into teams, boys versus girls, and the opposing team has just declared me the loser.

I don’t stop until the fire is under control and I’m in the market for a new blanket. I’ve practically got a fire station in the bed of my truck anyhow—a mountain of safety gear, gloves, packs, and tools. The green army issue isn’t looking too good. It smells like hell too because burnt wool is the worst. Not sure I smell much better, to be honest, because I’ve spent the last forty-eight hours in the field fighting a four-hundred-acre wildfire.

I won, too.

Mother Nature can suck on that.

I exhale roughly and step back. Inhale because I need the fresh air and right now all I’m breathing in is smoke and that damned burnt wool scent. Northern California usually smells way better, especially up here in the mountains. We’re barely past dawn when most folks would still be hitting the snooze button on their alarm clocks, as the orange-red of the sky where the sun works its way up over the horizon can attest. I have today and tomorrow off, which gives me just enough time to recharge before I head back into the field.

I’m the newest member of the Big Bear Rogues hotshot team. Nineteen guys, one woman, and a shit ton of firefighting gear. We’re the Special Forces of the firefighting world, the team that brings the fight to the fire when no one else can drive in, rappel in, or jump in. We run faster, dig harder, and carry more than your average packhorse. During peak wildfire season, we’re also on call twenty-four/seven. Sometimes the commute’s short because the fire’s in our backyard. Other times, we drive hundreds of miles to get close enough to fight. We go where we’re needed. It’s that simple. So far, this summer’s been busy and that’s exactly the way I like it.

A gust of ash and smoke from the fire hits me, the flames dying down. Mission. Accomplished. My Greek chorus whispers something virulent. I’m going to have to deal with them sooner rather than later.

“Ladies.” I’d tip my hat to them but I left my helmet on the front seat of the truck.

More loud whispering. “What’s with all the yellow? Is he an escaped prisoner?”

I look down in the direction of my steel-toed work boots. At some point between leaving the fire site and getting here, I’d pushed my bright yellow jumpsuit down to my waist. This leaves my olive green T-shirt on full display, along with an extensive collection of soot and burn marks from getting up close and personal with today’s fire.

The brunette bounds up to me and smacks me in the chest. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Right this very second I’m fighting a completely unexpected and entirely unwelcome sexual attraction to a short, curvy woman spitting fire at me. Her tits bounce, happily bra-free, as she digs her pretty fingers into my chest again. This would be way more fun if she pulled me closer instead of pushing me away.

“Extinguishing a fire,” I grit out.

“That’s my fire.”

“Your fire, ma’am, was illegal and out of control.”

“It wasn’t out of control,” she snaps. “I was standing right here watching it the whole time.”

I do a quick assessment. Crazy has two female companions hovering in the shadows. Everyone is wearing…pajamas? This early, the sleepwear makes sense but it’s still plenty cool and not too many people I know would choose to run around half-dressed. Crazy, however, is the least dressed of the trio. Her red-and-white striped pajamas are more underwear than not, the kind of sleepwear designed to torture dumbass men like me because they’re a picture frame for her gorgeous curves. The fuzzy slippers are slightly more practical, although likely a fire hazard. The thin little top has only the flimsiest straps that I could nudge down her arms with my thumbs, right before I got up close and personal with her magnificent tits. The icing on this stupendous cake is the pair of shorts that stop just north of her ass. I swear I only notice because she whirls to face her girls, raising her arms in a wide, graceful arc.

“Ladies? Were we doing anything wrong here?”

It’s not nice to interrupt her monologue but I do it anyway. “Do you have a permit to burn trash?”

She sucks in an indignant breath and throws her arms out even wider. She may be gunning for my nose—I’m not sure. “This is not trash.”

I lift the edge of the blanket and peer into the trashcan. Charred paper, some melted plastic bits, a box, and…blackened roses? Far be it from me to judge, but I see no keeper stuff in the charred contents.

“Looks like trash to me.”

Crazy huffs loudly. “Who do you think you are?”

“The fire department.”

She visibly wilts. I tell myself I do not want to haul her into my arms and pat her on the back. Or anywhere else she’ll let me touch her.

Jesus. “Why are you having a bonfire at—” I check my watch “—five thirty in the morning?”

“I’m hosting a summer break up camp,” she whispers so low that I have to lean forward to catch the words.

“Not following,” I say.

She dismisses my concerns with a wave of her hand. Her nails are a bright, robin’s egg blue with little diamonds dotting all of the available surface area like mini disco balls. “You’re a penis. You wouldn’t understand.”

I cross my arms over my chest and lean down until we’re practically nose to nose. “Try me.”

It’s not as if there’s any doubt in my mind—or other places—that she’s a girl and I’m a boy, but that’s not actually grounds for outright warfare. Yes, I have a penis. The thing is attached, it comes with me, and I’m usually a big fan of it. Right now, however, I’m wondering at its taste because it seems to feel that Crazy here is the best-looking woman we’ve seen in a long time. Perhaps forever. She’s a fruitcake, I tell my misbehaving dick. She doesn’t like me. She’s a drama queen and both my dick and I know that means we slap a Steer Clear label on her pretty ass and give her a berth wide enough to park a cruise ship.

“Lola Miller.” She points to herself but doesn’t stick her hand out. Probably smart, seeing as how I’m now wearing the after effects of not one but two fires. “I’m the president of the Break Up Club.”

“Hunter Black,” I grunt back at her. I’m certain no such club is registered with the local Chamber of Commerce but I nod as if her bizarre declaration makes perfect sense to me.

“We were burning our memorabilia,” she whisper-shouts.

I look down at the charred fragments of crap in the trashcan. Memorabilia is a fancy word for what I’m seeing. Whatever. Crazy can label the scraps the lost works of Van Gogh and it wouldn’t change one important thing: she doesn’t have a permit, trash burns are illegal, and she’s busted. My dick suggests I perform a citizen’s arrest and I resist the urge to smack it.

“It couldn’t wait until daylight?”

“Nope.” She shakes her head and the messy knot of hair on top of her head gives up and slides down her shoulders. “It’s a symbolic act at the beginning of a new day.” She pauses and then glares suspiciously at me. “You’re not opposed to symbolism, are you?”

“Only if it kills people,” I assure her. “What were you thinking, starting a fire in a can? I see no fire extinguisher, no water, no safety gear.”

She glares at me, and now that I’m this close, I can see that her eyes are one of those colors I always get wrong. Not blue, not gray, but the shade you see in the sky or on the surface of a lake right before a shit storm of epic proportions.

“We were on a mission.” She points vehemently at the charred collection in the can. “You made us fail.”

I shake my head. “You made yourself fail. If you’d had the proper permits. We wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

Her glare deepens. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”

“You see that motel over there?” I wrap an arm around her shoulders and turn her to face the slightly rundown row of vacation cabins. She has really nice shoulders, and thanks to the scantiness of her tank top, I can feel so firsthand. It’s always nice to be wanted. “I think preventing that motel from getting burned down by your…your weird little party is worth the trouble.”

I make a mental note to drive by more often in case her urge to burn things isn’t a one-time thing. And then I engage the crazy and ask the question. “What’s the Break Up Club anyway?”

She beams at me. “We’re all working on getting over our last break ups. We have an eight-step plan. We’re on the second step.”

Which implies that they are…serial break up artists? Well-organized? Fuck if I know, but the fire’s out. I can drop by the fire station and let someone know to check the motel out on a regular basis while this Lola Miller is in town.

“Do any of the other steps involve unsafe fire practices?”

“Nope.” She winks at me. Or maybe she gets ash in her eye from her ill-advised fire because there’s a bit of a wind picking up. I don’t want to think about what might have happened with those flames shooting out of the trashcan if I had driven by ten minutes later or not at all.

“Good,” I grunt. “Then lemme give you a brief rundown of the local safe burn laws.”

Sexy? No.

But neither is ending up dead.

She may not thank me, but I know my stuff. You’ll see.

Chapter Two

Lola

When Hunter sprang out of the darkness and crashed my fire circle, my first guess was that we were under attack from a crazed lumberjack.

But it turns out the man who hijacked the spotlight is the long and grim arm of the law. It sucks to find out Hunter’s such a stickler for the rules. Frankly, he’s the prettiest man I’ve seen in ages and I’d rather enjoy the scenery than listen to his lecture. While he lays out my sins, I let my eyes roam. Did I say he was pretty? Pretty sounds like a sunset or a cake and he’s attractive in a rugged, completely male kind of way. His sun-bronzed forearms would be so very lickable if they weren’t soot-streaked and tense with irritation. Okay. The first problem is imminently fixable. I just need to get the guy into a shower stat, strip him down, and soap him up.

No.

No. I do not need to do that. Finding a replacement man, a get-back-on-the-horse-and-have-sex-again man, doesn’t happen until Step Seven of my breakup plan. I’m absolutely not fantasizing about jumping Hunter now. Or drooling over his body. Or wondering what he’s packing. I fight the urge to poke my finger into his T-shirt covered chest. Just, you know, in the interest of verifying whether or not it’s true that all firefighters work out constantly and have abs of steel. He looks buff and he’s tall and broad shouldered.

And he’s surprisingly long-winded. Olivia and Sarah Jo skulk back into their cabins long before he’s finished delivering Fire Safety 101. Eventually, because I’m bored and it’s getting cold out here, I interrupt his explanation of local burn laws. Really, he should thank me. He was in danger of boring me to death and then he’d have had to call the EMTs and he’d have never gotten home in a timely fashion. “Are you sure you’re not a lumberjack?”

The corners of his mouth tighten further. He’s grumpy tonight. “Not a chance.”

Make that really grumpy.

“Wait.” I squint at him. Now that I get a better look at him—helped by the rising sun—he doesn’t look entirely unfamiliar. In fact… I grab the hem of my T-shirt and scrub some of the black ash off his face. He grunts and edges backward, but I have multiple nieces and nephews and that makes me an expert at the sneak speed wash. He doesn’t stand a chance. “You’re Ice Man.”

He takes another precautionary step backward as if he knows the next move in my clean up arsenal is the Thumb of Spit and he’d like to avoid that. Wise man. “Nice to know my reputation precedes me.”

I ignore the fact that his tone says otherwise. “You’re legendary.”

His frown deepens.

“You’re a man of few words. Word on the street is that you make the Abominable Snowman and the Yeti look downright hospitable. No one has chatted you up in the bar or had more than a four word conversation with you since you moved here, which makes people curious.”

I’m not kidding about the legend thing, but he’s also the subject of multiple betting pools because how long can a man that hot stay mute in a town this small? He may be tough, but he has to talk to someone at some point, and a significant portion of Big Bear Lake’s population is betting those words occur while he’s in bed and naked with his conversational partner of choice. Yes, I’m part of that particular betting pool. I can gossip with the best of them.

He slowly props his hands on his hips and looks around. I wonder if he’s counting to ten—or even a thousand—in his head. “You’re staying in the motel?” he finally asks.

Hello, change of subject. “I sure am.”

The “motel” in question is actually a super cute string of tiny cabins with even smaller front porches and an overabundance of hot pink geraniums. The square footage is the size of a walk-in closet, but you can’t beat the view. The mountains are visible every way I look, and the air quality is insane—fresh, crisp, and pine-laden. The name might need some work, however. Baby Bear Lodge doesn’t scream mountain chic, even if it is a cute play on Big Bear Lake (or possibly a not-so-veiled reference to the teeny-tiny living space you’re about to inhabit).

“So you’re new to town.”

“Less than a week,” I say cheerfully.

“So how would you know what my reputation is?”

Okay. So he’s grumpy and smart.

“I’m a fast worker and people talk.”

And boy does the female half of people talk about him. The abundant discussion is only partly due to Big Bear Lake’s slim pickings in the dating department. Conversational reluctance aside, the man’s sinfully handsome. The kind that makes you stop and stare.

“Huh.” He scrubs a hand over his head, spreading the ash around further. “So how does the Break Up Club work?”

“The rules of the Break Up Club are simple: Do whatever it takes to get over his sorry ass, no judging the amounts of Ben and Jerry’s consumed by your fellow members, and be there for each other.”

“Makes sense.”

“Are you just saying that?” I don’t hold back. I give him the stink eye. This is a man who doesn’t understand that ceremonial burning of things from your ex is an important next step in recovering from a bad relationship.

“No,” he says slowly. “You sound like a team. I get that.”

“Because you’ve never had a bad relationship in your life.”

He makes a rough sound. Maybe it’s the sound of disuse? Maybe, just maybe, the guy’s gearing up to have an actual conversation. With me. I should probably feel honored. “You have no idea.”

I can’t help but smile, because it’s actually kind of reassuring to hear that someone as hot as my firefighter runs into the occasional relationship difficulty. My eyes roam over his body, distracted by all those muscles on display.

He pokes the charred, half-burned mess in the can. “You really need to burn this?”

“It’s an important part of our recovery,” I say solemnly.

“Can’t stand in the way of that,” he agrees. I’m not sure, but I think I spot a dimple in his left cheek, and my body urges me, once again, to skip ahead to the have-feel-better-sex step of the breakup plan. He sighs but then goes and roots around in the back of the big black truck parked nearby. When he comes back, he’s carrying a gas can and a flannel shirt. The shirt he hands to me, waiting until I’ve slid it on. He’s either a Boy Scout or he’s noticed that my nipples are standing at attention from the cold and it’s making him uncomfortable.

He peers into the trashcan again. “What did you use for an accelerant?”

I hoist the hundred-year-old bottle of Scotch that Olivia had failed to return to her ex-boyfriend. We’d knocked back a shot and then doused our souvenirs with the remainder.

“Seems like a shame to waste that.” Hunter pours gas from his can over the leftovers and then looks at me. “Stand back unless you plan on sacrificing your eyebrows along with all the rest of this stuff.”

“What about permits?”

“I’ll cover for you. We’ll do it right.”

“They teach you how to start fires in firefighting school?”

He gives me a look. “I’ve lit plenty of backfires.”

Okay. So that’s a yes. Two minutes later, the leftovers in the trashcan are on fire, and he monitors the flames, keeping them from going too high.

“So if you’re the president of the club, are the other ladies…” He waves a hand at the cabins.

“Members at large.” I grin at him. “I placed an ad on Craigslist looking for a few broken-hearted or pissed off women to join me for a summer break up camp.”

Fresh mountain air, a personal butt kicking, and a chance to get my emotional house in order…what could be simpler? I’m nothing if not hardworking, which is why I’m an actress (professional), playwright (as yet unstaged), and a part-time professor of the dramatic arts (thank God for the local community college system that keeps my lights on and my fridge full).

Hunter looks at me and somehow I end up temporarily lost in the soft brown. His eyes are the only soft part of him—the rest of him is hard, muscled, ridged, and sharp enough to deter even me. He’s not cuddly in the slightest, nor is he remotely welcoming and that just makes his next words all the more shocking.

“Can I join?”

Chapter Three

Lola

Look, Hunter’s obviously a hottie. And he’s a firefighting hotshot, which probably makes him both a hero and a bona fide nice guy. But the truth is, the last thing any one of us club members needs is a living, breathing reminder of just how attractive the opposite sex can be. It would be like going out and buying the biggest, frosting-est chocolate cake you can find and then telling yourself it’s off-limits because you’re going on a diet. Since I’m sworn off men (at least until I reach Step Seven of the Break Up Club’s master plan), having Fireman Hottie to tempt and frustrate me would totally suck. My previous man mistakes keep repeating in my head, reminding me in painful Technicolor of all the ways this could go wrong.

I swear Hunter has mind-reading abilities because he shoots me a smile. A coaxing, you-know-you-wanna curl of his delicious mouth that makes me start considering all sorts of inappropriate possibilities. If I was writing this scene, this would be the moment we stepped toward each other, not touching yet but aware of the awesome chemical potential tugging us together. Hunter wouldn’t be able to tear his gaze from mine. As the director, I’d have him lift his hands, palm out, fingers reaching, reaching…

Nope. Let’s fade to black on that particular scene. Wherever we’re headed tonight, there’s no room for any kind of overpowering sexual connection. He’s not into me anyway. Maybe he misspoke when he asked to join the Break Up Club. Maybe he’s inhaled too much smoke. Or maybe he just wants to perform a public service and make sure we don’t actually burn down the town.

To make sure I don’t start engaging in any inappropriate touching, I take a step backward before I deliver the bad news. “No penis-bearing members of the population are allowed in this club.”

And just to smooth things over, in case there are hard feelings or pesky rough edges, I give him a polite smile. We’re being so nice. So grown up and mature. This, right here? It’s already light years ahead of my last relationship, which had usually devolved into tight-lipped derision (him) and screaming (me) by any given midnight. My ex and I were high-volume drama central. It’s entirely possible that this man, hidden up here in the nice, pleasant, way-too-quiet mountains, heard every word we exchanged.

“Huh,” Hunter says and his gaze shoots down to his junk. That’s a perfectly normal reaction, right? I brought up the word penis. He naturally looked at the nearest available example. And of course, my own eyes follow his.

“Not volunteering to give mine up,” he says thoughtfully. “Have to admit, it’s got its uses.”

Yes. Yes, I can imagine some of those uses all too easily. The man rocks a pair of worn-out blue jeans, and the soft fabric cups a very impressive package. The man is clearly big everywhere, and I’d have to be blind not to appreciate what he’s got to offer.

I must take too much time appreciating because he shifts impatiently. “Lola?”

Right. He’s waiting for an explanation.

“The members of the Break Up Club previously decided by unanimous vote that no penis is currently worth the trouble. We’re a strict girls-only club.”

“Huh,” he repeats, confusion softening the grim lines of his face. “So if I were a girl, the only criteria would be a really bad break up?”

“Sure,” I tell him. “Although we’d still have to like you, too. We’re picky that way. I mean, if you’re going on a really long car trip with someone, you make sure you can handle her stories and that you like the same radio stations, right?”

He brushes his hands off on his thighs. “I don’t carpool.”

“Not even to score a spot in the fast lane?” I’ve spent the last two years living in San Francisco, where carpooling is as de rigeur as flushing the toilet after you use it (unless you’re in a drought, in which case, if it’s yellow, you let it mellow or flush when no one’s looking—because, gross).

Hunter shrugs and examines the trashcan. “Really. I like having my own space, and most people talk too much.”

“Your zip code is so Lonersville. How do you deal with being part of the hotshot team then if you dislike people so much?”

I fully expect him to push back, to tease me the way I’m razzing him because somehow it feels natural between us, but all he does is tear his gaze away from the oh-so-fascinating remnants in the can and look at me.

“The Big Bear Rogues are my team,” he says finally. “The hotshots are my boys. I watch their backs; they’ve got mine. It’s not about liking.”

“Because you don’t like anyone?”

He lifts one shoulder. “Life isn’t a popularity contest.”

I give him my biggest smile. “Good thing, sunshine, because you wouldn’t be in the running for Miss Congeniality.”

Naturally, he ignores this. “So. Am I in?” He leans toward me, giving me a slow, slightly rusty smile that does unfortunate things to my insides. And honestly? The smile isn’t entirely trustworthy. His eyes watch me intently, dark, sleepy, and far too sexy for my own good. He’s all rough scruff and hard lines. There’s something mesmerizing about him.

“Who would break up with you?” I blurt out. I’m so not the queen of cool. Whatever. I give a mental shrug.

“Can I audition with the short version of my story?”

Even his voice is sexy, a low, deep rasp. He stirs the trashcan, sending up ash that he brushes away. His eyes don’t meet mine now, and I kind of miss the contact.

“Short version is fine.” I wave my hand.

“Thank Christ,” he mutters.

I swear I have no idea why he wants to be part of our club so badly. In my far too extensive experience, most guys do a 180 if they get too close to a pack of bitter, angry, jilted women. I know that sounds like a stereotype, but honestly, most women run fast, too. Those of us who qualify for membership in the Break Up Club are a tearful, calorie-laden, loud bunch, and we have plenty of feelings and blame to go around. Plus, we like to overshare. So why is Hunter here and not miles down the highway?

“You know how a firehouse works?”

I shrug. “I’ve read Curious George at the Fire Station. Do you possess a ginormous quantity of Dalmatian puppies?”

“We had cats,” he admits after another pause.

“You’re destroying my mental fantasy.”

It’s his turn to shrug. “Stray cat had kittens. Someone had to feed them.”

His voice makes it clear that he’s taking no questions (or shit) about this. I take a moment to appreciate the utter cuteness of his discomfort with playing hero to a stray feline. I’ll bet he buys the really expensive cat food too, and all the fluffy, crinkly, chase-me toys.

“A stray pussy led to your break up?” I tease, surprised at the way his strong shoulders tense.

“We worked twenty-four hour shifts. It’s pretty common. You go in for eight a.m. and you’re at the station until eight the next morning. Usually, the guys love it because you have a bunch of days off during the month. I picked up some overtime here and there, too. My wife would bitch some because I was gone for extended periods of time, but it was what I did and the money was good.”

“Newlyweds?”

He actually gives up the answer. “Three years.”

Three years is just long enough to start thinking that your relationship is going to be truly long-term—and far too much time for the break up to be easy. I know this because I’m a serial monogamist. I don’t do flings. Letting the girly bits doctor see my hoo-ha after two minutes of polite conversation is awkward enough: why would I want to expose it to some random stranger from a bar or a dating app hook up?

When I don’t say anything, Hunter plows on. “I came home early one shift. Stomach flu had been going around and after puking my guts up at the station, I gave up and headed home. Wasn’t like I’d be any good if we had to head out on a call, so I traded hours with another guy and called it a day. I came in pretty quiet because it was after midnight and I didn’t want to scare Free. Turns out it didn’t matter. She wasn’t there. I was too sick to figure it out. Decided maybe she’d gone to her sister’s.”

“Your wife’s name was Free?” Truly, there’s no accounting for what some people will name their kids.

“Tangent,” Hunter says. It’s hard to get a read on the look in his eyes, but I don’t think he minds the distraction. I also don’t think he’s going to say any of this a second time, so I mime zipping my lips shut and motion for him to continue.

“I woke up the next morning to someone knocking on my door. Thought at first the woman standing there was a Jehovah’s Witness or maybe the UPS driver because Free was always ordering shit, but she had a little girl with her. She asked if my wife was Free. I blurted out yes, and she announced that my wife and her husband were having an affair. Fucking surreal, right? She’d Google-stalked my wife to find out where she lived and she’d brought a phone full of dirty text messages as her proof.”

“Black moment,” I agree and move closer because this is likely the point where he tears up or needs a comforting arm or something. Because how do you talk calmly about all those hopes and dreams crashing down around you?

Hunter, however, doesn’t seem to inhabit the same emotional planet as me. He keeps right on talking, laying out the demise of his marriage in a neat, tidy timeline. “And then she cried and told me she didn’t understand why this was happening.”

Me neither. How could anyone throw this fine specimen out of bed? I lean into his side. Strictly in the interest of providing comfort. “What did you do?”

Hunter looks like he wished he’d never brought this up. Maybe he’ll give up on his crazy idea of joining us. Too bad because I’m starting to think he’s the most qualified member of all.

I rest my head against his shoulder, or try. The man’s tall enough to give Mount Kilimanjaro a run for its money and he’s not cozying back. He just stands there straight and tall, not an inch of bend in him.

“Go ahead. You can tell me. Did you bury the body in the backyard? Turn your wife’s lover into a piñata? Treat her to a show of your professional skills and set her stuff on fire?”

He grunts something noncommittal, but the look on his face is pained.

“Hunter?”

“Yeah?” He plants his feet in the dirt as I lean in harder. I may not be tall, but I’m not small, either.

“You have to tell me now. It’s like we’re naked and you’ve just given the best foreplay of my life in bed but now you’ve remembered you have to go wash your hair and that’s it. Story over. All I get is a flash of your ass and no orgasm.”

I’m pretty sure he chokes. I raise a hand and pat him on the back. His back is as much a work of art as his front, all hard, hot strength. Honestly, we really should let him join just so we can shamelessly ogle him. You know. If we were dumb enough to hop straight back on the penis bandwagon after swearing off sex. Which we’re not. I’m not. Whatever.

I tilt my head back to look up at him. The man should come with a stepstool. “If you’re uptight talking about sex, you really don’t want to join the Break Up Club. We’re kind of no-holds-barred when it comes to using our words. Now tell me what you did.”

“I invited her in and I made her a cup of tea.” He sounds pained, and I really can’t blame him. “Then she cried some more and I patted her on the back until I ran out of the house because parking enforcement was about to put a boot on her car.”

“Wow,” I say, because for once I’m speechless.

“Yeah.” He watches as I struggle to find something to say. I’m a little dumbfounded by the idea of this man making his wife’s lover’s spouse a cup of tea. It’s such a nice gesture.

“You own tea bags?” Once again? Not the smoothest thing I could have said.

“Tell me something, Lola.” I feel the deep, rough rumble of his voice in all sorts of unmentionable places. “Didn’t you mention a rule about not judging club members?”

“Situation-dependent,” I say cheerfully. “Consider this conversation either an added bonus or ritual hazing. I have to say, though, that I wouldn’t have been anywhere near as nice.”

He shakes his head. “It wasn’t her fault that she had a shitty spouse.” He pauses for a moment and then adds thoughtfully, “It was kinda nice having someone there who understood what I was feeling.”

I file away the cute fact that Hunter apparently drinks tea rather than some kind of manly beverage like ink-black coffee.

“Wow,” I repeat.

He exhales roughly, like someone hovering on the edge of a cliff above a really nice Mexican cenote where the water’s pretty as fuck but may also hide random fish, rocks, and Aztec sacrifices. And then he jumps. Feet-first, all in, and damned if he doesn’t make a powerful entry.

“I waited for my wife to come back, she asked what I was doing home, and I told her the truth. That I was out of there. She said it was fine by her and volunteered a performance review of myself as a husband that lasted exactly as long as it took me to pack my stuff up.”

“Ouch,” I sum up.

He nods. “So I think I’m fully qualified to join this club of yours.”

Chapter Four

Hunter

“Sit.” Lola points to the top step as if I’m her dog. She has zero problem taking charge, and despite how small she is, she still manages to take up all of the space around us. How could anyone not want to look at her?

“Why?” It takes me a second to process her demand because my long hours in the field are catching up with me fast now. If I don’t get my ass home soon, I’ll have to sleep some of the exhaustion off in my truck. It’s not safe to drive on too little sleep. Obviously, it’s not safe to be here either, because I can’t seem to help spilling my guts and sharing the embarrassing details of my break up. I’ve never told anyone the truth about what happened that day, not even my lawyer.

“Sit,” she repeats. She pushes on my shoulder with one hand, as if my command of the English language is in question.

If her club has some sort of kinky, take-orders clause, I’m out. My sexual tastes may make me vanilla but I promise I’m dedicated. You’ll never have cause for complaint when you invite me for a sleepover because I’m happy to go all night and it’s always Ladies Night. Still, my ass hits the step and I look up at her. Just like a damned dog.

She pats me on the shoulder, and I suspect I’m lucky it’s not my ass. “I have to go consult with the other founding members.”

“And then I’m in?” I have no idea why I care about this so much, but I know one thing. This is the first time since I opened that fucking door and came face-to-face with Mrs. Other Man that I’ve felt something other than frozen. I kind of like it, and I definitely want more.

Lola grins and winks ostentatiously. “Secret vote time, okay? But I think you’d make a great addition to our cast.”

“If you filibuster, I may snore,” I warn her and then I drop back onto the porch like a stone. She bounces off with another shoulder pat that lands closer to mid-chest than mid-shoulder, and I’m not too tired to admire the view of her jogging away. Her ass is truly spectacular, and it’s not as if I’m speculating because her shorts completely fail to cover the essentials. I can see precisely where those cheeks meet the top of her thighs when my shirt pulls up. Frankly, I’m amazed she’s not cold. The California mountains are not precisely tropical, even in the summer. Pants are required.

I doze off while she moves from cabin to cabin, knocking on doors and conducting “whispered” conversations that they can probably hear in Peru. On the top of a goddamned mountain. In Machu Picchu. One of the things you learn fast as a hotshot is to grab sleep when and where you can. No pillow? No problem. I stack my arms underneath my head, and make the best possible use of my five-minute reprieve. If Lola doesn’t hurry her cute self back here, I might camp out until morning.

She toes me when she returns. Even with my eyes closed, I can sense her standing over me. And smell her—she’s apparently taken a bath in a fruit bowl recently. I catch strawberries, kiwis, and something distinctly floral. She smells edible, and if I so much as caught a whiff of coffee, I’d be on her like a buffet. Stupid brain, I think as I try to decide whether it’s safe to go back to sleep for a few more seconds.

She nudges me harder. “Hunter?”

“You wore the poor man out. Let him sleep.” From another voice, female, sleepier, and far, far quieter. Whoever she is, she sounds envious, which makes her smart.

“Bed sounds perfect,” a second woman groans. “You can’t adjourn our meetings and then recall everyone, Lola. That’s just evil.”

Lola’s toe digs into my ribs. “He won’t bite.”

Given how long my day has been and how edible she smells, I’m willing to make an exception. Instead, I reach up and grab her ankle without opening my eyes.

“Ladies,” I acknowledge. “Kicking isn’t nice. Or necessary.”

Lola tugs, trying to free herself. I tighten my grip. Her skin is smooth and warm beneath my palm, and I may rub my fingers over all that softness. Just a little. She’s kind of asking for trouble and right now I’m feeling more than a little cranky. It’s part of the sleep-deprived territory I entered hours ago.

When I open my eyes, Lola is taking little hops to keep her balance, since I’ve got her right foot suspended in space. This turns out to be an act of self-torture on my part because it gives me an unexpected shot of the blue panties she has on beneath her sleep shorts. Since I’m pretty sure she doesn’t intend to flash me, I drop her foot stat and do my best to keep my eyes on her face.

Completely oblivious to her wardrobe malfunction, Lola gestures toward the brunette on her left. “Olivia.”

Olivia is the groaner and a brunette. She gives me a chin nod and drags her blanket closer. The blanket is olive-green Army issue. She’s wearing some kind of matching pajama set in navy blue. Her outfit is classy. Practical. Pretty much the antithesis of Lola’s too short, too cute sleepwear.

“And Sarah Jo.” Lola nudges a tousled woman toward me. This one is the sleeper. Her oversized T-shirt drifts off one shoulder and the battered pair of men’s sweatpants she sports is seriously defying gravity to stay up around her waist. She’s swimming in fabric—and her hair kinda resembles an out-of-control rainbow. I think the base color might have been blond, but it’s hard to tell now. It’s like she bought a box of every color in Target and then used them all at once. “Be nice to her.”

My eyes drift shut again. “I’m always nice.”

“People who sleep do not get to join clubs.” Lola digs her toe into my ribs again. I’m not sure why she can’t end her sentences with a period or an exclamation point like normal people, but apparently she feels the dig is the perfect punctuation.

I crack an eye. Slowly. “If your club has three members, you definitely need to recruit more.”

Lola whirls enthusiastically to face her girls. “We’re voting on whether or not to extend membership to Mr. Hotshot, who respectfully requests membership in our club.”

She keeps speechifying and it’s like listening to some kind of song. Her voice rises and falls, swoops, does this fucking gorgeous slide to the lower notes. Why does she have to sound as good as she smells? And why am I not sound asleep somewhere far softer than this beat up porch? I have splinters poking me in awkward places.

I poke her ankle, interrupting her. “I thought this was a secret vote?”

Lola flashes me a grin that should scare me shitless. The advantage of being bone-tired is that I don’t care. Either she lets me in, or she doesn’t. And just like that, my head is filled with dirty fantasies of all the different ways Lola could let me in. My dick suggests we make a list and prioritize. See what we can knock off tonight, and save the rest for tomorrow.

My dick is doomed to disappointment. Having a hard-on is just a basic biological response to being around three half-naked women in pajamas, right? A guy can hope because I don’t need to think too hard to know that being attracted to Lola would be a mistake. I don’t like drama. I don’t do loud, colorful, look-at-me women. I like my shit and my personal life calm and well-organized.

Lola has way too much energy. Harness it, and we could solve the world’s energy crisis. She strides stage left to stage right, and it’s like having a front-row seat at fucking Wimbledon. The other girls’ heads pivot and twist, their eyes glued to their crazy leader.

“I propose Hunter Black for membership in the Break Up Club,” Lola finally declares in ringing tones. “He has suffered grave reverses and the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune have taken their toll upon his heart.”

“Heart’s fine,” I growl.

Lola doesn’t miss a beat. “Mr. Black either got married without loving Mrs. Black or he traded his spot in the marital bed for a condo in the Land of Denial. Ladies, he needs our help, our support, and our superior break up skills!”

Are they gonna haze me next? I half-expect my boys to jump out and yell that I’ve been punked—but I don’t move from where she put me. That right there should have been my first clue to run like hell.

“Ms. Albert, how vote you?” Lola puts on a plummy English accent and points a finger at Olivia. Olivia nods agreeably and yawns discreetly behind her hand.

“In,” Olivia says. Good girl.

“Ms. Finnegan?” Lola turns to Sarah Jo.

Since there’s only three of them, a tie is impossible, and I don’t think it’s likely that Lola turns down my “application for membership.” She’s having too much fun torturing me to pass on future opportunities for a repeat of the same. Still, there’s something about the way the three of them look me over that makes me feel naked—and not in a good way. More in that dream way where suddenly you’re standing in front of the entire fire department minus your uniform and your boxers.

“In,” Sarah Jo smiles. Shit. She looks…sympathetic?

Maybe I fell asleep. While driving my truck. Maybe I’m actually wrapped around a ponderosa pine, dead as fuck, and this isn’t reality—it’s hell. I’ve died, and for my sins of stupidity, I’m surrounded by the nosiest, craziest chicks ever.

“Let’s confirm,” Lola cries out at the top of her lungs. “Group vote! All in favor?”

Olivia and Sarah Jo’s hands shoot into the air. Lola looks me over. Slowly. And then her hand inches into the air. Huh. Imagine that. They’re all on board with me joining.

Lola bounces over, squats down, and plants a loud kiss on my cheek. “Welcome to the Break Up Club.”

I grunt. She’s welcome to pretend that’s a thank you because I still have no idea what I’m doing here. The fire’s out, I’m off the clock, and my bed is calling my name louder than any woman I’ve ever slept with. “Are we done here?”

She gives me a look. Yeah. That’s what I thought. “Get-to-know-you games, Hunter. You ever played those? Because before you go back to wherever you came from, we wanna learn something about our newest member.”

Prying my eyes open, I decide she’s serious. “Check Facebook.”

“You put the whole truth and nothing but the truth on Facebook?”

She’s got me there, especially since I don’t have a Facebook page. That requires actually liking people. I settle for a second grunt.

“Look,” she says and gently cups my face between her hands, steering my gaze to where the world’s largest…something is leaned up against the cabin wall. Might be a ginormous painting or a piece of abused plywood, but it’s covered with neon glitter—and words. Way too many words.

She lets go of my face. “This is the club manifesto.”

“Is there a short version?” Who knew that irritating Lola would turn out to be so much fun? Her nostrils flare and she sucks in a breath. She reaches out and flicks my shoulder with a finger. I’m fast realizing that Lola likes to touch. Or maybe she needs to touch. I have no idea why words aren’t enough for her to get her point across, but she uses her entire body, but I sort of like the way she doesn’t hold back. She’s one hundred percent all in.

“The rules of the Break Up Club are simple: Do whatever it takes to get over his sorry ass, no judging the amounts of Ben and Jerry’s consumed by your fellow members, and be there for each other.” She pauses and rests her finger against her chin. “You, however, can feel free to substitute female pronouns unless there’s something you didn’t tell me about your ex, in which case my fantasy life will become a lot edgier.”

She plans to fantasize about me?

Olivia snorts. “I guess cheaters come in all genders.”

And…shit. “You told them my business?”

Lola sighs. Dramatically. “You can’t join the club without a break up in your recent past.”

I have no idea why I thought Lola might keep my private business to herself. Asking to join her club was an impulse, and I’m more of a planner. Even out in the field, facing down an out-of-control wildfire, I’m planning—I just do it faster, assessing and reacting as quickly as I can because out there it’s beat back the flames or retreat. And if you can’t chase one of those options, the one left is dying, and I’ve never wanted to go out as firefighter flambé.

“Tell me your story.” I randomly point a finger in Olivia’s direction.

She makes a face. “Workaholic. Dated like-minded men. Had mildly satisfying but unoriginal sex and didn’t even realize my last boyfriend had ghosted me until I ran into him at Starbucks and he started babbling excuses. Decided I was done being the tofu of the dating world.”

She’s watching me, waiting for me to say something. “His loss?”

“Exactly.” She punches the air. “I saw Lola’s ad and decided this was the next step in my cure.”

I’m skeptical, but it certainly sounds like my fellow men have let Olivia down. Plus, mildly satisfying are not words that should ever be used to describe sex. I can be a dick, but I’ve never mildly satisfied the woman in my bed. If she doesn’t come hard enough to see stars, my work isn’t done.

“And you?” I consider sitting up, but that’s way too much work and the boards beneath me are feeling softer and more Heavenly Mattress-like with each passing second.

Sarah Jo squeaks something unintelligible. Clever girl. She looks a bit like a mouse—if mice were super colorful and wore ink—but by acting reticent, she’s gotten out of sharing her story with the group. Lola actually rubs her back, her palm moving in sympathetic circles.

“Sarah Jo doesn’t feel like sharing yet,” she announces, directing a fierce glare in my direction.

I shoot Sarah Jo a doubting look.

“How come she gets a pity pass?”

Lola glares harder. “You need to learn to play nice.”

“What? What did I say?”

“You are a grouch.”

“Not a newsflash.” Being pleasant takes too much time, and most people aren’t worth the bother.

Lola leaves off consoling Sarah Jo—who smirks at me behind Lola’s back, just proving my point—and drops down beside me.

“Not gonna share your story?” I ask Lola, raising an eyebrow.

“Executive summary. I dated an emotionally stunted douche who was more interested in dating his career than me.” She jabs a finger in my direction. “The audience can hold its questions until later, okay?”

Levering myself up on my elbows, I focus on the poster Lola is holding up.

1. Accept the empty spots in your life: heart, head, bed, laundry basket, and that drawer in the bathroom you cleaned out just for him.

2. Cut it off. No texts, no tweets, no Facebook pokes, pings, or any other blip or beep on the social media radar. Distance is your new best friend and beer goggles have nothing on your ability to overlook the 1001 reasons that relationship was doomed.

3. Feel it. Don’t suppress! Let it all out!

4. No negative thoughts. Own your self-worth. Move out of the hermit shell and back into the real world. It's time to talk to people.

5. Be honest. Acknowledge why you broke up—and rip the Band-Aid off that sucker.

6. It’s all about you. Self-improve, shop, and be nice to yourself.

7. Get back out there.

8. Onward! Upward! Don’t look back. You’ve come this far, now be open to the possibilities.

I should walk away. No. Scratch that. I should run. I don’t do drama, and those eight steps are ripe with the potential for theatrics. Fate’s laughing its ass off at me too because this kind of self-actualization crap was my ex-wife’s favorite theme. Why am I not sprinting for my truck?

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter.

“You asked to join,” Lola says. “No attitude.”

“I haven’t slept in twenty-four hours, Lola. I’m about to crash hard, so if we could move this along, I’d appreciate it, or I’m gonna pass out right here on your porch and you’ll have to step over me all day.”

Miracle of miracles, she actually speeds her speech up. “The girls and I have finished steps one and two, and we’re moving onto Step Three at the end of the week.”

I squint at the poster. “You’re gonna Feel It?”

Feel it? Seriously? What the hell does that mean? And how is that a group project? Possibly, my mind has once again been led into the gutter by my dick. It most definitely wants to Feel It, and I’m almost certain that’s not what Lola has in mind. Although a guy can hope.

Oblivious to my inner turmoil, Lola pats my shoulder. “I’ll tutor you one-on-one to catch you up.”

I eye the first two steps. “I’m good. Got those covered already.”

I scrubbed all traces of my ex from my life already. Free made this easier by claiming all of our household goods. Since I didn’t need a lifetime supply of throw pillows, picture frames, and china dishes, I didn’t mind as much as I should. The carnage on my bank account was less acceptable, but still… I’m free. Free of Free, that is. She’s taken care of. There are no loose ends left for me to tie up there, and I definitely haven’t stayed in touch with her. Texting, tweeting, pinging, or old-fashioned conversation? None of that happens either because Free kept our joint friends.

“I’ll walk you through the steps this week, okay? We’ll be like relationship sobriety buddies.”

Newsflash. I don’t have any problem avoiding relationships and I don’t particularly need her help. Seems like my stopping here has been just one crazy mistake after another, and I promptly compound it.

“I have to get going,” I tell her. “It’s bedtime for all good boys and girls.”

“I’ll walk with you,” she says. I think she’s afraid I’ll pass out before I get to my truck.

“I’ve got this.” I roll to my feet and point myself in the direction of my truck.

“We’ve got this,” Lola corrects, gluing herself to my side. I think she’s steering me because her shoulder sort of digs into my ribcage and our feet bang together.

I lean down so my mouth’s near her ear. “Can I tell you something?”

“Sure?” she says.

“Turns out I don’t need help.” I fish in the pocket of my jeans for my keys, but instead of encountering metal, my fingers find other fingers. Fingers that are way too close to my dick. Lola needs to back off. “Little up close and personal, sweetheart.”

She snags my keys and steps away from me. I was being nice by not stopping her. I’m bigger, stronger, and far meaner, so I should win any physical contest—except Lola clearly doesn’t play by the rules.

She points my keys at me. “It’s the passenger side for you.”

“You’re a relationship sobriety buddy and a chauffeur?”

Lola opens the door of my truck, hops up into the driver’s seat, and looks at me expectantly. I don’t let anyone drive my truck and not because the vehicle’s my baby. I simply like to be the one in charge. I pick the speed, the direction, the angle we take as we shoot down the highway.

I walk around my truck. Lola clips her seatbelt into place and we both reach for her door at the same time.

“You’re something, you know that?” I’m shaking my head as I say it, but I’m also shutting the door. Letting her win just this once in this strange contest we’ve got going on between us. Something flashes in her brown eyes, some hint of emotion.

“Yeah,” she says. “I’m a real pain in the butt. Just get in, okay?”

And since I don’t think anything short of forcibly removing Lola from my truck will work, I actually do what she says. I go around and climb into the passenger side. I even give her the directions to my place without making her ask for them. We pull out with a screech of tires, kicking up gravel in a spurt of dust. Lola drives much like she emotes, and I question whether it’s really safer for her to be the one driving.

“Slowly, Lola,” I growl. “If I wanted to fly, I’d own a plane.”

She takes her eyes off the road (Christ) and rolls them at me. “Go to sleep, hotshot. I’ve got this.”

I grumble and shake my head. And okay, her concern is weird as fuck—but it also feels kind of nice. Maybe this is one of the benefits of joining a club. Maybe it’s something I should have done months or even years ago.

As if she’s read my mind, she reaches over and pats my thigh. “Can’t have the newest member of the club driving off the road because he fell asleep.”

Chapter Five

Lola

My butt is parked in the squashiest armchair that Drink Me has to offer. It’s no accident that my chair also has the best view of the street from the coffee shop. Big Bear Lake isn’t the biggest place in the world, and since not much happens here, I don’t like to miss a single second if I can help it. I’m pretending to be thinking great thoughts about the play I’m writing, but my laptop is really just cover for the ginormous caramel mocha sea salt chocolate bomb in my coffee cup—and my nosiness.

While I’m contemplating the non-happenings in the town’s main street, Sarah Jo slinks into the chair next to mine, slouching until she’s shielded from view of the street. I suspect she actually needs a restraining order rather than a monster-sized cup of Joe, but since she hasn’t opened up to me yet, I can’t be sure. Her clothes (unlike her colorful hair) are designed to hide her in plain sight, her usual acres of utilitarian fabric swallowing her up. An enormous T-shirt threatens to slide down one shoulder, revealing a bright pink bra strap and the southernmost edge of a pair of cut-offs. Those shorts used to be men’s jeans, so I hope she vandalized the shit out of her ex’s favorite pair before she took off. Even though we’re just temporary summer camp buddies, I can’t help worrying about her.

Not sharing my concern now that her camouflage is in place, Sarah Jo leans over and sticks her face way too close to my computer screen. I promptly slap the lid down, nearly upending my coffee. Okay, so there are better ways of handling my writerly phobias, but I don’t share my plays until they’re completely, entirely, utterly done. And even then sometimes they go straight under the bed, never to see the light of day. Letting her look now would be like trying on swimsuits pre-diet in the middle of the street.

Sarah Jo pulls back, eying the laptop with a new degree of caution. “State secrets?”

“A new play.” When I’m sure her eyes are no longer glued to my screen, I ease it back up.

“I thought the point of writing a play was for everyone to see it?” Sarah Jo asks. Since she’s not a fan of being in the spotlight, you’d think she’d get it.

I look at her pointedly. “When it’s done, I’ll put it on a stage and you can come and clap. Right now, however, it still needs lots of work.”

“Gotcha.” Sarah Jo nods and slurps her coffee. She drinks it black, which is positively disgusting. Coffee should be an excuse for drinking liquid sugar. I settle back to work and add a few more words to my current scene.

“I found a job,” she announces when she nears the bottom of her cup. That’s another weird thing about Sarah Jo. She’s a very linear person who likes to start and finish one thing before she moves on to the next. We’re working her up to drinking a cup of coffee and having a conversation at the same time.

“Awesome.” I flash her a thumb’s up. While Sarah Jo is supposed to be here in Big Bear Lake as a Break Up Club camper, I suspect she signed up just to get out of town and because the rent on our cabins was ridiculously cheap.

The Break Up Club is really like a big sleep-away camp, or so Sarah Jo claims. We have nightly marshmallow roasts, and therapeutic hot chocolate with Bailey’s may also feature prominently on the menu. Since none of us can cook, we’re living on hot dogs and walking tacos, which are actually taco fixings and hamburger meat mixed into a bag of Fritos. Sarah Jo claims the iceberg lettuce and tomato makes it a salad.

Grouchy the Firefighter must have stopped by because two days ago we woke up to a brand-new fire pit, complete with fire extinguisher. Some guys send flowers; Hunter says I’m thinking of you with some nicely matched cap stones and pavers.

“So what’s the job?”

Sarah Jo fidgets with her coffee cup. “I’m going to be helping out at the hotshots’ fire camp.”

“As a firefighter?”

I’m a little fuzzy on the details of firefighting, but I thought you had to have some kind of training to do the job. Muscle mass seems like a definite requirement, and Sarah Jo looks plenty lean and pixie-ish to me. It’s hard to imagine her slinging a shovel or a pack for hours in the field. On the other hand, if that’s what she wants to do, I’m certain she can train and that she’ll kick ass. I’m totally behind her one hundred percent.

She makes a face. “Not exactly.”

“Okay. Then what?”

“Cook.”

Maybe cooking abilities aren’t actually a required job skill. “They eat walking tacos?”

I must be projecting the doubt I feel because she goes on the defensive. “They have the Internet for recipes—and you like my tacos.”

True, although that’s because I love anything I don’t have to prepare myself and I’m partial to eating. Plus, Fritos are one of my all-time favorites. If I could get away with drizzling a little dulce de leche over the whole mess, I’d be in heaven.

“I can do this,” Sarah Jo says.

And since we’re friends and fellow campers, I nod. Vigorously. I just hope it doesn’t mean we lose her from the Break Up Club. Our numbers are already small, and it’s the first time in a long time that I’ve had girlfriends. It’s…nice. And maybe Sarah Jo feels the same way because she looks at me.

“Meeting tonight?” She asks me at the same time that I ask her. Since I’m the one who placed the camp ad, I’ve been elected de facto programs director.

“Jinx,” I crow.

Sarah Jo laughs. The longer the Break Up Club campers hang out, the more she laughs. She hid the first week, lurked the second, and I’m cautiously optimistic that by the end of the summer she’ll be leading Big Bear Lake’s annual parade and giving those hotshots all the shit they deserve.

“Have you heard from our newest member?” she asks.

“Nope. I think he’s hidden from us long enough, don’t you?”

“He might be out in the field.” Sarah Jo shoves her hand up the hem of her T-shirt and fishes her phone from her back pocket. Her fingers fly as she stabs at the screen. “When they hired me, they didn’t want me to start right away because most of the guys weren’t there. They’re coming back sometime this afternoon.”

“Perfect,” I say. “Then he can join us tonight.”

Sarah Jo looks up from her phone. “He might be tired. Or have other plans.”

Or maybe he’s hiding from me, I can’t help thinking. I definitely get the feeling that Mr. Tall, Dark and Grumpy wasn’t operating at peak mental capacity when last we met. He was seriously sleep deprived, and that might, just possibly, have affected his decision-making capabilities. Petitioning to join the Break Up Club seems out of character for him, but it’s too late. He asked, we agreed, and now he’s in—and it’s a lifetime membership. He can’t get away from me now.

I grin. “He can take a nap and a rain check. His fine butt is ours tonight.”

Whereas I thrive on confrontation, Sarah Jo prefers to avoid going head-to-head with others. She looks apprehensive. “You remember that we’re living in the free world, right?”

“Details.” I shrug. “He made a commitment to us when he joined, and it’s for his own good.”

Rather than answer, Sarah Jo busies herself with finishing off her coffee. I still don’t know how she can drink that sludge, but whatever. One of the upsides to Hunter’s sleep-deprived state last week was that he didn’t protest (much) when I put my number in his contacts and texted myself from his phone. I know exactly how to reach him—and I also know where he lives.

I pull out my phone and type:

Meeting tonight. You in?

While I wait for him to respond, I order a second coffee drink from the barista. I like my drinks sweet, frozen, and frothy. Kind of like the men I’ve dated, now that I think about it. All sweet, pretty calories and no substance—or emotional depth. Both drinks and men take a substantial amount of time to score too, and they don’t come cheap. By the time I get back to my armchair, Hunter has had the better part of ten minutes to answer.

He gives me nothing. No bouncing dots. No message. Nada. Someone clearly forgot to teach him the basics of communication. I try again.

Mandatory meeting. Need 2 c u.

I finish my drink and poke at the scene in my play in a desultory fashion. Hunter continues to ignore me and my successive texts. Eventually I’m reduced to sending him random emoticons. I work through the smiley faces, progress to the sobbing faces, and add a few random eggplants, whales, and shamrocks just to switch things up. Then because I’m bored and impatient, I make up an emoticon story about the big bad grumpy bear fighting fire in a paragraph of trees. Will b test later.

Still nothing.

Huh.

The man officially sucks. I go back to working on my play while Sarah Jo puts her head down on the table next to me and naps. I don’t think she sleeps that well when she’s alone; a few times, she’s crashed on the floor in my cabin. She claimed all the outdoor sounds spooked her; I think it might be something else. Sarah Jo does way too much looking over her shoulder. I’m two scenes in when my phone buzzes with an incoming text message.

Finally.

I look down at the screen and almost miss his text.

Busy.

I take a moment to appreciate the minimalism of Hunter’s response. Really, those four letters cover so many possibilities. I’m busy texting him, his screen is busy with all those dancing, whirling pine trees I shot him, he’s busy tonight and can’t make our meeting. It’s downright cute, the way he thinks he can avoid dealing with me. One word definitely isn’t cutting it. I fire off a series of one-word answers.

Meeting

Tonight

Speak

Short

Man

Speak

My phone stays stubbornly silent. Maybe he accidentally cut off his thumbs with a Pulaski and is bleeding out on the forest floor? Or has just engaged the fire truck in a series of deadly hairpin bends and must abstain from further communication lest he go airborne?

Yeah. I doubt it too.

I tap Sarah Jo gently on the shoulder. Her head shoots up and she looks around wildly, wiping the drool off her chin. That was more REM sleep territory than a nap. The woman is seriously exhausted. The hotshots will be lucky if she doesn’t fall asleep in their pancake batter tomorrow.

“Mr. Hunter is AWOL,” I announce.

“I didn’t think meeting attendance was mandatory?”

Details. I jingle my keys in front of her. “He needs an intervention. And I’m just the woman to provide it.”

I fire off a quick text. Headed to yr place.

And…no response. See? That’s a definite invitation. If the man wants to say no, he’ll have to use his words. This is an important teaching moment.

“I’m headed to Hunter’s.” I stand up, suiting actions to words.

Sarah Jo assumes this is because I’ve been invited. “Okay.” She gives another ear-cracking yawn and follows me out the door. “I’m headed back to the cabins. I think Olivia’s there, glued to her laptop. That girl doesn’t understand the meaning of downtime.”

Olivia works for some federal investigatory agency. Sarah Jo is betting DEA; I put my five bucks on the FBI. We’re both certain, however, that her joining the Break Up Club was actually so she’d have the proper cover to come up here to Bear Big Lake and poke around. She spends her club-free time either hiking or hunched over her computer, fingers flying as she works her way through a mountain of data. She could probably blow up a country or something remotely from that laptop.

Not only did I score the primo Drink Me spot, right in the window with the squashiest armchair, but I got a parking spot in front of the café, too. I should probably buy a lottery ticket and push my luck further. My truck is a big Ford beast with plenty of power under the hood. My baby girl can haul plenty of junk in her trunk too, which comes in handy when I’m set-building or shopping for props. She’s a bright green color usually seen only in Jell-O and is usually ankle-deep in crap because I use the passenger’s side (and every other empty inch of space) as a spare handbag. I covet Hermione Granger’s skill with undetectable extension charms.

Sarah Jo has her own ride, a battered hatchback that’s roughly the age of Methuselah. Still, it has a working radio and a cigarette lighter strong enough to power my iPod, so we rocked out to country music on our drive back from Hunter’s last week. Might have broken a few noise ordinances too, but the big, bad sheriff didn’t bust us, so it’s all good.

I get the GPS going on my phone because I am a directionally challenged person even at the best of times, and the first and last time I made this trip, Hunter was just about comatose. He sort of staggered out of his truck when we reached his house and disappeared inside so fast that I didn’t get a good look. Or any kind of look. I did, however, save the address because it’s important to plan ahead.

Hunter’s house is a slightly battered Craftsman. The porch sags on one end, but there’s the most fabulous trim around the edges of the roof and the second story. I’ll bet the top floor is nothing but teeny-tiny bedrooms and sloping roof. How a man as tall as he is sleeps up there defies the imagination. I park and plan my attack.

Honestly, the man needs to invest in better home security.

Breaking in is ridiculously easy. I walk around to the back of the house, pop the bathroom window up, and hop in. The hopping actually proves to be the only difficult part. I’m not overly endowed in the height department, nor do I possess above-average upper body strength. After a ridiculous and fortunately unwitnessed effort to pull myself through the window using just my arms, I abandon the attempt and scout around for a stepping stool or a ladder of some kind. Conveniently, Hunter had cheaped out on his lawn furniture. His Adirondack chairs aren’t the real, wooden deal—they’re inexpensive, lightweight models from the local hardware store. Dragging one over is ridiculously easy, and voila, I have my impromptu ladder.

While it would certainly be more dignified to enter through the front door, you can learn a lot about people from their bathrooms. Whereas mine looks like a drugstore exploded, Hunter’s is almost pathologically tidy. I can actually see the black and white tile on the floor and a square bathmat is lined up with the tiny shower stall. Even his gear on the counter is arranged in a neat row. It’s not a big space. Frankly, it’s hard to imagine a man Hunter’s size fitting in that shower stall, and he’s definitely not going to be having shower sex. Which is something I need to not think about. It’s just that once I know something’s off-limits, I can’t not think about it. Yes, I touch hot things too.

I’m contemplating my next step when the sound of a garbage truck backing up fills the bathroom with its incessant beep-beep-beep. I was in an evil mood when I gave Hunter his own ringtone—and since he’s such an Oscar the Grouch sometimes, a garbage truck sound seemed appropriate. I glance down.

Not home

Ooh, this time I’ve merited two words. Needling Hunter is turning out to be one of my favorite activities. I think for a minute, snap a picture of his bathroom, and hit send.

Not a problem. Let myself in

I plop down on the closed toilet seat and consider next steps. I haven’t known Hunter all that long, but he strikes me as someone who values being in control. So there’s no way he’s happy about my B&E in his bathroom. He’ll be tearing up the roads to come home, if only so he can yell at me.

The garbage truck backs up again. Hunter’s apparently decided that responding promptly is in his best interest. Smart man.

R u in my bathroom?

Apparently, he doubts his own eyes. That’s okay. I’ll just go for a repeat performance. I yank open the closest drawer and snap a picture. As I hit send, I know I shouldn’t be looking through his stuff without his permission, but I also think Hunter needs a friend. He’s so busy being Mr. Cold and Aloof that he hasn’t realized that he is alone. Here’s the thing—I don’t actually like putting myself out there, either. I just do it. It’s like jumping into an ice-cold pool or hauling ass off a cliff into the ocean below. Don’t think—just do. Once you’re falling/soaring/sinking, it’s too late for hesitations and you’re free to enjoy the rush. I may not be the best person to jolt Hunter out of his funk, but I’m the only one who’s here. He’s stuck with me.

God, I’m practically a saint, right?

I mean technically I’m committing the mother of all sins right now, and I’m pretty sure I gave him grounds to have me arrested when I arrived in his house via the window, but still. Details. My heart’s in the right place, and that has to count for something, right?

My phone goes crazy beeping.

Him:

The fuck?

Awww. How quickly we forget. I text him a picture of the Break Up Club’s poster board of rules. Number one is there in all her glory: Accept the empty spots in your life: heart, head, bed, laundry basket, and that drawer in the bathroom you cleaned out just for him.

I type:

You need me to tattoo that somewhere prominent, big guy?

I poke half-heartedly at the contents of his drawer while I wait for his response. The man definitely travels light. He has the essentials, but unlike yours truly, he doesn’t have multiples of anything. One toothpaste, one toothbrush, one razor, one, only one, one of each.

My phone beeps.

Anyone tell u ur crazy?

Not since I exited my last relationship. And it’s entirely possible I am crazy. Or perhaps Dan, my ex, just had such a stick up his ass that his judgment was off. Three years ago I was certain I’d met The One. I looked out from center stage where I stood, Shakespeare’s Kat in all her defiant, ball-busting, funny glory. Boom. I’d knocked that sucker out of the park and the adrenaline rush was epic. You know when you’ve delivered the performance of a lifetime and your audience is leaning forward in their seats, wanting more, right there with you on that stage, and you’re everything, everyone they need right then in that moment. Dan mistook my character for me, and then he swept me off the stage and off my feet. I was his Kat and I was sure I could be Kat both on- and off-stage.

For a while, I stayed in character. He loved tamed Kat, and I knew how to play her well. “All the world’s a stage,” Shakespeare said. He said lots of things, and some of them have been my favorite lines to deliver, but that time, those months and years with Dan… eventually, you have to step off the stage. Eventually, you run out of script and you break character. And then the Dans of this world break up with you because you’re “not who he thought you were.” I’m not bitter about having been a figment of his imagination anymore. I have the Break Up Club and I’ve been letting go. The next time I love, I’ll be loved for who I am.

By the time I’m done feeling sorry for myself, there’s a new text from Hunter on my phone.

Tell me exactly why ur in my bathroom?

Since he asks so nicely…

Catching u up, big guy. We’re gonna clean out your drawers. Anything u should tell me? Adult toys, girly shampoo, souvenirs?

As I yank open the right-hand drawer, however, something pads down the hallway. Something alive that sounds downright elephantine but that snuffle-snorts as it nears the bathroom. Holy patooties, it sounds ravenous. Forget the drawer inspection—I may need to call 9-1-1. My fingers fly over my phone.

U have a dog?

Because I can just imagine what breed Mr. Grouch would choose—the kind with killer teeth and a less than sunshiney nature. The door is the stupid kind that not only does not possess a lock but that is actually just a slider. There is zero hardware to hold it shut. I eye the window, considering my options. It all comes down to whether or not Hunter possesses a sense of humor, however deeply buried. I’m certain he wouldn’t let his pet devour me.

Well, almost certain.

He can be pretty grouchy.

It might be prudent to start ransacking his bathroom looking for weapons. Unfortunately, the first two drawers yield nada. It’s possible I could engineer a garrote out of dental floss, but I’m not holding my breath about that one. My phone buzzes with another incoming text.

Don’t open the right-hand drawer.

My hand freezes in the act. Too late. Hunter and I are going to have a conversation about full disclosure—if I’m not doggie kibble before he arrives.

T-Rex keeps his stash there.

The door slides open. I make an attempt to get out the window, but there’s no chair on this side. It’s just me, the wall, and my non-existent arm muscles. I inch up—and then slide straight back down. I turn to face the door and what has to be the world’s fattest…cat? Cow? Whatever the creature is, it waddles in. It’s an enormous pudgy ball of animal, all black and white fur, its belly brushing the floor as it prowls closer to me. It meeps imperiously and then snorts. For two seconds, I contemplate murdering Hunter. He’s probably laughing his ass off right now. On the other hand, if he is laughing, that’s good, right? The man needs to lighten up.

I text:

You own a miniature cow

Hunter leaps to the defense of his pet.

T-Rex is sensitive about his weight. Make it up to him

Uh-huh. It’s important to set limits, so I text him back.

I’m not kissing the cat

I guess that’s not good enough for Hunter because he lights up my phone again.

Treats in top drawer

I grab the sack of cat treats from the top right-hand drawer. Cat-cow follows along, bumping companionably against my ankles. I look down at him. Guess I’ve got myself a tour guide until Señor Grumpy shows up.

Hunter

There is no logical reason for Lola to be sitting in my bathroom. In fact, if she hadn’t sent photographic proof, I’d have said it was impossible. I locked the front door and it’s not like she has a key. Hell, I don’t have a cleaning service. I don’t even have a landlord—I bought the place as a fixer-upper because even Northern California can’t burn all summer and I need something to do with my down time. I’d rather be swinging a hammer and painting than sitting alone, nursing a beer like a bad stereotype.

When Lola first started texting me today, I ignored her. We’ve already established that talking is not an activity I’m particularly fond of, and I’d just finished a day digging line downwind of a four-thousand-acre fire. The Big Bear Rogues aren’t on the front lines today. We’re mostly on mop-up, extinguishing the final hotspots and digging a line that’s starting to resemble the Great Wall of China. We’re tired, we reek of smoke, and as it turns out mosquitoes love the taste of barbecued hotshot so we’re all scratching, too. After four days of inhaling smoke with every breath I take, I’m questioning my career path. It would be nice to spend one sweat-free day, and I might trade my left nut for twenty minutes in an air-conditioned room. For twenty minutes and a shower, I’d trade both.

I should have had a down day, but we’re short a few men and so I pitched in. Not like I’ve got anything else to be doing. I’m glad the day is over though.

Ignoring Lola turns out to be a mistake. It would have been quicker to just shoot her an answer the first time she popped up on my screen because by text 114 I was worn down. That woman can blow a phone up like nobody’s business. I’m still trying to figure out what she’s doing here at Big Bear Lake. She doesn’t seem to have a job, at least not that I can see, but she doesn’t strike me as the kind of person who likes to coast through life. Lola is busy as fuck.

Ten hours into our day, the incident commander hikes in and informs me that the Rogues are done for now. Our relief has arrived, and we’re clear to stand down and head back to Big Bear Lake. We’re fifteen of the dirtiest, filthiest guys you’ll ever meet. If we sat down next to you on the train, you’d get up and switch cars. This is what happens when you’re reduced to napping on rocky ground and the only “shower” comes when a DC-10 drops its load of fire retardant a little too close to our lines. This shit’s not glamorous.

I grab my cooler and gear bag and head toward my truck. Schlepping fifty pounds of stuff with me is second nature now. I go nowhere without that weight. C-rations, jacket, gloves, canteen, fusees, safety glasses, earplugs, fire shelter, hard hat—you name it, I’ve got it with me. I’ve got gear for the gear, too—a big-ass collection of spark plugs, wrenches, air filters, and chains that weight down my pack. If zombies came over that ridgeline instead of flames, I’d be prepared.

As we head out, Pick falls in step beside me. He’s holding his pack in one hand, swinging it like it’s full of fucking marshmallows rather than fifty pounds of dead weight. I’m not a small guy, but Pick’s a veritable man mountain. When he walks into a bar, even the bikers give him a wide berth. It takes a hell of a lot to get him worked up, but when he cuts loose, he’s pretty unstoppable. His brown hair is tousled, and a line of dark ink creeps out the neck of his T-shirt. He’s got ink all down his arms too, but our work gear covers it. He’s big, tough, and occasionally mean—all qualities that make him a good man to have at your back, whether you’re taking on a monster fire or a bar full of hostiles.

“You got a sec?” he asks.

There’s only one acceptable answer and I give it. “Sure.”

Not sure why Lola thinks I have the social skills of a grizzly bear, but I do know how to make nice when I feel like it. While Pick figures out what he wants to say, I glance down at my phone. Naturally, that’s when I spot the picture of my bathroom. Pick notices my expression and looks interested.

I toss my phone onto the front seat of my truck. “You know Lola Miller?”

Pick squints thoughtfully. “Really curvy brunette? Super loud? Kills it at karaoke?”

I wouldn’t know about her singing chops but the rest of it sounds accurate. “Sounds like her.”

Pick lifts his chin in acknowledgment. “She’s new to town this summer, right? Has a girl posse hanging around her?”

I briefly consider telling Pick the truth—that the ladies are hosting some kind of break up camp to either get over or celebrate the end of their most recent relationships (sue me for not being able to tell the difference). Of course, then I’d have to admit that not only is there a club, but that I actually asked to join it. Yeah. I’m so not going there.

I go for the truth, or a version thereof. “She broke into my house.”

Pick blinks. “The fuck she do that for?”

“Think she might be crazy.”

He shrugs. “She’s an actress.”

Which explains her seemingly unemployed presence in Big Bear Lake. She must be between gigs. “A good one?”

“Heard she did a few commercials, but after hearing her sing last weekend, I’m telling you she’s not making a living belting out tunes. Your girl’s seriously tone-deaf.” Pick scrubs a hand over his head. “Enthusiastic, though. Gotta give her that. Look, you down with giving me a ride back to camp?”

Instinctively I look at the motorcycle parked beneath an oak tree. It’s a big, black beast with plenty of shiny chrome and a pair of beat-up leather saddlebags. I prefer a truck myself—puts some critical space between my ass and the asses on the road, plus I can haul shit.

“Bike’s broke,” Pick says when I don’t say anything. “Was thinking maybe we could load it into the back of your truck.”

Right. Because then Pick will plant his ass next to mine and we’ll have to make conversation all the way back to Big Bear. It’s not my idea of a fun time.

“Not sure my truck bed’s all that clean.” As excuses go, it’s a lousy one and it doesn’t stop Pick.

“Bike will wash.”

Since the guy’s full of annoyingly accurate observations, I take the path of least resistance and drop the tailgate on my truck. He MacGyvers a ramp out of some two-by-fours and a few empty pallets, and then we roll his transportation up and in. At least he doesn’t feel the need to make chit chat once we’re in the truck and on the road.

Silence rocks.

I don’t even need the radio to drown him out, since he promptly rests his head against my passenger side window and passes the fuck out. I kinda envy him the catnap, if we’re being honest. I keep the ride smooth and even lest I wake Sleeping Beauty from his slumbers, and contemplate next steps with Lola. She hasn’t texted me again, so I suspect she’s up to something. In my limited acquaintance with Lola, I’ve already learned that silence equates to diabolical plans in motion.

When we pull into Big Bear, I elbow Pick hard, and then deposit him and his bike at the fire camp. He offers me a beer from the fridge in his RV, but I’ve got a burglar to bust, so I pass. Before I’m even back in the cab, Pick has his tools out and is messing with the engine. He looks genuinely happy to be elbow-deep in motor oil and broken parts. Guess it takes all types.

It’s a five-minute drive from the fire camp to my place. Years of unrelenting drought have taken a toll. With each year, the dangers of wildfire increase. The vegetation on either side of the highway is dry as shit and it wouldn’t take much to send the place up. I make a mental note to make sure someone comes out here soon and red tags some of the dead trees. The stuff is dry enough that a spark from a weed whacker or a still-lit cigarette tossed out of a passing car window would be enough to ignite the lot.

Lola’s car is tucked around back of my house. Guess she didn’t want to advertise her presence more than she had to. I pull in behind her, blocking her in. Though the chance is slim that she’ll bolt. In my limited experience with Lola, she confronts everybody and everything head on. It’s like she has one speed (fast) and one volume (deafening). When I get out, I realize that she’s used my bathroom window as her own personal port of entry. Nice.

I take the more conservative approach and enter the house through the front door. Like a civilized adult.

“Honey, I’m home,” I holler, shutting the door behind me.

My house isn’t big. There are two bedrooms upstairs that share a Jack-and-Jill bathroom, plus a living room, kitchen, mudroom, and second bath downstairs which I prefer because the shower’s actually big enough to turn around in. Lola strolls out of my kitchen, T-Rex bumping around her ankles as if she’s his new favorite person. She must have found the cat treats.

“How was your day, dear?” She leans against the doorframe, checking me out, so I return the favor.

I’m certain I’m not supposed to notice, but she looks good. She’s painted her lips some kind of cherry-red not found in nature and it suits her. Bright, exotic, fucking lickable. Cherry’s my new favorite fruit. I take a step toward her before I stop myself. She’s not supposed to be here and I smell like a chimney.

I get straight to the point. “Explain.”

She eyes me cautiously, which isn’t unusual. I’m not known for my charm or hospitality. If you’ve got a fire, I’m you’re guy. There’s no building, no structure, no forest I won’t enter. Flames and heat don’t bother me. And even though the guys on the team and I are frequently together, we spend the better part of that time in closer quarters than I like. I have, in fact, been known to boot the overly talkative out of my tent, my truck, my freaking life. Silence is golden.

She surges toward me enthusiastically. “You need help.”

“Whoa.” I throw up a cautionary hand, but she’s unfazed.

“Hello? The Break Up Club is doing step three tonight—which you will be attending—and I promised to catch you up. Think of this as your make up session.”

“So you’re telling me that you broke into my house to help me prepare for break up club?”

“You begged to be a part of it. Now be a good boy and let me help you purge.” She smiles and pats me on the arm. “It’s for your own good.”

The quicker I humor her, the faster she leaves. This seems like a logical conclusion. I march into the downstairs bathroom and yank open the topmost drawer, which holds exactly what it did this morning: toothpaste, a tube of shaving cream, and my razor.

“Satisfied?” I go to turn around and freeze. Jesus. She’s pressed right up against my ass, and holy shitballs does it feel good. Since I’m sure this isn’t what Lola actually had in mind when she broke into my bathroom and I’m stanky as hell, I discreetly try to place a few inches between us. I need her to come back after I’ve had a chance to hit the shower.

“Not hardly,” she scoffs. Her hand shoots between my arm and my side and palms my cream.

“Do I look like I care about your satisfaction?” I growl. Surely if I step backward, she has to move, right? I mean, it’s not like she wants me to touch her—or stand on her toes. I risk a quick glance down. Nope. She’s wearing a pair of hot pink flip-flops with a little white daisy between her toes. Toes that have been painted white and that sport—

“Do you have flowers on your toes?”

Fuck. That came out before I could censor myself.

“You have an eye for detail, Mr. Hunter.” Her hand retreats, taking my shaving cream with it.

I sigh in defeat. “You can return my stuff now.”

She skips back a few steps, so I’ve got what I want. What I thought I wanted. Goddamn, this woman is dangerous. “We’re not done yet.”

“We’re not?”

She waves the tube at me. “Did you use this brand and scent when you were with what’s-her-name?”

“I’m a big boy, Lola. I bought my own shaving cream even then.”

“No special memories associated with it?”

I give her a look. “It’s shaving cream. I shave with it.”

“Never did a little sexy shaving in the shower together?”

“No.” I fold my arms over my chest and The Look turns into The Glare. Lola is, of course, undeterred. I’m starting to suspect that not much deters her. “Put it back in the drawer.”

She actually does, much to my surprise. Then her hand hovers over my toothpaste.

“That’s just toothpaste, Lola. It’s not a sex toy. Move on.”

She nods and does as I ask, while I continue to glare at her.

Turns out my glare is even way less effective when it’s aimed at her ass while she prances into my living room. And then, after a brief look around at the room (which is entirely empty other than my beige sofa), into my kitchen. I have no idea what she thinks she’s doing, but it reminds me of T-Rex when I first brought him home. Now that I think of it, I initially tried to keep him confined to the bathroom too, but he wasn’t having any of it. After I gave in to the incessant meowing (it’s really hard to sleep through that shit), he now has the run of my house. This doesn’t bode well for me regarding hurricane Lola.

She yanks open the first kitchen cupboard she spies. Pots and pans—nothing incriminating there.

“All new,” I offer because the sooner she finishes my kitchen inspection, the sooner she can… What? Leave? Stop right there. I know what you’re thinking. How can it hurt to let her stay for a while? She’s only being friendly, and I did sign up for her club.

Well you can stop right there.

Because she’s absolutely not my type. She’s everything I’ve sworn off, and despite the pretty face and the great butt (and that smile that doesn’t quit and that makes me feel like I’m a very valued member of her secret club), I’m not going there. There’s no way we’d work out. Plus, she’s not interested.

“You’re a neat freak.” She’s all accusing smile and twinkling eyes.

“Didn’t realize that was a crime. Unlike breaking and entering,” I add pointedly.

“Pffft. Details. Step One is important. ” She waves a hand enthusiastically, nearly smacking me in the nose. Somehow, I’ve inched closer to her without realizing it. She smells sweet, like strawberries and sunshine.

“Are you worried that I haven’t accepted the empty spots in my life? Heart, head, bed, laundry basket, bathroom drawer?”

She nods and continues ransacking my kitchen. I lean against the wall, folding my arms over my chest. I’m going with the path of least resistance here. We both know I’m not all that worried about the B&E aspect of today’s date. No. Not a date. There is no way this is a date.

“This is a new place, a clean start,” I tell her. “So you can stop worrying.”

She won’t find any holes where my ex-wife’s stuff was. Hell, she won’t find any stuff, mine or hers. I travel light. Even the contacts in my phone are all work-related plus a few family numbers. I’m smart enough not to mention this, however, because I suspect she’d insist on checking for herself. Lola is surprisingly thorough.

When she opens my fridge, I open my mouth to protest, but she just steals a bottle of water and sighs.

“You cook?”

I shrug. “I like to eat, and a raw food diet never appealed. Therefore, yes, I cook.”

Free must have been a rabbit in a former life because my ex lived on bagged salads, carrot sticks, and an endless supply of protein shakes and meal bars. That shit tastes like sawdust—even our C-rations offer more in the way of flavor. So maybe I’ve been compensating a little. Maybe my fridge is bursting with some really nice steaks and I also like my dairy. When she looks in the freezer and discovers that I own not one, not two, but four different kinds of full-fat, home-churned goodness, she lets out a groan.

She stifles the sound quickly, but it’s too late. Now I’m wondering what she sounds like when she comes. I don’t think that husky, needy sound is quite right, though. That’s more like the warm up, the opening note in an entire Lola symphony. She wouldn’t be short—or quiet. Damn it. I have to stop thinking about that.

“Ben and Jerry’s?” she asks.

“Go big or go home.” Since I can recognize ice cream lust when I hear it, I open a drawer and pull out a spoon. “Pick your poison.”

I hold out the spoon.

She doesn’t hesitate. She grabs the spoon from me, her fingers curling briefly around mine. “You’re officially my new hero.”

Lola takes forever to choose her ice cream, wavering between chocolate chip cookie dough and butter pecan. She finally plays an elaborate game of Eenie Meenie Miney Mo with the freezer door open.

“You’re letting all the cold air out,” I point out.

“Shhh. This is important stuff.”

Whatever. I reach around her and snag a pint of chocolate. Dessert before dinner—that’s my motto.

Lola whacks me on the back of the hand with her spoon. “What if that was my choice?”

“Should have picked faster.”

She finally settles on peanut butter with a sigh. “You do good work.”

When she chooses to sit on my kitchen counter and dig into her pint, I don’t say anything.

“So no souvenirs of your ex? You moved on just like that?” Lola snaps her fingers. Or tries to. Since she’s holding the spoon, all she manages to do is fling ice cream all over my kitchen.

I shake my head. “Nope.”

“Huh.” Her eyes shoot to mine. “Absolutely, positively nowhere?”

“Nowhere.”

She shovels ice cream into her mouth. “You are a man of few words, Hunter Black.”

Since it’s the truth, I ignore her comment and concentrate on my ice cream. When she sighs—loudly—I decide to humor her and throw her a conversational bone.

“What was yours like?”

“I’ve had a plurality of lousy exes. It’s hard to pick just one.”

I shrug. “Then you’ve got plenty of stories. Share. Tell me how you became the esteemed leader of the Break Up Club.”

“Well, I dated my leading man. Once.” She ticks him off on her fingers so fast that he’s barely a blink. Bet the dickhead came that fast, too. Bet he was a lousy lay.

“Then I dated a cop. He had a thing for bad-girl-gets-a-stern-talking-to fantasies.”

“You role-played?” My brain immediately suggests a few favorite spank bank scenarios. Dirty librarian comes to mind. Lola would rock a short plaid mini skirt and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. And I bet she’d know where all the naughty books are shelved.

No.

No fantasies. No librarians, no naughty girls, and definitely no Lola.

“I’m an actress. I rocked role-playing.” She flashes me a mischievous grin. “Of course, Mr. Cop wasn’t convinced in the end that I didn’t possess a bad side. That, or he decided I was irredeemable. He cut me loose.”

“His loss,” I say unprompted because that’s what a good girlfriend would say, right? And right now, for no logical reason, I really want to join this club.

Lola fist-bumps me. “Right on.”

And people claim I have no social skills.

“He liked dirty lingerie,” she adds thoughtfully. Trying to follow Lola’s conversational tangents is like chasing a drunk bumblebee. She darts from point to point. She’s more of a drive-by conversationalist than a fan of the monologue. Or even the complete sentence. I have no idea what she means by dirty—although I’ve got a few suggestions. Thoughts. Bad, bad ideas.

She sets her empty ice cream carton down on my counter and tosses the spoon into the sink with a loud clang. “Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Like dirty lingerie?” She licks the last bit of ice cream off her fingers. I think she’s trying to kill me. “Did you keep any of Free’s?”

“Hell no.” I’d like to say this comes out firmly, clearly expressing that she’s veered into don’t-go-there territory. I’m pretty sure it sounds more like a strangled yelp, however, because she gives me a wicked grin.

“Let’s find out.” She hops down and darts toward the stairs. And because, yes, she’s caught me totally off-guard, she gets a good head start on me. She’s got both feet on the steps before I even realize what she’s doing.

She’s making a beeline for my bedroom.

I think I need a beer instead of ice cream.

“Lola,” I growl. Pretty sure they can hear me in Nevada. Possibly Arizona and Texas, too. It doesn’t stop Lola, however. She flies up the stairs.

I tear after her, her laughter the perfect locator signal.

By the time I make it up the stairs, Lola’s already kneeling on my bed, pulling drawers open and riffling through their contents.

“Navy blue?” She arches a brow at me. “And black. You live dangerously.”

Letting her touch my boxer briefs is a mistake. I mean, it would be more dangerous to let her touch the pair I’m currently inhabiting, but this drive-by voyeurism is bad enough. “If this is a requirement for the Break Up Club, I’m out.”

She blows me a kiss. “You’re way too serious.”

And I want to tell her that life is serious. It’s not like fighting fire is some kind of board game. I open my mouth to explain my positions on humor, life, and shit in general, but Lola barrels on.

“What about red? Or something with cartoon characters or exotic fabrics? I gave Dan this pair with an elephant trunk for his—”

I throw up a hand. “I do not want to hear about Dan’s boxers.”

And for the record, wildlife and zoo animals have no business anywhere near my dick, even in cotton representation.

Lola continues to rummage vigorously through my boxers. I think she’s deliberately fucking with me now, so I push back. “What’s the point of this search and seizure?”

Lola winks. “We’re rooting out any relationship underwear.”

Nope. I hear the words come out of her mouth, and I’m even certain that they’re in English—but they make no sense.

“Cute stuff,” she adds helpfully. “Funny briefs or sexy stuff your wife gave you. Couples’ gag gifts.”

“Nope, no, and hell no.” I give her a cool look that does nothing to stop her digging through the drawer. Before she can move on to the next one, I box her in place, my arms coming down on either side of hers.

“Problem?” She twists her head so she can see my face.

“You can touch my boxers all you want, but that means you have to show me yours. It’s only fair.”

She winks. “You won’t be impressed. Granny panties are required wear during step one because it absolutely keeps you from doing anything stupid.”

Even her talk of granny panties is doing absolutely nothing to rein in my imagination. Just hearing her say the word panties has my brain stuttering. And then of course I mentally dress her in said panties—and strip her out of them.

Slowly.

This has to stop right now. Just because she’s funny as shit and she makes me want to laugh doesn’t make up for the fact that she’s pure trouble. This in no way explains what comes out of my mouth next.

“You want to grab something to eat?”

Chapter Six

Lola

Hunter looks at me as if he fully expects me to say no. Or possibly bolt for his front door. I’m not entirely certain he meant to ask me out on a food date, and I’m not sure where that comment about my panties came from. His face is drawn, and I suspect he’d be better off napping than playing chef before we have our Break Up Club meeting tonight, but honestly? He’s pretty confusing and so I decide I’d better just take him at his word. After all, I’ve been living on campfire cooking and a budget for two weeks. The man could slap peanut butter and jelly on bread and I’d be satisfied. Yes, yes I do want dinner.

“Here,” he adds gruffly. “With me.”

I give him my best innocent look. “Are you buying?”

He gives a short bark of what must be laughter. He definitely needs more practice. “Let me grab a quick shower and then I’ll grill you a steak. We can add some salad to all that ice cream you just ate.”

“Wise move.” I tap my finger against my chin. Teasing him is so much fun. “Eating out might actually require additional people contact, and you’re probably at your quota for the day.”

He turns around and heads for the kitchen, where he presumably has said beef. Cow-cat follows after him. Hunter seems unconcerned about whether or not I accept his oh-so-gracious offer or not, and this just makes me more determined to get a rise out of him. I’ll bet he’s awesome facing down fire, completely unflappable and determined, a real modern-day warrior. When his fine ass is striding away from me, however, it’s hard to appreciate his not giving a fuck.

He has long legs. I don’t. Ergo, by the time I reach the kitchen, he’s already got his head in the fridge. He turns, whipping out the world’s largest slab of steak wrapped in butcher’s paper. I applaud. Go big, or go home, right?

“Impressive, Black.”

He gives me a smirk. “I hear that about my meat a lot.”

He slides me a bottle of beer, shoves the steak into a bag of marinade, and then disappears into the downstairs bathroom. When the water goes on, every pipe in the house groans—and so do I. He’s going to be naked. Wet. Soaping up all his good bits—and I’ll bet Hunter has some very impressive…bits. The kind of bits that require their own zip code because they’re that large. I’ll bet he has a big one.

Stop it, Lola.

I stare at Hunter’s meat and try not to wonder if he’s locked the bathroom door. If I could just slip in there, slip out of my clothes, and convince him to slip into me. No.

Fortunately, Hunter’s quick in the shower because two minutes after he hit the water, he turns everything off, and then emerges from the bathroom. In a towel. Oh, fuck me. Pretty please. He pads upstairs while I stand there drooling in his kitchen, and I hear his feet stomping around. When he comes back down, he’s wearing a clean pair of jeans and yet another T-shirt.

“What?” he asks.

Yes, I may be staring.

“Nothing,” I say quickly. “I’m just looking at your meat.”

He gives me a funny look, but grabs the bag and heads outside to grill the steaks. T-Rex and I follow him like a fan club. Not so shockingly, Hunter grills silently but efficiently. He gets the steaks and potatoes on in record time and then stares at them as if he can will them to cook faster. As T-Rex pokes around the bushes, I try to figure out how to be useful. It’s the least I can do if he’s feeding me.

“Yell if I can help.”

Hunter shakes his head. “I’ve got this,” is all he says.

“There’s nothing I can do? Salad? Clean up? Beer opening detail?”

He gives me another long look. “I lied about the salad.”

Since the man is grilling the world’s largest steaks and potatoes, it’s easy to see where his food-eating loyalties lie. “King of carbs, eh?”

The grill hisses and spits as Hunter pokes something with his tongs. “Protein.”

And that’s it…he doesn’t say anything more while the steaks cook. Strangely, I don’t feel the need to fill up the silence. I watch him, I eyeball the steaks, I admire the copious amount of trees and wildlife way too close to Hunter’s house. He comes across as so closed off and distant, and yet now that I have him mere feet away, he’s still not spilling his secrets. My biggest problem is that I hate silence. When I’m not saying anything, all you see is me. There’s no more script, no more larger-than-life character. And yet Hunter doesn’t seem to care that I’m just sitting around, doing nothing. Being me. And some stupid, ridiculous, prone-to-making-mistakes part of me sits up and takes note. Hunter’s liking feels good.

Too good.

Fortunately, his less-than-charming personality is the most effective kind of relationship birth control. Fixing him, smoothing down his rough edges and making him boyfriend material, is not part of my summer plans. This summer is all about getting over my last relationship and figuring out how I want to move forward. I’ve been part of a couple where I’m the only one putting out emotionally, and I’m not doing that again.

When Hunter pulls the steaks off the grill, I’m ready with a plate. He gives me a nod.

“Would it kill you to use your words?”

I give him a bright smile. He gives me a cool look. Getting under his skin is so much fun.

“Thank you,” he grouches.

I pat him on the shoulder. “Good boy.”

He grabs the plate from me and marches into the house. I follow because hello…free steak dinner.

“Sit.” He jerks his head toward the tiny dining room table. I sit, and Hunter slides a loaded plate in front of me.

The meal with Hunter is mostly quiet. When I get too twitchy about the silence, I launch a question in his direction. He answers with the same lean economy he does everything, which just makes me want to tease him more to open up.

I ask about his work schedule and he explains that he’s on call for the rest of the month, so he has to be able to drive at any hour of the day or night. Firefighting sounds even more demanding than I’d thought, and I tell him so.

He snorts.

“Funny shit happens too.”

“Tell me a good story.” I prop my chin on my hand and arrange my face into listening intently mode.

He stares at me. Blankly.

“Something funny,” I prompt.

“You know anything about fighting fire?”

“Pretty much…no. So you could educate me.”

“It’s a job, Lola,” he says roughly. “It’s not a comedy club act.”

“You never laugh on the job? Come on, tell me a story. I like a little dinner conversation.”

“Christ.” He inhales sharply, then exhales. “Fine, one story, Lola. No more.”

“Make it a good one and you’ve got a deal.”

“I met T-Rex at a fire call,” he tells me.

“Not sure how that’s funny yet, but keep going.” I take another bite. Hunter is an excellent cook. I may moan slightly as the rich, juicy flavor hits my tongue because he gives me a strange look. Since he doesn’t really need to know that I’m about to have a foodgasm thanks to his culinary skills, I wave my fork at him to proceed. He bristles but continues.

“T-Rex belonged to an old lady out in the Sunset District in San Francisco. She’d open the back door so he could nose around the stoop and get some fresh air. Chase a pigeon or two. Shit like that. One day she lets him out and he bolts up this enormous palm tree in her backyard.”

“We need to work on your definition of humor,” I tell him.

His scowl deepens. Guess he’s not a fan of feedback. “T-Rex refused to come down, so she called in the fire department. We had to use our ladder to climb up and bring the damned cat down. Once we let go of him, he bolted straight back up the tree.”

Since T-Rex is here and not stuck in a tree, I ask the obvious question. “What did you do?”

Hunter shrugs. “Tried it again, but this time I shucked my coat first. As soon I got close, I tossed the coat over him and wrapped him up like a fucking burrito.”

“And?”

“End of story.”

“That can’t be all,” I protest. Hunter is crap at telling stories. I’ll bet he describes his vacations as I went to XYZ. Then I came back. The end. I think about that for a minute. Nope. It’s hard to imagine Hunter on a vacation. He’s more likely to go someplace like Hawaii and try to singlehandedly extinguish a volcano.

“Tell me more.” I bat my eyelashes at him in an exaggerated fashion. “You rock the storytelling thing.”

Another shrug, even less patient than the first. “What more do you want, Lola?”

“How come he’s here? With you?” Because I’m pretty certain Hunter doesn’t have any little old ladies stashed in his house. That seems totally out of character for him.

Hunter looks uncomfortable, so I’m definitely on the right track here. “Got another call a couple of months later to that house. Old lady had passed away in her sleep. T-Rex and I negotiated and he decided he’d rather come live at the station with me than take his chances at the pound.”

“You rescued him twice.” Or is that three times, since T-Rex obviously moved with Hunter when Hunter switched jobs?

“I fixed a problem,” he corrects. “It’s your turn.”

“Okay.” Just in case he asks something really awful, I shove an enormous forkful of steak into my mouth to buy time.

“Why the Break Up Club?”

There are so many ways to answer that question. I chew thoughtfully. The problem with telling the truth on this one is that it doesn’t paint me as the heroine—more as the comic relief. And while I’m a big fan of laughter, laughing at my endless stream of bad relationships gets old after a while.

“I break up more than I make up,” I tell him finally. “And I’d just been broken up with in a manner that was particularly public—and painful.”

His brows furrow. “Literally?”

“The public part? Absolutely.” I wave the fork-free hand. “My audience consisted of Dan’s entire law office. The painful thing was more metaphorical. I thought we made a great couple. I went to his work thinking I’d do something romantic. I knew he had the weekend off for once, so I’d booked us this super cute boutique hotel up in Sonoma.”

“He said no?” Leave it to Hunter to skip straight to the end of the story.

“Eventually.” I take a gulp of my beer. Some stories are best fueled with alcohol. “I waltzed into his office wearing this awesome trench coat and a pair of red, four-inch heels. He thought I should have paid more attention to the office dress code.”

“Were you naked?”

“Are we friends?” I counter. “Because if I’m telling you this for your spank-bank material, you should stop me now.”

He looks at me. If I could just get over those Hunter looks, everything would be okay. But the thing about Hunter is that when he looks, he really sees me. Not whatever public part I’m playing. It’s hard to remember that I’m supposed to keep my hands off him, that emotionally distant, iceberg grouches are absolutely not on my to do list ever again.

“We’re friends,” he tells me. “But I draw the line at shoe shopping.”

“I’m more of an online shopping gal anyway,” I admit. He might as well know all of my guilty secrets. It saves time. “I buy dresses when I’m upset. And I was only mostly naked beneath the trench coat. I had on panties and one of those corset bras.”

Hunter makes a cupping motion in front of his chest as if he’s lifting an invisible pair of girls. I nod, which is a big mistake. His eyes go straight to my chest, as if he’s doing a little mental role-playing of his own. Jeez. Now I’m imagining him doing that to me, his fingers stroking and teasing, and… Nope. I can’t go there. Hunter’s funny in a grumpy way, but he’s still way too much like my ex. He’ll be fun and sexy times right up until the moment when actual conversation and caring is required, and then everything will go to hell again. Been there, done that, bought the T-shirt, and brought it back.

“It could have been worse,” I say.

Hunter raises a brow. Of course he can do that. It’s like God passes out the eye-brow-raising skills only to hot guys. “It could have?”

“You’ve never had a dating disaster?” I grouch.

He tips his head in my direction. “I got married?”

“Touché,” I grumble. “But with Dan, at least the coat stayed closed. There were no public wardrobe malfunctions and I did not flash his entire office. I had considered having myself delivered in a gigantic picnic basket. In sexy lingerie.”

“An eat me theme.” Hunter gives me a slow, approving nod. I have a bad feeling he’s imagining exactly what that would look like. Hopefully, he remembers to leave my clothes on. I’d also like bigger tits and to weigh less, if I have options.

“Dan was up for partner. He felt I made him look less professional. Which was true. I was also an actress, and way too dramatic. We broke up in the elevator on the way down to the street.” I shrug as if it’s no big deal. “It was probably for the best anyway because it was while I was in the elevator that I realized how odd it was that he had never introduced me. Being someone’s dirty little secret is way less fun than it sounds.”

“He broke things off with you in the elevator.”

“Yeah.”

“When you were mostly naked.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “Do you have a point here? Because it was humiliating the first time, and it doesn’t get better with repetition.”

Hunter mutters something uncomplimentary about Dan, and I perk up.

“That’s what I thought, too,” I tell him. Although at the time, I’d kept my feelings to myself for once. I’d slunk through the fancy lobby of Dan’s office building in some strange version of the walk of shame without putting up a fight. I’d added him to my collection of exes—and let him add me to his—and kept on walking right out of his life. I have shit taste in men because he’d felt absolutely nothing for me other than with his dick. His heart hadn’t been in the equation at all.

Hunter sets down his fork and stands up. “You need me to have a few words with him?”

“Are you offering to threaten him for me?” I probably shouldn’t sound delighted.

“He hurt you.”

“So yes?”

“Would it make you feel better?”

“Maybe.”

He studies me for a moment. “Give me his name and his address, and I’m on it.”

“You’d drive a hundred miles just for me?”

“We’re friends, right?” He starts grabbing the empty plates.

I nod. “Sure, Hunter.”

“So I’ve got your back.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “He hurt you, and you should feel better. You tell me when and where, and I’ll go.”

“This isn’t kindergarten. You don’t need to beat him up because he hurt my feelings.”

He nods. “Wasn’t offering to commit any felonies, but he needs to hear some shit.”

“It’s over,” I say.

Dark eyes narrow on me. “You sure?”

I shrug. I mean, honestly, yes. I’m sure that there’s nothing Dan could do that would make me want to go back to him. I put myself out there. He shot me down. Publicly. And while I can hope that his office mates promptly forgot about my semi-naked arrival, I doubt it. It’s just that his rejection did a number on my self-esteem.

“The good news is that I’ve knocked the naked-beneath-a-trench-coat thing off my sexual bucket list.”

Hunter mutters something both threatening and anatomically impossible. “He made you feel—”

I give him credit for trying. Hunter’s not big on talking, so talking about feelings has to be his least favorite thing ever. Still, he’s figured out that Dan upset me, and he’s trying. So I help him out.

“Unsexy.”

“What?”

“I went to his work in a trench coat and heels, proposing a romantic weekend getaway full of sex, and he turned me down.”

Hunter’s gaze moves over me, down my front and lower.

“That wasn’t an invitation to stare,” I say.

He yanks his gaze back up to my eyes.

“Firefighting’s not all calendar work. Most days, it’s as unsexy as it can get. I come home, and I smell like smoke and sweat and whatever crap’s been burning the longest and hardest. Leftover forest fire stinks.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

He grunts something unintelligible, but his next words come through loud and clear. “Everyone feels unsexy at times. I’m trying to make you feel better.”

“You’re a nice guy.” I reach up and pat his cheek.

“You can’t tell anyone that,” he grumps.

“Got it,” I say, but I’m totally telling.

Hunter

I’m not a nice guy. If I were, my eyes wouldn’t be bouncing between Lola’s tits and her face. It’s not her tits that are talking—or that I need to pay attention to. So she’s laboring under a hell of a misconception about my niceness.

Nothing wrong with nice guys. I’ve saved their cars, their houses, their wives and kids from fire over the years, and they’ve always slapped me on the back, said thank you, bought the occasional round of beer for the boys at the station. They appreciate the fuck out of what I do for them, and that’s nice. They work a nine-to-five, come home at night, and tuck their kids in before getting it on with their wives. As Free pointed out, I don’t do that. I’m all about the job, and you’d think fire was a sentient, fun-hating bitch because I get way too many calls in the middle of the night or on Saturday. And if the job’s a bad one, I’m coming home to crash. Loving you and delivering a million Grade A orgasms may be what I want to do, but I’m not actually Superman. Sometimes, I get in bed and I crash. Which is a fucking state secret, okay?

I’m not a whiner. I love my job, and what I do is important. Nobody wants the world to go up in flames. You know that Robert Frost poem? The one where he goes on about how some people think the world’s gonna end in ice, while others are voting for fire? If fire wins the day, I’ll be there, hose and Pulaski in hand, doing my best to make sure you’re okay. If I have anything to say about it, you will be.

I fucking promise you will be.

Lola, however, is living dangerously right now. I take a moment to wonder what it is about her that pushes my buttons so hard. So what if she thinks I’m nice? She’ll figure out the truth soon enough, and it’s not as if we’re dating. Or even thinking about dating. Or playing house and having sex. Lola’s a relationship person. I’ll bet she’s never had a one-night stand, or at least not on purpose. She’s not the kind of person who picks a guy out and promptly stamps an expiration date on him and his penis. She’ll be in it for the long haul. For forever. Even if she doesn’t realize it.

“What’s the problem with my thinking you’re a nice guy?” She pushes.

“False advertising,” I tell her.

Her eyes still look all hurt and bruised when she talks about Dan the Dick. I don’t think she knows that, though. I look her over. Her lower lip is tense, as if she’s holding stuff in. I don’t want to be here when that stuff comes out. I can’t be the one holding her when she realizes she’s not over the douche yet because he hurt her and made her feel small. Lola’s got a huge heart, and she’s got nothing to be ashamed of.

“I think you’re nice,” she says firmly. “Nice until proven otherwise.”

“You want proof?”

She gestures with a hand. “Are you seriously trying to convince me that you’re not nice? Why?”

She asks excellent questions. Here’s the moment where a small, unwelcome revelation knocks on a door in my head, and not just any door. It’s the door I slammed shut after everything went to hell with Free, the one that keeps the needy part of me safely closed away. The part that envies all those nice guys their homes and their wives and their kids. Not that I need to procreate right now, but I kinda like the idea. Some day. In the way distant future. And it’s really easy to imagine Lola as my Mrs. Hunter.

I’m so not opening that door. When I teach basic fire safety to kids in grade school (which is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done because those kids are a tough audience), I tell them to always test the door knob before you open the door. If the knob’s hot, you’ve got fire on the other side—and if you open the door, flames are gonna come shooting through, and they’re gonna devour all the air on your side of the door. There won’t be anything left for you to breathe. Lola’s the fire in this scenario, and I’m the scared guy on the other side of the door. If I let her, she’s definitely going to leave me breathless—and burned. I can’t be what she wants me to be.

But I can be who I am.

A first-class dick.

I scoop her up and toss her over my shoulder in a classic fireman’s hold.

“Hey,” she squeaks. “What’s with the caveman move?”

“Show and tell,” I grunt. My palm’s perilously close to her ass, especially when she starts to wiggle and then buck. I adjust my grip because otherwise she’s headed for the floor. And then I’d be the dick who hurt her, and I’m not going there. Ever.

She squeals something that’s largely inaudible because she’s upside down, her face jammed into my back. I don’t have to hear what she says, though. I can guess.

“Not so nice now, am I?”

Her hands slap my ass hard. I’m lucky she hasn’t thought about biting yet. She’ll get to it, though. Lola’s a creative thinker.

I reach the front door, yank it open, and set her down on her feet on my porch. Hair tumbled over her face, tits heaving, mouth parted. Add in some really hot curves, and my dick suggests we pick her right back up and take her inside. To bed. Lola may drive me crazy, but she also tempts me—and I’m old enough and wise enough to know when it’s time to fall back and dig a really big line in the sand.

“I’ll see you tonight,” I tell her.

Her mouth parts further. In another five seconds, she’ll get her shit together, and she’ll start talking. Ranting. Amusing the hell out of me, and making me think about kissing her until she forgets all about Dan the Dickless Wonder. Being the guy who makes her smile would be something…but I can’t be that guy.

I shut the door in her face. See? Not nice at all. I turn the lock for good measure, as Lola’s already proved she’s not big on knocking, permission, or boundaries. In a way, I admire that about her. Right now, however, she’s a pain in my ass. And in other parts.

She needs to go.

Chapter Seven

Lola

“Oscar. The. Grouch.” I slap my palm against Hunter’s front door in time to my words.

Locking me out was entirely uncalled for.

I just sit there on the porch, wondering where I went wrong. I sit there for a long time, thinking about all the uncommunicative douches in my life who have locked me out. In the figurative sense, but still. Being locked out is something I’ve grown accustomed to, but it still hurts.

The tear that drips down my cheek sucks even more. I wipe it away, and decide it’s time to go home.

But when I get up to go, the door inches open behind me. Hunter prowls out, arms crossed over his chest, his dark glare scouring my face.

“You’re crying,” he says roughly.

“Am not,” I say, trying not to blink because then I won’t be holding anything back. “One stupid tear doesn’t count as crying.”

He strolls closer, one big arm shooting out to block my exit from his porch. And then he leans in, studying me.

“Your nose is pink and your eyes are glassy.” He states this with the same calm, cool competence with which he seems to do everything. Fire probably puts itself out when he approaches the flames like this.

But that’s okay. When it comes to fighting, I’ve got all the best lines memorized. Whatever he says, I know worse. Except he doesn’t follow up his accusation with more words. He looks at me, his eyes exploring my face. His short dark hair is ruffled as if he’s run his hands over it more than once, but the expression on his face is cautious and wary, as if he’s not certain what I’ll do next. But he’s not yelling. That’s something.

“Blink, Lola,” he says softly. “Prove that everything’s okay.”

“So I got hurt.” I shrug, carefully casual. “That just makes me human.”

“Lola—” He leans into me further, bracing one arm over my head on the post. His hand is close enough to touch my hair, and for just a moment, I imagine turning my face toward those fingers, rubbing my cheek against his skin. At the moment, he’s close enough that I can feel the heat from his big body, and I want to sink into him. Lose myself in him for just a few wicked seconds.

He smells like laundry detergent because God forbid the man invest in cologne. It would probably mess up his orderly bathroom drawer, or he’d argue that he had no room for it. That’s okay. The familiar scent suits him. I think it’s coming from the flannel shirt he wears loose over his T-shirt. I know this because somehow my nose is pressed against the plaid squares, breathing in the scent of pine trees and outdoors and wood smoke. Hunter smells good. Different and totally male, and yet I could stand here and sniff him all day. I don’t understand it.

Something brushes my hair. His fingers? His mouth? “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I say.

“Or everything,” he counters, and this time, I’m sure I feel his fingers brush my hair. He’s not wrong about the everything part, either.

I let my head fall back against the post, bumping against the wood with my usual lack of grace. “Are we playing true confessions?”

His other hand comes up to cup the back of my head. He shakes his head. “I’ve got nothing to tell. You, on the other hand, should start talking.”

“I’m fine,” I lie.

“Which is why you’re crying on my porch.”

He may be a grouch, but he’s not blind. I swipe away a tear. It’s stupid to cry. I’ve had hours and hours, days and months, to cry and this is the moment I pick? I don’t even have any Kleenex, and there’s no way I’m wiping my nose on my sleeve in front of this man.

“I will be fine,” I correct. “I’m just letting it all out.”

His eyes stay fixed on mine. “We scheduled step three for later tonight.”

His memory is both impressive and irritating.

“I’m getting a head start.” Screw it. My nose is about to drip now. I swipe at it with my palm. I’m only elegant when I have an entire hair and makeup team prepping me backstage.

Hunter fishes in his pocket and produces a bandana. “I’ve got this or my sleeve.” The corner of his mouth quirks up, almost as if he’s daring me to use his sleeve. The strangest things make him smile. “Or I could liberate a roll of toilet paper from the bathroom.”

I take the bandana. When I try to pull away to blow my nose because some things are better done with space, he leans in more. Guess he doesn’t want me going anywhere. My thighs bump against his as I wriggle around, trying to find a spot that works for me.

“Christ.” He sighs and then repossesses the bandana. “Hold still.”

I dodge as he comes at me with the material. “Contradictory, much?”

And then he actually wipes my nose for me.

“Explain what’s wrong,” he says. “Since the Break Up Club is a support group, giving you support is in my job description now.”

I sigh. “The steak was really nice.”

“And for that you’re crying?”

I inhale. Exhale. “It felt almost like a date, okay? I mean, I know it wasn’t. We’re not—” I wave the hand holding the snot-encrusted bandana.

“No, we’re not.” He looks me over, his expression grim. “Because that would be a really bad idea, Lola.”

“But it was still nicer than any of the dates I had with Dan, even though we weren’t—aren’t—dating.”

“It was just a steak,” Hunter says gruffly.

Dan sucked. Sucks. Present tense. Because periodically, no matter how hard I try to avoid him, he pops up in my life and reminds me that I still haven’t got it right.

Hunter’s fingers tangle in my hair. I’m thinking that it could be an accident when he tugs. He’s not particularly gentle, either. In fact, I’m not entirely certain he knows how to do gentle. Or easy. Or fun.

His fingers tug a little harder where they’re tangled up in my hair.

“Are you trying to scalp me?”

“You’re thinking about him.” His expression stays grim, but there’s something in his eyes when he looks at me. An expression that is ever-so-slightly softer and warmer.

“I don’t want to,” I admit. “But that’s why we have the Club. It’s harder than you’d think to kick your ex out of your head. And some nights, it’s easier to give up all hope than it is to imagine putting yourself out there again.”

He runs a finger down my cheek. “You’re not alone there,” is all he says. He’s not an over-sharer, my firefighter.

And that’s all it takes to make me tear up again, damn it. I’m not someone who cries. Not at life. At sad movies, sad books, and abandoned puppy commercials, yes, yes, and yes. But not over my life, not ever.

“Fuck,” Hunter mutters somewhere above my head, and then a miracle happens.

Hunter wraps his arms around me and pulls me close. I jump, banging my head on his chin, and he groans. When I sneak a peek at his face, he’s all gruff and solemn, and a wicked flash of heat streaks through my body. Hunter is holding me. I briefly try to figure out why, and then I just go with it.

I throw my arms around him and bury my face in his T-shirt, my fingers digging into the cotton as if I could tunnel straight inside him. He’s so warm. Big. And hard absolutely everywhere. He stands there, putting himself between me and all the shit in my head, as if maybe he could be enough to scare off whatever’s got me upset. One arm wraps tight around me, the other slides up and down my back in a soft, precise rhythm. He doesn’t say anything.

He just hugs me.

And it turns out that Hunter gives great hugs. He envelopes me, lending me his heat and his strength, and for just a moment, everything is okay. I could pretend he cares, pretend we’re dancing or close or a million other scenes, but instead I just breathe. Him. His arm snugs around my lower back, pulling me flush against him. My own arms part around him naturally, doing some tugging of my own.

“Wow,” I tell him. “This seems out of character for you.”

Stupid mouth. It should shut up before he steps away. He tenses in my hold.

But all he says is, “Shhhh,” and this feels too good, too much like what I need, for me to screw it up with protests. I can do quiet. Probably.

To distract my mouth, I ease my hands just a little lower until my fingertips are playing with the waistband of his jeans and that strip of warm, silky skin.

His mouth is so close to mine. For a brief, crazy second, I wonder if he’s thinking about it, too. About what it would feel like if we actually kissed, and not just as friends. And then his jaw tightens, the muscles bunching.

“Lola.” The way he says my name? Yeah. He’s so not thinking about kissing me right now. His hand falls away from my back.

“I’m all better,” I say cheerfully, ducking under his arm. Lie.

He lets me go.

He flicks my nose. It’s a friendly gesture. And then he strides away toward the driveway, where his truck boxes mine in, making escape impossible.

“I’ll move,” he says, and that’s it. Moment over.

Chapter Eight

Lola

A few days after my not-so-free steak dinner, I’m working on a scene with Olivia. Olivia is spectacularly ungifted in the theatrical department. She may be an awesome undercover agent, but she will never make it as a stage performer. She reads her lines accurately but woodenly, and she hands down makes the worst Bottom I have ever played opposite.

Nick Bottom is Shakespeare’s comic relief, a small-time weaver who crosses a fairy queen and gets turned into a big-time ass. I’ve always felt more than a little bad for poor Bottom. Most of us end up looking or acting like an ass at some point in our lives, but he’s gone all the way. He’s got the donkey head to go with the charming personality, and now he’s got the fairy queen herself after him.

Olivia crooks her hands behind her head, making mock ears out of her fingers. Her fingers look nothing like the real deal we spotted when we Googled ass a few minutes ago. “The throstle with his note so true, the wren with little quill.”

I prepare to leap in startled, sleepy queendom from my bed. This is where the acting has to get good because the bed is actually all of the covers from my cabin heaped up on the front porch, our makeshift stage. My heap of blankets is definitely no ethereal woodland bower, and I definitely need to return it to my cabin because otherwise I’m sleeping on bare mattress tonight.

Olivia pauses. “I have no idea what a throstle is. A bird? Platypus? High-scoring Scrabble word?”

While she grabs her phone to consult the oracle of Google yet again, I rise from my slumber and cast my gaze downstage to her.

“What angel wakes me from my flowery bed?”

An unmistakable snort comes from the sidelines. Everyone’s a critic. Or a heathen who doesn’t appreciate Shakespeare. Of course, Hunter manages to make his heathen self look hot as sin. He leans against the wall, muscled arms crossed over an equally muscled chest. He’s wearing yet another pair of blue jeans that have worn out in the most interesting places, and I’m sure the gaze hiding beneath his mirrored sunglasses is as reserved as ever. I haven’t seen him since he fed me, since he apparently fell asleep and therefore failed to show up for our club meeting that night.

“Am I interrupting?” he asks dryly.

The short answer is yes. I’m staging A Midsummer’s Night Dream with my local theater group this fall, and I need to be line-perfect when I return, if only to set the right example.

Olivia stands up, extending the book to Hunter. “Help. You be the ass.”

Hunter gives one of those rusty barks of laughter. “Not in my current job description. My rescuing days are over.”

He turns back to his truck and starts unloading various tools from the back of his truck. I count two chainsaws, a pick ax, and what looks like some kind of lethal hoe before I give up and cut to the chase.

“Are you planning on cutting up a dead body? Because I’ve totally got your back if you need help with that, and my shower is your shower. For after.” I shrug when he shoves his sunglasses up on top of his head and just looks at me. “I hear dismemberment gets messy.”

He sighs, and not patiently, either. “You have an interesting mind, Lola.”

“Why are you really here?” Olivia looks bemused. “Not that you’re not welcome, but do we have a meeting?”

He holds up his phone. “Lola texted me.”

About a million times is the subtext.

I shrug. “We worked on step one last week.”

He laughs softly. “My bathroom is entirely ex-free. So now…” He prowls closer. “As your relationship sobriety buddy, I felt I should make sure that you’d cleaned up your act in a similar fashion.”

“Excuse me?” I ask. “You think I’d ask you to do something I hadn’t done?”

“You do like to give orders,” Olivia says helpfully before she abandons me and slinks back into her cabin, stealthy as a ninja.

“Underwear inspection,” he growls. “Gotta check your drawer.”

Say what?

I should be protesting this high-handed drawer check he’s proposing, but his gruff voice does things to my insides. Warm, tingly things that absolutely should not be happening here. Now. With him. We’re both getting over bad relationships, and plunging into a new one—together—would be a mistake.

I go for the safe question. “What’s with all the tools?”

“I’m cutting your grass,” Hunter says. And when I don’t say anything, he reaches down and taps me on my nose. “Gotcha.”

I think Hunter just made his first joke.

I beam at him, and check out the grass around the cabins. He has a point. It does seem kinda long. “Why you?”

“Because it needs doing. One spark from those campfires you love so much would send this whole place up.”

Hunter

“That would suck,” Lola says solemnly. She’s so seldom serious. Since I met her, she’s been all smiles and laughter. And if I could keep it that way, I might. Life has plenty of shit, so I like her happy.

I’ve seen more than my fair share of fires. Even forest fires have their casualties, and I’m not talking about lost campers or the odd cabin holdout who refuses to evacuate. There are crew injuries, and then some wildlife will be too old, too slow, or too ill to escape the flames. Plus there are the fires that devour campsites, lodges, hunting cabins, homes. Places people care about because they hold memories or possibilities. I’d rather save the people, but those memories count, too.

Lola moves to the edge of the porch, and I cup her elbow as she jumps. Lola has no fear. She just fucking leaps whenever and where she feels like it, and the way she wears her emotions on her face is both gorgeous and downright terrifying. She laughs when she bobbles the landing, smacking into my chest and grinning up at me.

“Hey, hotshot.”

There is no good reason for me to be here. Trust me. I ran through the list on the drive over here—Lola is a hot mess, and not of the fire variety.

I tell myself that I’m just checking up on her. That we both know she’ll get into trouble if left on her own and that it’s practically a fucking public service if I stop by. I keep telling myself that as I get in my truck. I stop at the diner to pick up some food because Lola and her girl pack can’t cook for shit, and then drive to the cabins where they’re staying. The wood and fields surrounding the cabins are a fire hazard, as I’ve pointed out—twice—to the owner. Since he has no interest in cutting back the vegetation, that leaves me to take care of it.

My gaze slides over Lola, stopping in places it shouldn’t stop. I like looking at her, and that’s the truth.

“Are you Titania tonight?”

It’s a stupid thing to say, but it fills the silence. I tuck a runaway curl behind her ear. She’s got some kind of ginormous, silky floral ribbon wrapped around her head, her curls springing away in every direction. She looks like she just spent quality time in a wind tunnel—or a bed. Its bright red is even more pronounced today, so she must have recolored while I’ve been away. Since I doubt the carpet matches the drapes, of course I wonder what her natural color is.

“You bet.” Her grin widens. “Want to be my Bottom?”

I want to ease my thumb over that grin, test the softness of her lips before I sink inside. It’s totally crazy. We’re completely wrong for each other. She needs a guy who can stick by her side and be there for her. I need someone less drama-prone and stable. I’ve had fireworks in a relationship, and I won’t go there again. So it doesn’t matter if I want more. If I want to sink into a kiss with Lola and never come up. Even if she wanted that too, it would be a bad idea.

“Pass.” I force myself to let go. She’s got more silky, see-through stuff wrapped around her. Apparently fairy queens run around half-dressed. Not that I’m complaining. Still, it looks like Titania might be out of business for the afternoon because Lola yanks the toga-thing off and adds it to the enormous heap of crap on her front porch. Anyone who lived with her would never know where anything is. Nope, not a good fit for me at all.

I finish organizing my tools and get to work. The cabins back up to a grassy meadow where the girls have their bonfires. The grass is dry and overgrown, so cutting it back is at the top of my list.

I tell myself this is just part of my job. That I’d do this for anyone. That I’m not hoping for anything more. At all.

Lola

It’s June in California, which means it’s already hotter than Hades. The temperatures in Big Bear Lake routinely hit triple digits, and I’m increasingly grateful that this town actually does come with a lake because our cabins have no air-conditioning. Even the nights are too warm, my stupid cabin filling up with heat until I strip everything off and lie there on the bed, naked and dreaming of places like Siberia and ice floes in Antarctica. Watching Hunter work does nothing to cool me down.

He removes his shirt about thirty minutes in, and not surprisingly, shirtless Hunter is an awesome show. The man’s muscles have muscles, and his abdomen forms the most intriguing vee. I sit down on the edge of the porch, swinging my legs because there’s no point in not enjoying my view. It’s primo.

“No ink?” I have to shout to be heard over the weed whacker that Hunter’s wielding with smooth efficiency.

He kills the motor, scrubs a hand over his forehead, and shakes his head. “What you see is what you get.”

I know, and that’s one of the things I like about Hunter. He doesn’t pretend to be anyone he’s not.

Shit.

I am not supposed to like this man. I’m supposed to be focused on finding myself. But it’s hard to take our mutual sex embargo seriously when he’s shirtless and wearing a pair of jeans that cup his assets. And his boots…who knew I had a thing for work boots? He stomps around my yard, wielding his weed whacker like an avenging hero while he mutters dire predictions about my landlord. It’s cute. It’s… Dragging him into my bedroom suddenly seems like the best of ideas.

Hunter goes back to work when I don’t say anything (frankly because my tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth, but I’m not telling him that). I do manage to go inside and fetch two bottles of water from the mini-fridge in my cabin because that’s the hospitable thing to do.

I toss him the bottle and he catches it easily. He tackles the water like he does everything else, with brisk efficiency. After fighting fires, he’s smoky and ash-streaked, and watching him drink makes my body heat up fast. Soon he polishes the bottle off, crumpling it up and lobbing it back at me. I miss the catch and have to fumble for it. Then he’s sauntering toward me, and I catch myself staring at his powerful thighs and not his face. Oops. Bad Lola.

Hunter is methodical. The overgrown grass has zero chance against him. He cuts it down, rakes everything into a tidy bundle, and then transfers it to the back of his truck. Is it normal for a firefighter to be this careful? Whatever. Hunter’s so fucking cute.

Worse, when he’s done, he puts his tools away in one of those silver chests in the truck bed and then borrows the hose on the side of the building to wash his hands and his face. The water slicks his hair back and runs down his chest like a big, neon arrow pointing to an even bigger and better package. I’ll bet the water’s cold, but he doesn’t so much as flinch. Just powers ahead and finishes the job.

And then he looks at me. “So,” he says.

Ooh. I’ve merited a voluntary word—and it sounds like it might lead to others.

“Good job.” I make a show of looking around. “You’re totally hired. If I decide to put in a winter garden this fall, I know who to call.”

“You’re only here for the summer,” he says patiently. “You don’t need a garden.”

Okay so I don’t need that reminder. It’s true that I’m a summer girl here in Big Bear Lake. The lease on my cabin is up in August, and I’ll be headed back to the Bay Area then to teach my classes, write my plays, yadda yadda. But I don’t want to think about that right now. I’m having too much fun right here.

“You really came over here just to clean up my yard?”

He reaches for his shirt. I should have hidden it while I had the chance. “Fire safety’s important. You nearly set the place on fire once, so I wanted to even out the odds a little. Plus, we’re club buddies, right?”

I thread my fingers together to stop myself from doing a bobble-head impression. Yes. Yes, we are. But we both know that’s more of a joke. “Sure,” I tell him.

“Relationship sobriety buddies,” he says and then he completely undoes me. He winks. As if we’re sharing some super awesome, possibly dirty secret, and whatever it is, it’s just between the two of us.

“Do I look like I’m in danger of heading back to my ex?”

Hunter grunts, which I think is his version of an emphatic fuck no. The man really should learn to use his words. “We should make sure.”

“He’s not here, Hunter.”

I mean, my ex may be many things, including a first-class dick and an asshole, but he’s not small. You notice him when he walks into a room. He’s tall, gym-built, and partial to really sharp suits. He’s also not a camping or an outdoors kind of man. His native environment is the boardroom and Brooks Brothers.

“You went through my drawers, but I never got a look at yours. What if you’re holding out on me or setting a bad example?”

And since Hunter’s a man of action, he promptly climbs the steps to my porch and makes for my front door. I have a second to choose between throwing myself in his way or letting him waltz on in and make himself at home. Since my cabin is a mess (one of the drawbacks to cabin-living is that, unlike resort-living or even motel-living, there is zero daily housekeeping), I try to block him. This entails my diving for the door and using my body as a human football. Unfazed, he catches me by the waist and gently swings me to the side.

“That bad?” he asks. I can hear the amusement in his voice.

I’m not a small girl. I have curves, and with curves comes a certain amount of poundage. Having larger tits is a definite upside, but the downside is that I’m no sprite-like sylph. I can’t remember the last time a guy hefted me into the air. Hunter’s easy handling of my body is a turn-on.

He pauses, though, with a hand on the doorknob. “I’m in?”

“You’ve been warned.”

If I were smart, I’d head for my truck right now. I am no Suzy Homemaker. The cabin is studio-sized, which doesn’t help. Other than the teeny bedroom, I have a bathroom and the front porch—so there’s a serious lack of working space. Plus, if an intruder broke in, hiding in the closet would be a physical impossibility for anyone other than a toddler or possibly a really bendy runway model. Ergo, my stuff is everywhere. This includes today’s attempts at DIY laundry. My bras are hanging from the shower curtain rod in the bathroom—and also from every available doorknob.

He stops in the approximate center of the room (which is all of four feet from the door) and rocks back on his heels. “Explosion?”

I shrug, then pat him on the shoulder. “I told you that you didn’t need to go through my underwear drawer. I don’t even use the thing.”

Hunter honest-to-God laughs at that. When he laughs, his eyes get these delicious little crinkles at the corners and his whole face relaxes. He’s even cuter laughing and that’s just not fair. That’s the only reason why I trip and accidentally plant my lips on his. I pinky-promise, cross-my-fingers-swear-to-die that’s the only reason.

Hunter

Lola lands on my mouth. In fact, pretty much all of her sweet, curvy body comes flying at me with enough force to knock me off my feet. Conveniently, we’re standing next to a bed. I mean, it would be hard to avoid the bed, given that her cabin’s the approximate size of a small closet. The land’s soft and I roll, catching her on top of me. I’ve got no problem with a woman making the first move—hell, I’ve got fantasies about it—but this is entirely unexpected. I grip her hips with my hands before she can drive a knee into my balls.

Her head follows mine as I tip backward. There’s not one inch of fucking space between us because she grabs my face and hangs on.

Her face feels so delicate. Fuck, yeah. She’s soft. She tastes like fruit. Peaches, I decide after I lick my way over those pretty lips of hers. Or some kind of sinfully delicious Garden of Eden fantasy. Slick, sweet. I don’t have to find the perfect word to know that I’d happily play Adam to her Eve.

I don’t know why she’s kissing me. The chemistry between is crazy, but we both agreed that doing anything about it was off-limits. Crazy. Not a good idea. And we were right. This is bad and I love it. Mostly I want to kiss her to get her out of my system, to have my taste and find out that she’s not my favorite flavor. That she’s just another mouth, another pair of lips, another girl.

Except of course she’s not. Her hands are soft where they cup my face, her fingertips stroking lightly back and forth like they just have to get in on the touching action, too. Her lips part, and I kiss her deeper and harder, and it doesn’t matter that this isn’t part of my plan. Nothing about Lola or this summer is part of a plan. For the first time in my life, I’m just winging things.

I drag her closer, and she shoves me down as if she thinks my movement was an attempt to escape. As if. Lola kisses like she lives: large, bold, fully in the moment. She grips my hips with her knees, riding me. I have no idea where we’re going with this or what will happen next. I just wanted to spend a few more minutes with her before I left and went back to my place, and so I teased and pressed and somehow we’ve ended up like this. Which is so fucking perfect that I groan and kiss her some more.

As if I’m totally certain that is exactly what we should be doing. And then she kisses me back, going all in, and I go up in flames. She moans, the husky sound hitting all my favorite notes, and I abandon her hips, palming her ass with my hands and deepening our kiss. I want to fucking eat her alive, pull her close, make her mine.

And she’s totally onboard. She goes soft against me, her body melting into mine, sealing us together inch by hot fucking inch. Her tits are pressed against my chest, her body riding mine, and I almost lose control.

Something buzzes against my palm. Not Lola’s ass, but her phone. Fuck. Killing her phone would send the wrong message, right? She whimpers something and pulls back. Rolls off me onto her bed and fishes beneath her ass for the goddamned phone. It sounds like the room’s full of deranged, kamikaze bumblebees, her ringtone buzzing and swirling and going off, off, off. Too bad it’s her phone getting off and not her.

Fuck me, I want to get her off.

Chapter Nine

Lola

I kissed Hunter.

I absolutely, totally, one hundred percent knocked him down and jumped him. If my phone hadn’t started going off, I suspect—okay, I know—I would have ripped the man’s clothes off and reenacted a few of my favorite sexual fantasies with him. Strangely, I’m not upset about falling off the relationship abstinence bandwagon. Maybe it has something to do with the way Hunter sprawls on my bed, watching me with brown eyes, hot like melted chocolate.

He wants me.

My phone goes off again, playing Rimsky-Korsakov’s Flight of the Bumblebee at a frenetic, uber loud pitch. I don’t know where the composer got his idea from, but he nailed it. The crazed sound of violins bounces off the walls of my teeny-tiny cabin like a horde of demented bumblebees and Hunter visibly winces.

I need to take this call.

Hunter drops his arm over his face. I can’t tell if he’s trying to give me some semblance of privacy for my call, if he’s overwhelmed by the beauty of R.C.’s auditory masterpiece, or if he’s just killing time until he can kiss me again. I’m secretly rooting for option C, just so you know.

Of course, we all know that procrastination doesn’t pay. The early bird gets the worm, and all that. Never mind that the early worm ends up breakfast, or that worms are quite possibly the grossest breakfast ever. I take too long and the call rolls over to voice mail.

I check it. Then I listen to the message again. Holy. Shitballs.

“Good news or bad?” Hunter asks. I guess he can’t tell from the way I’m hyperventilating.

I shriek something completely unintelligible, and then launch myself off the bed and do a celebratory hip-pumping, fist-thrusting dance around the bed. I should totally buy a lottery ticket. First the kiss, and now The Call? I am a lucky, lucky girl.

“That was The Great White Way,” I tell him, throwing myself onto the bed next to him. I should probably pick up the kissing thing again, but now I’m too worked up. I’d probably bite the man or drool on him because… Oh. My. God.

Broadway.

My play.

“Congratulations,” Hunter says dryly. “Would that be a he or a she?”

Right. He has no idea. “Broadway is calling,” I say grandly.

Okay. Technically, it’s an Off-Broadway theater that wants to stage my play, but I’m so close. I sent The Break Up Monologues to a producer, fully expecting it to end up buried in his slush pile. Still, you don’t get a yes if you don’t ask, and you can’t make lemonade out of your lemons if you never plant the tree. So I did it.

“Someone wants to stage my play, and they want me to act in it.”

I have to hand it to Hunter. He doesn’t roll his eyes. He doesn’t mock me or look skeptical or wonder out loud what the odds are of a playwright making enough money to keep the lights on. He just nods, lacing his hands over his so-sexy chest. I kind of wish he was still touching me.

“So you’re gonna be a superstar?”

Ask me what I wanted most of all and as late as this morning, The Call would have topped my fantasy list. People spend their entire lives just trying to get close to Broadway, and I’ve just taken a huge step forward. I have producer interest, the promise of a contract, and a chance to be my very own leading lady. I’ve knocked on so many doors that my knuckles should be raw. This. Is. Huge.

“Tell me about your play,” he says, and I swear he means it. How did I ever think this guy was a grouch?

“It’s a tell-all, confessional one-woman show about love, heartache, and breaking up.”

Hunter looks at me. “Maybe we shouldn’t have been worried about your panty drawer.”

He has a point. My dirty laundry is not crammed into a drawer, nor is it waiting for its next infusion of mountain-fresh Tide. I spilled all my dirt onto the pages of my play, and my ex Dan is the unwitting star. Yes, I made jokes about his dick, from the size of the appendage to the motion in the ocean he stirred up. Arguably, I should turn down this offer rather than air all that unpleasant stuff in public. If Dan didn’t like my trench coat, he’s going to hate my play. Bonus, right?

“When?” Hunter asks. He sits up and swings his legs over the side of my bed. I’m sure there must be a better way to handle this situation but it feels like we just banged and now he’s grabbing his pants and his shoes so he can slink out the door. I mean, we haven’t even had sex. It was just a kiss. A teeny-weeny mistake. On the Richter scale, it would barely register a 2. Possibly a 3.

“End of the summer,” I tell him. “But they want my commitment ASAP. My agent’s already got the contract and is reviewing it.”

They want me. I can still barely believe it. Sticking around in Big Bear Lake has never been part of my long-term plan, so ducking out earlier than I intended shouldn’t matter. It kinda does, though.

Hunter’s fingers wrap around my wrist, rubbing gently over my pulse. It’s weird because just a few minutes ago, we were kissing madly on my bed. A few minutes ago, Hunter’s mouth on mine was everything that I wanted. And a part of me still wants that more than anything, but the rest of me knows that life has just handed me the biggest chance ever. And I can’t afford distractions.

Hunter

Lola tugs her wrist free.

And then she puts some distance between us.

Message received. I can take a clue. And it’s not as if I really thought anything could work out between us. I don’t need to be a rocket scientist to figure out that her phone call has changed everything. She’ll be moving on, moving out, headed for New York City and all the bright lights there. I’m happy for her. She fucking deserves it, and I know she’ll rock that stage.

It wouldn’t have worked, this thing between us. It’s just chemistry, the kind of spark that starts a wildfire out of a bunch of dead grass and leaves a charred wasteland behind. It’s nothing special—just basic chemistry, a well-timed bolt of lightning, and enough time for shit to smolder. We’re better off as friends—and strangely, somehow, we’re friends even if we probably look like a Great Dane and a Chihuahua together.

I make a show of checking my phone. “I need to head out.”

She nods. “Duty calls?”

I nod.

She hesitates before asking, “Are you coming back for the next Break Up Club meeting?”

As if that wouldn’t be awkward. Fuck, maybe she goes around kissing club members on a regular basis. Maybe kisses happen all the time in the Lola-verse. For a minute, I let myself sink into that fantasy. Olivia and Sarah Jo are hot, and I’m not dead. I enjoy a dirty girl-on-girl fantasy as much as the next guy.

Still.

Not happening.

I could pretend to look at my phone again. Tell her I got a call, too. That they need me in the field ASAP and too bad, so sad, but the Break Up Club will have to get along without me. It would be easy to do, but I don’t like to lie. Color me old-fashioned, but I think the truth should be everyone’s first priority. So I just look at her and shake my head.

“I’ve got stuff, Lola-bear.”

“Yeah, me too.” She sighs. Do you hear the relief there? Yeah. She and I both know that we came way too close to making a big mistake, and she’s still standing on the edge of that particular cliff, looking over the edge and turning green. It’s obvious she wants me firmly in the friend zone. I get to my feet, and if I have to reach down and do some adjusting, she can turn her head. Biology happens.

She sits up and then apparently realizes that planting her cute ass on a mattress may send me the wrong signals because she shoots off the bed faster than a Ponderosa going up in flames.

“We shouldn’t have—” She waves her hand. I think she’s trying to point to my mouth. Or maybe it’s some kind of secret Morse code or interpretive dance explaining the mysteries of the feminine mind.

“It was a mistake,” I say.

She nods vigorously, her hair flying around her face. “Definitely.”

Okay. Glad we’ve got that settled.

“I mean, it’s just chemistry.” She seems to really like that word because she repeats it. “Chemistry. Not—”

“And here I was expecting a ring from you.” I say this with a straight face. I’m not sure why people are so certain I don’t possess a sense of humor. I have one—it’s just that most people aren’t that funny.

Lola snorts. “Can you imagine us as a couple? You’d want to kill me in a week.”

I flick the end of her nose. “You’re such an overachiever.”

“I know.” She grins up at me, and then she steers me toward the door.

Chapter Ten

Hunter

I spend the next two weeks out in the field. I know this looks like I’m avoiding the awkwardness of having kissed Lola but Mother Nature likes to keep us hotshots busy during the summer and I blame her. As the temperatures soar in Northern California, my overtime hours rise correspondingly. Sometimes, I think it might be nice to move to Antarctica or some other icy, snow-and-cold abundant location where they don’t have wildfires that devour thousands of acres of fire in a matter of days. I bet I’d love living with penguins and polar bears.

Still, I can’t avoid Lola entirely.

Fuck, it’s not even like I want to.

Because strangely enough, we are friends. Take tonight, for instance. The Break Up Club is having its weekly meeting, and we’re doing it in style. The girls have scared up a pair of ugly ass purple velvet sofas from somewhere. Okay. I know exactly where they found them because Lola blew up my phone demanding I come help her pick them up from the side of the road before some other lucky soul claimed them. They were free, which she interpreted to mean that they would be in high demand and she might need to fend off other couch contenders. Free for a reason, I pointed out as soon as I arrived. The backside of couch number one has a tear mended with duct tape and I’m pretty sure somebody’s pet urinated on the cushions of the second. Lola insisted that there was nothing that couldn’t be fixed with liberal applications of Febreze and elbow grease—so I dutifully lifted the couches into the back of her truck. And then I lifted them out and moved the fuckers around for the next thirty minutes while she decided where they fit best. Pretty sure she was just screwing with me by the end of our interior decorating date, but she was right about one thing. It definitely beats sitting on logs or lawn chairs.

Plus, we have brownies tonight. And S’mores. Apparently, breaking up requires packing on the pounds. Sugar is essential, or so my three club members claim, and only an idiot would argue with them. Since my last attempt at baking was an ill-fated attempt at using my cousin’s Easy Bake Oven almost thirty years ago, I’m responsible for picking up the ingredients from the store. I’ve learned that the grocery store stocks fifteen different kinds and sizes of marshmallows and Lola has strong opinions about what goes into her S’mores.

Club rules call for eating before meeting, another thing that totally works for me. You don’t want to be around Olivia if she’s hungry. She takes hangry to a whole new level. So tonight while we devour our snacks, the girls chitchat about the shit they’ve been up to during the day. There’s some good-natured teasing, but I stay out of it. Look, I’m not big on talking, and most of the feeling stuff is over-sharing in my opinion. Most of the problems in this world could be solved if people just flat-out said whatever the fuck popped into their heads first. And if that doesn’t work, a few fists, a few beers, or a few minutes to think shit over usually does the trick. I proposed this, but was shot down. The Break Up Club is no longer entertaining amendments to its bylaws.

Sarah Jo rolls over on the couch with a groan. “I have a food baby.”

Nope. I’m not touching that.

Lola sinks down onto the couch next to Sarah Jo, resting her head on Sarah Jo’s thigh. I do my best to focus on the words the two of them are batting back and forth like a badminton shuttlecock, rather than amusing myself with dirty fantasies about what else the two of them could get up to in the touching department. This isn’t as easy as it sounds because Lola is in her usual state of half-dress. Her oversized black sweatshirt slips off her left shoulder, teasing me with a flash of bright blue satin. Lola loves her colors, and I’d have to be dead before I stopped guessing whether or not she’s wearing matching panties.

Either way, it’s hot. And I need to stop. We’re never happening, so it doesn’t matter what agenda my dick would like to propose for tonight. It’s not in charge, no matter how hard it pounds at my zipper. Fucker can just stand down and let the rest of me get on with business.

Tonight’s fire is a baby fire, safely contained within the fire ring I built them. The flames are less than two feet tall, and I have both a bucket of water and a hose on standby. Plus, there’s a fire extinguisher and a blanket in my truck. It’s as safe as it’s gonna get, and you can’t roast marshmallows over a hotplate (which isn’t all that safe, either, as I’ve been called out to more than one house fire thanks to those devices).

When it comes to the Break Up Club, I’m in charge of all things incendiary, a policy I instituted after I was told Sarah Jo tried to start a fire with one of those artificial fire logs. I told them that this was because I am the only trained fire expert in the club, but while that’s certainly true, it’s also because I think they look better with their eyebrows intact.

My phone buzzes, and Lola plucks it from my back pocket before I can silence it. Her fingers brush my ass, but I think that’s an accident. Probably. With Lola, you never know.

“No phones at the campfire,” Lola tells me. Her lips purse in the naughtiest of smiles. “Bad firefighter.”

I hold out my hand. “Bad Lola. What if there’s a monster forest fire just on the other side of the ridge, and it eats you alive because you had my phone and I didn’t hear about it?”

“Uh-huh.” Lola frowns at my phone and energetically punches in a few numbers. A few numbers that just happen to be my passcode. “Why is Free texting you like a madwoman?”

“How do you know my passcode?” I counter. The abundance of Free texts is directly proportional to the number of times I’ve ignored her since moving up here. The more I ignore, the more she texts. I then delete the lot, and we start over again from zero.

Lola ignores my question, her finger sliding down the screen. “That’s a whole lot of texts.”

I attempt to repossess my own phone but Lola wiggles away. “Ignore them. That’s what I do.”

“Clearly, that strategy isn’t working out for you.” She taps her finger against her pursed lips. “Maybe you need to send a different kind of message.”

I narrow my eyes in distrust. “Like what?”

Sure enough, she doesn’t bother answering my question. Nope. She moves straight to the action portion of tonight’s events. She’s wearing one of those baby doll shirts that hugs her tits and then bells out around her middle like a little tent. The abundance of fabric makes her next move simple—she unties her sweatshirt from around her waist and shoves my phone up her shirt. I’m still gaping when she pulls it out, fiddles with something, and hits send.

“Tit shot,” she says with satisfaction. “We’ll tell Free that you’ve moved on.”

She tosses my phone to me.

“Jesus, Lola.” Yes. I promptly check my sent messages. The picture’s on the blurry side, but Lola’s spilling out of a lace bandeau. She’s got great tits, and now both Free and I know it. The message announcing that I’m snuggling up with these babies now is practically overkill.

On the other hand, or tit in this case, it does the job. There’s no response from Free. Lola, on the other hand, smiles, looking completely unrepentant. “You can delete that at any time,” she says.

As if. Even if she didn’t have great tits, I might need the blackmail material.

“Look.” Sarah Jo points enthusiastically toward the shadows stretching away from our fire. Lola doesn’t seem to mind the diversion.

We all obediently stare at the dark point she’s highlighting with vigorous waves and shakes. Little pinpricks of light zip back and forth, winking in and out of the shadows.

“Are we sparking?” Lola asks.

I run the word through my data banks, but nothing computes. “Come again?”

Olivia tugs on my arm and points as more little dots of bright light flicker and weave through the darkness.

“Firefly.” I swipe another brownie. I didn’t get back until an hour ago, and this is dinner. And since I’m betting the batter included both milk and eggs, it has something healthy going for it.

Lola throws a marshmallow at me. “We don’t have fireflies in California.”

I inhale my brownie before answering her. “Do too. They’re just not all that common. You just have to know where and when to look.”

Lola swallows and reaches for the last brownie. “They’re shy?”

I beat her to the plate because that final treat is so mine. “Our Californian fireflies are pretty dim.”

“Hey,” she protests, her hand chasing mine. Hah. I’m bigger, faster, and therefore in possession of what she wants.

“But you know something?” I whisper, leaning toward her. “They’re still bright enough to be getting some. Fireflies are horny little bastards. That’s why they blink—or the guys do anyway. The girl fireflies just kind of pick a great branch and hang out, while the guys do all the work. They keep flashing until they hook up.”

“So all that twinkling”—she looks over at our firefly display—“is the entomological equivalent of dick wagging?”

“If you were a girl firefly, you’d be totally into it,” I assure her as I break the brownie in half. Not only is it the last one, it’s the best one, the corner model with all the crispy edges. I drop half into her hand.

She pauses to lick her share of the brownie first—as if that would stop me from repossessing it. “I couldn’t imagine you as a boy firefly.”

“You think I couldn’t flash my junk?”

Her eyes go straight to my crotch. Of course, Sarah Jo and Olivia are also staring like they can see right through my jeans and are now comparing and contrasting what I’ve got.

I give them an exaggeratedly dirty look. “My eyes are up here, ladies. No need to objectify a guy.”

Lola seems to realize that they’ve been caught ogling my junk, and a burst of laughter escapes her. And because I like the sound, I try to keep it going. I stand up and do a little hip thrust, and she laughs louder, her eyes lighting up. A moment later she tips over and nearly falls off the couch.

I catch her before she can hit the ground and set her back on the cushions. “What’s tonight’s step, oh fearless leader?”

She gives me a look because gentle mockery isn’t her thing, but we both know it’s all in good fun.

“Ladies and gentleman, we’re doing step three tonight,” she booms in a ridiculous announcer voice.

“We already did step three,” Olivia points out.

“Since Mr. Firefighter missed Step Three, I think we need to repeat.”

What the fuck is step three? My head swivels toward that ridiculous poster of Lola’s. Most people would just settle for snapping a picture on their phone and referring to that. My ladies, however, are already a step ahead of me. Literally.

“Feel it. Don’t suppress! Let it all out!” While I squint, trying to read the chart in the growing darkness, they chant in perfect unison. Perhaps I missed a memo or a practice session?

“You were cheerleaders in high school,” I deadpan.

Olivia winks. Then she fucking stands up, wraps her sweatshirt around her waist like a skirt, and cheers. Sometimes all that men are from Mars, women are from some other planet stuff is so not true. These girls act just like my guys in fire camp. They’ve got each other’s backs, they give each other crap, and a dare always gets a rise out of them. Olivia’s a case in point, and I discreetly whip out my phone. Blackmail material comes in handy in camp, and I sense I need to be prepared here, too.

“Hey, hey, are you ready? Let’s get tough. Get down, get mean. Hey, hey, let’s get tough. And beat that ex-man!”

“I think I pulled something,” Olivia groans, collapsing onto the couch as Lola high fives her.

“New theme!” Lola crows. Fuck. I recognize that look on her face. “Everybody lets it out by making up a cheer about his or her ex.”

Sarah Jo doesn’t look precisely happy about the attention, but she stands up and sort of waves her arms and kicks her legs Rockette style. I don’t think she’s ever been the cheerleading type. She mostly bellows hey, hey and punches the air. She doesn’t bother with a costume, either.

Lola goes next and she brings down the house. Fuck, she’s funny. If she went on YouTube with her show, her ex would never live it down.

“He’s number one.” She gives an exaggerated hip grind. Guess I taught her something tonight after all. “Can’t be number two.”

She makes a face and shakes her head. “Keeps his heart in an igloo, because his shit’s too cool.”

If Lola’s dancing is an accurate representation of her ex’s, Dan definitely has a stick up his ass. Somehow she manages to convey the impression that she’s wearing a suit and staring around disapproving while simultaneously shaking her ass. She’s got impressive skills, and when she drops back into her seat, I clap.

Three heads swivel, looking at me.

Fuck no.

I played football. I banged the cheerleaders. Okay, it was just one girl and we’d been going steady for a year, but still. Her cheerleading outfit was kryptonite for my adolescent self. When she took the field, I alternated between watching her sweater and her skirt—so I don’t remember a single cheer.

I pretend my phone’s going off. “Got a million-acre fire I need to go put out singlehandedly.”

“Liar.” Lola blows me a kiss. “You’re just a chicken.”

She’s taking potshots at my manhood, but now I’m fixated on her mouth. Sitting this close to Lola, watching her in action, it’s almost impossible to not think about having sex with her. She’s loud, she’s flirty, and she doesn’t know the first thing about holding back. Whatever she does, she’s all in, and so naturally I wonder what she’d be like naked and projecting all that enthusiasm in my bed. Fuck, even time’s on her side because it kinda slo-mos as she talks, and I’m watching her pretty, pink lips launch that kiss at me and then relax into a perfect O. I know exactly what I could put there. I’d end up with a mango-flavored, sparkly dick because she loves the weirdest lip glosses, but it would totally be worth it.

“I’m not scared, I have dignity,” I tell her.

“I’ll show you dignity,” Lola counters. Then all three launch themselves at me, shrieking, and it’s not an orgy, although it turns out that I’m ticklish as fuck and having thirty fingers jammed into my armpits makes me squeal like a girl. But it’s good. I can’t remember ever laughing like this. Fuck, I love this club.

Chapter Eleven

Lola

Hunter isn’t a grouch. Okay, he can be grumpy, and his world isn’t over-populated with unicorns, rainbows, and puppies, but he’s…okay.

More than okay.

He’s super, super fine.

He’s also more than a little bit funny when he lets himself relax. He makes me feel off-balance, too, because when I’m around him I find myself enjoying his company so much that sometimes I even forget about our kiss. And that’s kind of like forgetting about a major historical event. If there were a top ten list for kisses, he and I would be up there because that was the Gettysburg of kisses.

Since most summer camps include a sports component—although admittedly my entire summer camp knowledge comes from binge watching the Parent Trap movies—we’re walking vigorously on the shore of Big Bear Lake. I’d like to say that we’re walking around the lake, but that would be overly ambitious. We’ve settled for covering a minute stretch of shore.

Big Bear Lake’s shoreline stretches a whopping sixty-five miles. Covering even a third of that would result in heart failure on my part. Olivia, however, is disgustingly fit. She sets a brisk pace and appears to be enjoying her view of the lake. If I had to describe it, I’d have to say water, water, trees, mountain, water. It’s certainly pretty, although I’d rather be admiring it from a nice boat or an Adirondack chair on a dock.

Olivia pokes me in the chest. “What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing.” I plaster an innocent who-me? expression on my face. I’ve gotten really good at concealing my dirty thoughts about Hunter.

“Because you look like you were thinking about something good. Cake? Or man candy? Because those are the only two things worthy of that expression.”

Maybe I’m not so good after all. “Scout’s honor.”

Olivia nods. “That answers my question. Man candy for the win.”

“Thinking about man candy doesn’t hurt. I’m not doing any actual consuming.” Mostly. Kissing is like wine tasting. You swish the stuff around, let it coat your tongue so you can appreciate the flavor, and then you spit it out.

Olivia makes a sound of disapproval.

“You just got out of a bad relationship. You can’t leap feet-first into a new one, no matter how hot Hunter is.”

“So true,” I sigh.

Olivia looks at me and doesn’t miss a beat. “Okay. So you totally can, but as your friend, I’m here to remind you of all the reasons why you shouldn’t.”

“Remind me.” I groan because Olivia walks fast. It might be slower to run. She, however, has more than enough breath to continue her relationship lecture.

“Rebounds are bad for you. Having sex with Hunter isn’t how you get over Dan, and it’s definitely not how you get revenge on your ex.”

“But I think I might really be over Dan,” I say quietly.

“Good.” Olivia bumps my shoulder. “I’m not saying you never get back on the horse this summer, but I think you should be careful. Don’t be impulsive. Really make sure before you—”

“Have sex?”

“Would you take the first slice of day-old cake that comes along when you decide your diet is over? Or would you hold out for a triple-layer chocolate cake with divine frosting? You’d want the best, right? Because if you’re putting all those calories into you, they should be the best calories ever. They should totally deserve the effort it’s going to take to get them off your ass later.”

I hold up a hand. I need clarification here. “Are we equating penis with cake in this scenario?”

Olivia snorts. “Yes, because in both cases, the bigger the slice, the better.”

Chapter Twelve

Hunter

The baseball bat cracks into the piñata with satisfying force. Pieces of papier-mache and streamers fly everywhere. Tonight’s exercise is “Let it all out,” and apparently the “all” includes both our feelings of rage toward our exes and an insane need for sugar. Or possibly insta-diabetes. The text I’d received that morning had instructed me to bring ten pounds of candy to the cabins. It should have included a request for safety glasses because my girls hit hard. Our piñata was originally some kind of star-shaped object found nowhere in nature, but we’ve improved it by taping pictures of our exes to it. Given my photo-less state, Olivia helped me out by producing several pictures of Free. When I asked where she’d gotten them, she makes a V-sign at her eyes and then draws her fingers away dramatically and points at me. What the fuck does that mean? Sarah Jo and Lola maintain that Olivia has some kind of double life as either a ninja or a secret assassin, but I suspect she’s just nosy.

The piñata isn’t my cup of tea because I don’t hit women. It’s part of the guy code, and even if it wasn’t, it’s not happening. Ever. I should have stopped the girls from taping Free’s picture on it, but I didn’t, so now I’m making sure to aim for the Free-less side. It’s harder than you’d think because Lola is raising and lowering the piñata on a rope, and Sarah Jo blindfolds me like an expert. I spend most of my first turn getting air.

After I take my first three whacks, Olivia tags in and I retire to the sidelines. One of my favorite parts of hanging out with the Club is when it’s just me and Lola on the sidelines watching the others. That’s when she chatters away at me like we’re best friends. She hits on the high points of her day, recaps the low moments, and acts out any funny shit that happened. Yesterday’s highlight reel included inadvertently flashing the delivery guy when she bent over to grab a package from the porch (saved by an awesome bra that I’d kill to see IRL), accidentally deleting half a scene when a bug trotted across her keyboard resulting in much hand slapping and an inadvertent pressing of the Delete key, and a culinary mishap at dinnertime.

Lola’s just getting started on today when it occurs to me that I wouldn’t mind hearing her talk like this every day. But that just feels wrong.

I don’t do relationships. I go to work, I hang with my teammates because I’m neither a loner nor a grouch (even if Lola claims otherwise), but I’ve never had this itch to come home to someone and hear about her day. I suck at feelings and I don’t want to get better at them. Feeling too much in a firefight either gets you killed or makes you less effective. You don’t take some chances when there’s someone waiting for you back home. And honestly, I’d been pretty sure I’d been born without the feeling gene.

But maybe it was a dormant gene. Maybe I’m a late bloomer. Because this time I’m spending with Lola is getting to me, and when I’m around her, I have way too many feelings. So this friendship she wants to have with me is better. It so fucking is. We’ll be friends, I’ll keep Mr. Dick in my pants, and then I won’t lose her when we part ways after the summer. Celibacy has never been part of my life’s plan, but I’d been doing fine riding the solo bandwagon until Lola exploded into my life, and I’ll be fine now. I can just treat her like one of the guys and enjoy her company while the summer lasts. It doesn’t have to be anything more.

“My turn!” Lola bounces to her feet beside me and I flash her a thumbs up. If she were truly one of the guys, I’d be giving her the bird, or casting aspersions on her ability to whack the crap out of the piñata, but Lola’s a marshmallow on the inside. She likes to pretend she’s tough and doesn’t give a fuck about what other people think, but that’s the outside shell, the sweet chocolate skin on a Mallomar. You can bite or lick right through that, and then there’s nothing but soft. She hides that part, but it’s there.

Lola takes a turn and connects with the piñata with surprising viciousness. If Dan ever runs into her again, he better hope he’s wearing a cup. I aim for his smarmy face on my next turn and hit a home run. The piñata splits open, bouncing a few times on the ground, and spraying us with candy. The girls go into collection mode, gleefully competing to see who can score the biggest candy mountain. I watch from the sidelines because I like my teeth cavity-free.

“Are we feeling anti-social tonight?” Lola stops what she’s doing and nods in my direction.

“Because I like my teeth,” I scoff.

She shakes her head. “You need to join in. Who doesn’t like candy?”

“Better listen to your girl,” a deep voice drawls from the shadows. It’s Pick, my friend from the hotshot team.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“Came to drag you out with us,” Pick says.

As if his deep voice is some kind of alarm, Sarah Jo bolts to her feet, clutching the baseball bat. Jesus. She’s like a dog on full alert, way more interested in bashing Pick’s head in than in the piñata corpse, the candy, or even what may or may not be going on between Lola and me. Sometimes, a fire isn’t the beginning. Sometimes, a fire is the end—of an argument, a life together, a murder (which has only happened to me once). The expression of terrified resolution on Sarah Jo’s face is way too similar to the way some of those fire victims looked, and I don’t think she sees Pick at all, even though she’s facing him down with that damned bat in the air. She sees some demon from her past, and she’s working herself up to beat the crap out of it.

Pick must recognize this too because he steps into the light fully and sort of throws his hands up in the air. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Sarah Jo takes a step backward, casually lowering the bat. She doesn’t let it go, though. Nope. She keeps it right there by her side, her fingers curled around the handle like she could go crazy on Pick’s ass in a heartbeat. I can’t figure her out, but since I’m not the one she wants to turn into pulp, I’m okay with that.

“Brought company with me,” Pick says, presumably for Sarah Jo’s benefit. He nods his head toward the truck I never heard approaching. Someone opens the door and light spills into the cab. I make out Colt and Adrian. Then Pick’s gaze moves over the remnants of our piñata, the candy strewn over the ground, and the empty ice cream cartons (some clubs take minutes but this one mainlines Ben and Jerry’s).

“Busy night,” he says finally.

“What’s up?”

He lifts one shoulder, takes a second look (I think he’s making sure Sarah Jo isn’t sneaking up behind him with that bat of hers), and nods. “We’re headed to the bar.” He leans in and whispers. “The titty bar. You in?”

I do the shoulder lift thing myself. It’s guy code for fuck off. “I’m busy.”

“I can see that.” He smirks. “You and your girl are having one hell of a date night.”

“We’re—” I’m not entirely certain how to explain the Break Up Club. It’s not as if it’s a secret society and the penalty is death for talking about it, but it also doesn’t feel like the sort of deal I should be sharing in public. Or at least not with the titty bar set.

“You’re seeing each other.” Pick plants his ass on one of the logs by the fire and stretches his booted legs toward the flames. “You made her a cute little fire of her own and now you’re spending quality time together. I get it. Congratulations, man.”

Colt wanders over. Guess he got tired of waiting in the truck. From the look of things, Adrian’s sound asleep. He pulled a late shift too, and he’s one of the few guys with a girl here in town. He’s always eager to get back and see her.

“Our boy coming with?” Colt asks.

Pick smirks. “Nope. He’s got a date with Lola, so we’re flying solo tonight.”

Colt looks over at Lola. Tonight’s ensemble is some kind of ruffled white thing with shoulder straps. It’s far too long to be a top, but insufficient to be a dress. It looks like a pillow case had a close encounter with a curling iron, and I’ve spent too much time wondering what she’s got on underneath it. Or if she’s got anything on underneath it. She’s worn crazier but this is pretty ridiculous. I’m not sure why she can’t wear jeans and a tank top like everyone else. “He’s dating Lola Miller?”

Pick jumps in before I can cut him off. “Yeah.”

“Wow.” Colt whistles. “She doesn’t seem like his type.”

“I know, right?” Pick leans back. “She’s a class four rapid and he’s a really deep, really still pool of water.”

“Stagnating,” Colt adds.

The fucker.

“We’re not seeing each other,” I say. And we’re not. We’re not anything at all.

“Right.” Pick’s smirk gets deeper. He’s a dirty fighter, but I could take him. His reach is longer, but he tends to favor his right side.

And then I say something really stupid. “Can you imagine anything less likely than Lola and I?”

“Oil and water,” Colt says slowly. “Yeah. We can see that. But sometimes that’s fun.”

“Lola and I are not having fun together.”

And just like that, we reach the tipping point. You know how you can have one zombie, and then ten, and then twenty, with each infected person dragging the world closer to complete and total apocalypse, until you reach the tipping point where the zombie infection becomes an epidemic and everything goes to shit? Yeah. With each new disclaimer I utter, I get closer and closer to the tipping point in my non-relationship with Lola.

She’s practically vibrating, and Sarah Jo and Olivia back off fast. When Lola goes nuclear, they don’t want to be anywhere near the blast radius. That honor is reserved for me.

Lola raises her phone and snaps a picture of me. “I’m buying a new piñata.”

Pick snorts. “Not dating, huh?”

“No,” I snap, because what am I supposed to say? That I’ve got my face pressed against the window of a store that’s closed for business? That I’ve spent the last few weeks lusting after my friend? No is the safest answer I’ve got.

“You suck,” Lola announces. She stomps toward her truck.

“Not dating anymore,” Pick says with no small degree of satisfaction. Fucker likes being able to label shit. Maybe it’s because he’s a mechanic at heart, but he has to take everything apart to understand how it works.

Me, on the other hand? Not so much. When I break something, it stays broken. There’s no putting it back together again, as the roar of Lola’s truck emphasizes.

“You totally fucked that up,” Pick says helpfully.

Lola

Driving off in a snit is juvenile. I get that. But right now… I kind of need my space and there’s no escaping Hunter if I stay put. I head for the beach. Big Bear Lake isn’t Bora Bora. There’s no sexy stretch of white sand dotted by palm trees and gazillion-dollar bungalows. But my favorite spot is pretty—and empty. I spend all of five seconds selecting a primo parking spot and then get out. I discovered this tiny pocket beach a few weeks ago, and it’s still my secret.

I pad over the sand. It’s still slightly warm from the sun. The sky is so dark here, far darker than it is in the city with all its lights and buildings. I pick out the single constellation that I recognize, the three stars in Orion’s belt, and then when I hit the water’s edge, I shuck my sandals. Even with the sun down, the lake’s still plenty warm—and I’m feeling reckless. I strip down to my bra and panties, tossing my ruffled dress and yoga shorts (worn strictly to prevent unfortunate wardrobe malfunctions when bending over and not for any athletic purposes whatsoever) on top of my purse. Tonight definitely calls for swimming.

Hunter sucks. I know I’m not his type. Hello. I stalked his ex online when I was picture hunting, and she’s tall, svelte, put together, and works in PR. The only thing visibly wrong with her is a gross lack of ethics (thou shalt not screw your husband’s co-worker is one of my favorite ten commandments) and an apparent blindness to Hunter’s good qualities. How could she walk away from him so easily? Was the replacement model that unbelievably awesome? From her constant texting of Hunter, it seems like she might have a regret or two.

Not that Hunter doesn’t have his annoying qualities. When he opens his mouth, he routinely reminds me of all the reasons we’d never work, yet I keep getting distracted. By his ass, his muscular back, his face, his smile… The way he laughs so reluctantly and how he’s always looking out for the rest of us. When we’re together, I pretend that I’m not thinking about jumping his fine bones and that I’m perfectly happy with our friendship-only deal. Being an actress is supremely helpful in moments like this. Plus, he’s not perfect. He doesn’t like to talk about his feelings, to the point of outright refusing to let anyone in. Where his outside is hot, his heart is more like Siberia. And like Siberia, there may be brief periods of summertime warming, but the snow and the ice will always, always return.

Still, it comes as no surprise when I hear a truck driving slowly down the access road. Hunter’s found me. I mean, it could be some random stranger driving a diesel, but what are the odds? Sure enough, the man of my fantasies/nightmares comes striding down toward the shore a few short minutes later. He’s got his scowly face on, all grim and withdrawn.

He stops before he can get his feet wet and crosses his arms over his chest. “What’s going on, Lola-bear?”

“I needed space,” I tell him. It’s hard to sound dignified and aloof when you’re swimming in your bra and panties in the lake.

He nods and drops down onto the sand beside my bag. He’s going to…what? Watch me?

“Are you a freaking lifeguard now?”

I swear to God his sigh carries over the water. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

“Right.” I float on my back, staring up at the night sky. This has the added advantage of filling my ears up with water, making it harder to hear what Hunter’s saying. “Because I’m so super sexy and desirable that no one will be able to keep his hands off me?”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” he snaps.

“You don’t think I have a right to be upset?” My voice does an unfortunate imitation of a tea kettle, thereby proving his point.

“Calm down.” If Hunter’s voice was any more calm, he’d be an anesthetic. I hate it when people tell me to calm down. It usually has the opposite effect.

“You’re a great girl,” he says placatingly. It’s like he’s doling out sweets to a kid. I don’t need his pity—or to be a pity fuck.

“Tell me,” I say conversationally, because I can play it cool and refrain from kicking his stupid, male ass. Maybe. “Does that emotional Siberia you live in mean your balls have permanent frostbite?”

“Lola.” He says my name in that super patient way. Ugh. “You should come in now.”

“Because I’m about to be attacked by the Loch Ness monster?”

“Because it’s dark. Because you’re swimming alone. Because it’s not fucking safe, okay?”

“Do you ever get tired of being safe?”

He mutters something. I wish I could walk away from him, that I could stop looking at him, but he’s so gorgeous and remote that it hurts.

He just sits there, a big, solid presence, his dark hair cropped close to his head with almost military precision. His shoulders are so broad, the bulk of him stretching the cotton of his shirt. He’s hands-down the hottest man I’ve ever seen. Sure there are other hotties on the firefighting team, but he’s here, I’m undressing him with my eyes, and even when he pisses me off, I still want to throw myself at him. On him. Underneath him. I’d do all the prepositions with him.

“Do you ever feel the urge to scream?” The water has stopped feeling balmy warm as the cool night air sets in. My nipples stand to attention, protesting the wet cotton of my bra.

“No.” That’s Hunter—blunt to a fault.

“I do.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” he says impatiently, and I lose it.

I scream just for the hell of it, as long and loud as I can. Sound echoes like crazy at night, bouncing off the mountains and trees, and I milk every ear-splitting second of it.

“Jesus.” Hunter shoves to his feet. If I’m lucky, I broke his eardrums.

Am I done messing with him? Nope. Not even close. I undo my bra and throw it at him. It’s soaking wet, and it hits his chest with an audible slap. I’m surprised he didn’t see it coming, frankly. He picks my bra—a navy blue number with panties that match—off his shirt, folds it neatly, and sets it down on top of my pile. The gesture would be more thoughtful if my bra wasn’t wet.

“Out,” he orders.

“Make me.” I stand up in the water. One quick glance downward makes it perfectly, pornographically clear to me that my panties are now entirely transparent. The wet cotton outlines all my goodies. I’m not wearing my seduction panties tonight, but these will do in a pinch. My boobs are completely bare, the nipples tightening into needy pebbles as the night air hits them. Unfazed, Hunter strides to the edge of the water.

“I’m not keeper material,” I inform him. “I know that.”

“Lola.” He doesn’t stop when his boots hit the water. He just strides toward me, all determined and gruff. How am I supposed to stay mad at him?

“Who would want to keep you?” I blurt out.

“No one,” he agrees gruffly. “I’m fucking bad news, Lola-bear.”

“Why do you call me that? I’m not two.”

“Trust me,” he says, his voice a hoarse rasp. “I’m well aware of that right now.” He yanks his flannel shirt off and thrusts it at me. “Help me out here?”

“No.”

He wants me to behave, to be a good girl? That’s not happening tonight. And since sneak attacks are the most effective, I launch myself at him.

Hunter

A hot, wet body hurtles toward me.

Instinctively, I drop my shirt and my hands shoot out, ready to catch. Because it’s not like I want to push this particular woman away. She may drive me crazy, but right now my fingers are itching to trace every inch of her skin. To learn her, tease her, take her. Trying to cover her up was my good angel’s last attempt to be a fucking gentleman and not unleash my bad boy on her.

Fuck, she makes me want to be bad.

She slams into me, the impact rocking me back on my heels. Lola’s not a lightweight, which is something else I like about her. She lives balls-out, eating, loving, going places and enjoying herself. If there’s pie or cake on offer, she’s a yes please, every time. And while I’m sure there’s some kind of health limit on endless pie consumption, I love that she’s not afraid to tuck in. That she doesn’t subject her body and herself to some endless makeover because she’s not happy with what she looks like.

Lola scissors her legs around my waist, her arms locking behind my neck. I let her glue herself to me, and then I cup her ass with my hands so she can’t fall.

“I take it that’s a no on the shirt.”

We both look down automatically at the shirt. It’s half in, half out of the water, and whatever’s not sandy is soaked. I fish it out—and toss it on top of the pile of Lola’s clothes. Now we’ll both be wet.

“Oops,” she says, clearly not meaning it. “Did I make a big mistake?”

I haven’t offered a woman my shirt in years. Look, I know it’s a high school move, but I’m out of practice when it comes to dating. My ex was always put together. She loved her clothes, and she never went anywhere without a well-thought-out outfit. She’d have laughed at the idea of leaving our house without at least a dozen outfit changes first, and our bedroom was always littered with her discards. She knew precisely what to wear and where, so she would never have been caught out swimming in a lake. In the dark. In her underwear.

And yet Lola grins at me and asks me if she’s made a big mistake, and I want to tell her not yet. There’s a certain big part of me that would definitely like to further its acquaintance with her. She likes to tease me—and I like it.

I like her.

No matter how hard we’ve tried to pretend otherwise, there’s something between us. She’s the lightning strike that hit me weeks ago, and I’ve been smoldering ever since. Tonight is just the moment when everything finally catches fire. As much fun as the Break Up Club is, I haven’t hung out with them because I want to be friends. I hung out because I wanted her. Any way I could have her. I’ve imagined her in my bed countless numbers of times, a million different, fucking awesome, erotic images.

Holding her like this is even better.

I turn and slog up the skinny stretch of beach toward our trucks after a quick detour to grab her stuff. Having sex on the beach is not a fantasy I’ve played recently in my head. Beaches on calendars are private, sunny, and full of soft sand and those exotic Balinese beds where you can bounce and fuck to your heart’s content without getting pieces of beach in places only fingers, tongues, and dicks should go. Big Bear Lake has some amazing scenery, but it’s undeniably lacking in the white sand and Balinese bed department.

“Excuse me?” Lola sort of wriggles in my hold. I think she might be jonesing for me to put her down, except her movements just shift her ass against my palms, putting my fingers perilously close to the navy blue strip of cotton covering her. The soaking wet, probably see-through cotton. I shouldn’t look. No matter how much I want to.

“I’m not taking questions from the audience yet,” I inform her. I’m also not ready to put her down. The chance to hold her, to run my fingers over her ass, is too good to waste. Plus, she’s the one who jumped me—and ruined my shirt. I think she owes me this much, don’t you?

Her skin is soft and silky, and it feels amazing as I rub my fingers over the curve of her ass. She shifts, and I think she might be trying to get closer and I’m happy to help with that. We could do this in my bed. She could ride my dick and I’d hold her up all night. She’s all hot, sweet curves, and I imagine myself sinking into her. Pulling her close and giving it to her hard. Then slow. Then fast again because I want to do it every way possible with Lola.

I continue to walk to the trucks, trying to focus on my feet, picking the quickest, safest path. But each step sort of bounces her against my dick, my fingertips grazing the edge of those damned cotton panties, and I groan.

“I’m too heavy,” she says, smacking my shoulder with her palm. “Put me down, you Neanderthal.”

“You started this,” I point out. “I’m just finishing it. And you can’t weigh more than my pack.”

That’s a slight exaggeration, but she looks and feels perfect.

She tilts her head back so she can see my face, her wet hair streaming over my arm. “And do you finish everything you start?”

“Always.” And that’s a promise.

We reach the trucks, and I’m confronted by a logistical issue. We have two vehicles. The logical thing is to put Lola in her truck, and for me to go in mine. But then there’s the question of where we’re going, and if we’re going there together. It’s a twenty-minute drive to my place, and although hers is closer, she’s also way too close to Olivia and Sarah Jo. I’m betting Lola is a screamer. I’m betting she hollers my name and issues instructions at the top of her lungs—and I’m not sharing those moments with the other members of our club. This side of Lola is just mine.

Lola

“Problem, big guy?” I ask when we reach our trucks.

“Nope,” he says. “Logistics.”

Before I can react, I’m over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift. The world swings crazily. Manzanita bushes, lake, night sky—it all swirls around me. I’m naked except for my panties, my breasts rubbing against his back, and it’s exciting and irritating at the same time. As always, Hunter’s effortlessly in charge, and it turns out he’s good at lifting and carrying. It must be all that firefighting. I squirm and buck against his hold, but he pins me in place with one big hand while he opens the driver side door, tosses my things inside, and snags something from the seat. A blanket. And oh look, Mother Nature clearly intended his butt to be my handle, because I plant my palms on the seat of his jeans and shove myself upright.

“Hunter—”

“We’ll talk in a minute.” He strides around his truck, yanks down the gate, and climbs in. Still holding me. The blanket settles around my shoulders as his back hits the truck bed. As effortlessly as he plucked me out of the water, he pulls me down on top of him.

Big hands come up to cup my face. “You have something to say to me?”

The blanket’s a nice touch. It’s red plaid and made of soft flannel that’s perfect for picnics and date nights—neither of which explains how I’ve ended up straddling him.

“What are we doing?” I ask.

“Do you want me to show or tell?” The hands cupping my face gentle, his thumbs stroking my cheeks, tracing patterns on my skin.

He’s doing the tell thing already. I can feel the hard length of him beneath the denim of his jeans. I rub myself up, then down, just because I can. Because he’s pulled me on top of him like some Neanderthal—and I like it.

“Lola,” he whispers my name, his voice rough and needy and more than a little determined. My name feels like a kiss, like the brush of stubble on skin, like a decadent promise. My lips part, wanting to return that promise to him.

“Show,” I whisper.

He looks up at me, this beautiful, rough lumberjack of a man, his eyes hot and hungry for me. He can’t be comfortable, sprawled on the truck bed, but I don’t want to wait. I tease his face with my hands, dragging my fingers down his throat and over his chest. Going lower until I find his belt buckle. “I’m definitely all about the show.”

He cups the back of my neck with one warm hand, pulling my mouth down to his. And then he finally kisses me.

The moment his mouth touches mine, I go up in flames. I decide this must be okay since I’ve got my own personal firefighter wrapping me in his big, strong arms. Nothing bad can happen right now.

His lips are firm, and hard.

So deliciously, wonderfully hard.

There aren’t enough adjectives in the man dictionary to describe Hunter, so I give up and just live in the moment. I kiss him back. My hands are roaming all over him, sliding, hunting for bare skin, searching for more.

Hunter always makes me want more.

He groans, and then he deepens the kiss. His mouth slants over mine, his tongue learning me, and everything detonates between us. He doesn’t pull away until I’m completely, utterly on fire and we’re both panting for air.

“Still want me to show you?” His voice is rough, a sexy, gruff threat as his free hand moves over my skin.

“Get naked. Now,” I order, tugging at the hem of his shirt. Why should he have all the fun?

He smiles against my mouth. And then he drags his shirt over his head. You know those sexy fireman calendars charities sell, so you can donate your money and feel good about ogling buff, mostly naked firefighters? A month wouldn’t be long enough to appreciate Hunter. He’s strong, his chiseled muscles earned by hours and hours of cutting line and wielding a Pulaski. There’s nothing soft about him, as the hard lines of his body can attest. Just muscles and more muscles, plus the occasional scar hinting at the danger of what he does. His body is just one more weapon that he uses to fight fire.

He kisses me again, a lazy, deep, slow kiss that’s nowhere near as urgent as I feel. I’m breathless with anticipation when his fingers tease my nipples, cupping and stroking before they begin an inexorable downward descent. Yes, please. He tugs on my panties. They’re soaking wet thanks to my late night swim, and they cling to me like an unwanted second skin.

“You like these?” he asks.

“I like them off,” I say.

“Good enough.” His fingers twist, tangling in the wet cotton, and there’s a sharp tearing sound. He just ripped my panties off, and I’m perfectly okay with that. Another rough groan escapes him, and then he’s pushing the scraps down, away, off and I’m completely, totally naked. It’s about time.

I find his belt again and get busy. Nothing’s sexier than the sound of leather running through the loops of his jeans as I push him down onto the bed and undo him. He’s so big and warm, so very, very here. Right now, he’s living in this moment with me. It’s just the two of us in the best possible way. I guess I’ve been lonelier than I thought, because I drink him in.

“Lola,” he groans, his voice hoarse and needy. I like that he wants me so badly he can’t hide what he’s feeling behind a calm façade. He unbuttons his jeans and shoves them down, along with his boxer briefs.

I’ve finally got him naked.

He’s always so in control, so utterly calm and take-charge. It’s easy to imagine him facing down a wildfire. The flames wouldn’t dare do anything but obey. Yes, that thought makes me giggle.

“You don’t laugh at a man when he’s naked.”

He says the words in a stern voice, but I hear the hint of a smile and his…enthusiasm isn’t dampened. At all. It stands straight and proud and really, really…big. Apparently, all of Hunter is in proportion.

Are we really doing this? I wonder, as Hunter mutters something, his face harsh with need. He’s not the one in charge, I realize. I am. And that makes me feel sexy.

This is just sex, my inner director chimes in. Not a marriage proposal. Not the opening salvo in a relationship. Just. Sex. We will never be a long-term couple. He’s staying, I’m leaving.

And he hasn’t asked me to stay, anyhow.

He pulls me up over his chest—and then keeps on pulling until my knees are planted on either side of his head. My breath squeaks out of me as I try to wriggle backward. This is not a flattering position. In fact, it’s downright embarrassing. And I mean to say that, to pull away, to find my comfort zone and tell him I’m not some zoo exhibit he can stare at, but then he leans up and kisses me. Right there. And then he says two words.

“Fucking beautiful.” He groans them, his voice hoarse and needing, and he follows them up with another kiss. And another. There might be some licking involved too, and his fingers aren’t staying still. He presses his mouth against me and I freeze, forgetting all about protesting, because this is wonderful and I’m flying and soaring, the pleasure right there where he’s touching me, loving me, and I let go of everything, and he does exactly what he promised. He catches me. I come and let go, yelling his name so loud it echoes off the trees, and he never stops kissing me. He doesn’t stop, period. He gives me exactly what I need, and then he holds me when my knees go weak, easing me down, while I gasp and whimper and make about a million sounds I’ll blush for later.

About a century later, I regain some upper brain function. He’s got a condom on and he’s tucked against me.

“Yes?” he asks.

Oh, yes.

Hell, yes.

Right-now-or-you-die yes.

But I don’t say any of those things. I just sink down, taking him deep inside me and I show him. Because we’re not telling, not tonight.

Chapter Thirteen

Lola

After I jump Hunter in his truck (or he jumps me—I’m still unclear on the details), things do not get simpler. He pulls out, disposes of the used condom with typical Hunter efficiency, and then looks at me. Hunter always confronts problems head on, and clearly he’s sensing a problem here.

“Did I just screw up our friendship? Should I quit the Break Up Club?” He sounds endearingly serious.

My response is a less-than-articulate uh.

Hello, I have orgasm brain, and he wants to discuss the state of our non-relationship? Do I want that? No. I don’t.

“We were supposed to be friends,” he continues, and his mouth gives the cutest, most rueful twist.

“We are friends.” Aren’t we?

He nods firmly. “Absolutely.”

The problem is that we’re friends who now know what each other looks like naked. Mostly. Because honestly if I’m only getting one night’s worth of memories, I wish we’d done it in a bed where maybe we’d have had adequate lighting—and possibly a spotlight—so I could see everything. Maybe ink a Lola was here tramp stamp on his fine ass. Except that ship has sailed now. It’s so far from the pier that I can’t even see the stern. Prow. Whatever you call the last bit you see before she slips over the horizon.

“We shouldn’t have done this.” He sits up, but he also pulls me onto his lap. This makes it hard for me to have a serious conversation. Wait. That might actually be a good thing because there’s not too much I actually want to discuss here. It would be more flattering if the man could keep his regrets to himself for the brief amount of time it will take me to find my clothes, get dressed, and flee.

I slip off his lap, feeling around for my clothes. Only when I come up empty do I remember that he dropped my stuff in the cab of the truck. And since my panties are toast, it looks like I’m going commando. I settle for stealing his T-shirt and hauling it on in world-record time.

Hunter scrubs a hand over his head. “That didn’t come out right.”

“You think?” I consider stealing his pants or his boxer briefs, but the shirt’s long enough to cover my ass. It will do. I walk toward the end of the truck, probably flashing him my cooter the whole way.

“Don’t leave.” Hunter shoves to his feet. He makes moving around a truck bed look effortless and graceful, which does not endear him to me. He’s naked and hot, while I’m wearing just a purloined shirt and my hair’s probably standing on end now from my dip in the lake. I’d rather have this conversation a) never or b) after an entire hair and makeup team has worked their magic on me.

“Here’s a newsflash, Hunter. When you say the sex was a mistake, I hear ‘I don’t want you for anything but sex’ or maybe ‘The sex was lousy.’” I eyeball the distance to my truck. Since there’s limited parking, it’s not far away at all, but I have my doubts about sprinting even that far. My legs are still wobbly in the best possible way thanks to Hunter’s attentions. Fortunately, his stupid insistence on talking is rapidly erasing my warm, post-coital glow.

He frowns. “I don’t do subtext, Lola.”

“But apparently you do mistakes,” I say agreeably. “In other words, me.”

He looks frustrated, but apparently he’s never learned that there is no Magic Eraser for what comes out of our mouths.

“I want everything to be good between us.” He reaches for me, and since my choice is sort of melting into his big, warm body or falling off the end of the truck bed, it’s a no brainer. I let him scoop me close. He looks flustered, which is a 180 for Mr. Calm, Cool, and Collected.

His hands on my hips are strong and sure as he pulls me close, and then his mouth brushes mine in a quick kiss. “Don’t run out on me, Lola. Okay?”

Realistically, we can’t spend the night banging in the back of a truck. It’s too hard, too cool, too prone to mosquitoes. And while I’m not expecting romance from Hunter, I’d like to be more than an angry fuck in the back of a truck. But what if he wants something more?

“Okay,” I tell him as his mouth returns for more.

He doesn’t seem to care that he’s outside naked, on full view of anyone coming down the road. The beach isn’t a well-known spot and it’s late—but still. Plus, his dick apparently wouldn’t mind a repeat of tonight’s mistake because it twitches against me.

“Ignore him,” Hunter whispers against my mouth.

Uh-huh. I’ll get right on that.

We stand there for what feels like forever. Whatever Hunter wanted to say, he seems to be distracted now. His hands skim up and down my sides, molding his shirt to my body as I lean into him. He feels so good; this feels so good. Why do we have to be so wrong for each other?

“Lola.” He growls my name, and I can’t tell if it’s a complaint or a warning or what. I don’t think he’s entirely happy about our situation, though.

“I’m not reading anything into this, Hunter.” Somehow, I remove my hands from his body and take a careful step backward. “We had angry sex. We’re still friends, but now we’re more friends with benefits than beer buddies, okay? We can forget this ever happened, if that’s what you want.”

He mutters a curse. “No. That’s not what I want.”

“Then what do you want?”

He stares at me in frustrated silence.

“You’re the one who brought it up,” I point out.

I think I hear his teeth grind. “Was I supposed to just pitch you out of my truck and follow you back to town? Because I’m not one of those douches you used to date.”

“Gotcha,” I tell him.

His eyes darken, and I swear to God, he makes a genuine growling noise. He could give a grizzly bear a run for its money.

“We wouldn’t work out together.” I reach up and stroke his cheek. “So we really should agree to not kiss and tell. What happened here, stays here.”

It’s hard not to be self-conscious seeing as how neither of us is dressed for this scene. While Hunter stares at me, clearly trying to marshal his thoughts, I turn and hop down from his truck. He’ll have to deal with my torn panties himself as they fail to materialize after a quick visual sweep of the truck bed. Hopefully, they’re not hanging from a nearby bush, all the better to amuse tomorrow’s swimmers.

We would never work out because I’m a summer girl, here today and gone in a few weeks—and he’s a forever man, putting down roots. Because we’re opposites. Because I’m not who he really wants, and I’m too smart to let myself fall for him. Behind me, he does some more cursing and I hear the slap of denim against skin. He’s not up for round two, it seems.

I grab my clothes—what’s left of them. Hunter is hard on my wardrobe. After hightailing it to my own truck, I toss the wet bra onto the seat as that’s a definite no, and then yank my dress over my head. The first ruffle has barely cleared my ass when he saunters up beside me. The man moves like a ninja.

“Think of tonight as a premature Step Seven,” I say quickly before certain parts of my anatomy can convince other, more logical parts that maybe we should give Hunter a chance.

“Premature rebounding,” he says gravely. “Got it.”

“It doesn’t count.” I’m out of here. Screw wearing pants. I’ll make sure I drive the speed limit all the way back to my cabin, and everything will be fine.

“Okay.” His eyes hold mine.

“In the spirit of being honest,” he starts, and my heart makes for the shoes I’m not wearing. This is where he tells me he’s decided to get back with his ex or he has a contagious sex disease or that he videotaped our entire encounter, and whoops, my sexy times is now Internet fodder.

“Yeah?” I know my voice doesn’t sound cool. I sound pinched, nervous, like I’m really dreading whatever he’s working up to sharing. For a professional actress, I suck. I need to channel my inner Thelma. Or is it Louise? I can never remember which has the spine of steel and which just had the awesome curls and the shitty, unappreciative husband.

“Step Four,” Hunter says. “Or possibly Step Six.”

“Don’t forget Step Five,” I say lightly, pretending my stomach doesn’t weigh the approximate tonnage of an SUV. “You wouldn’t want it to feel left out, and it does come between four and six.”

“Lola,” he says, voice low but firm. “What happened back there? You were awesome. I just thought you should know that.”

Chapter Fourteen

Hunter

My life is a drama-free zone, so what the hell have I done? Sleeping (or not sleeping) with Lola is the antithesis of what I want from life. I haven’t gone at it in the back of my truck since high school, but what happened between Lola and me at the lake is simply too hot to erase from my memory. For counts-for-nothing sex, it’s completely and utterly unforgettable. If my ex-wife was a house fire, Lola is a wildfire, the kind that devours acres and acres and that you have to let burn itself out. She’s hot—I’m cold. We’re polar opposites and there’s no way anything but a quick hook up works between us…and she deserves more.

The next couple of meetings of the Break Up Club are understandably awkward. I don’t know what, if anything, she’s told Sarah Jo and Olivia about the truck episode, but those two eye me like they know exactly how out of control I was that night. The girls discuss the reasons for their break ups (fortunately, I’m out in the field for that one and Lola lets me off the hook when I refer her to the divorce court proceedings); they also devote considerable time to the shopping and self-improvement step. The UPS driver starts making daily stops at the cabins with the fruits of their labors.

In comparison, tonight seems far more mellow. And we’re missing a few key players—Sarah Jo and Olivia are nowhere to be seen. Perhaps I missed a Break Up Club memo?

“Where are the others?” I need Sarah Jo and Olivia as a buffer because otherwise I will spend far too much time remembering what Lola looks like naked.

Lola shrugs. “Sarah Jo is working. Olivia is AWOL. It’s just you and me, big guy. The meeting has come to you and this is the be nice to you step.”

Danger.

She’s wearing denim shorts and a red and white striped flyaway shirt held together over her tits with a bow. Okay, there’s also one of those little snaps that looks like a four-leaf clover for added insurance because flashing the wrong person would suck. The shoes, however, are pure invitation. They’re the kind with the high, straw heel and red ribbons that wrap around her ankles. These are look-at-me shoes, and I’m pretty sure my jaw hits the ground. She looks fantastic.

I know exactly how I’d like to be nice to me—and she’s sitting on my front porch.

Alone.

Mostly naked.

There’s a plastic pack of strawberries from the supermarket beside her, along with a full bottle of sparkling apple juice. That one’s for me as I’m on call and therefore alcohol is on my no-fly list. The half-empty bottle of champagne is a different problem.

“Did you drink all that?”

She beams at me, and digs a spoon into the carton of ice cream balanced on her knee. “Maybe.”

“Yes or no, Lola.”

“I was bored. You were late.”

“Not one of your two options,” I point out.

I don’t think she likes her options because she points her spoon in my direction.

Lola

Hunter is way too logical and self-controlled, and I wonder what it would take to piss him off. Would a little messy food fighting do the trick?

Before I can overthink it, I lob the contents of my spoon at him.

Bull’s eye.

Chocolate splatters all over his pristine T-shirt.

“Lola.” The man has no idea what his stern voice does to my panties. It’s a character flaw of mine, but what can I do? He points out the rules and draws lines and lays down the law—and it makes me want to get him naked.

“Right here,” I say cheerfully. “Oops. Looks like I got you dirty.”

“What am I supposed to do with you?” He looks down at the chocolatey mess on his chest and then he makes his first mistake. He strips the shirt off. If it were possible for me to go up in flames, I’d be a bonfire.

And of course he keeps right on glowering as if his delicious chest muscles weren’t on display. I mean, if he wants to have a conversation with me with actual words, this is not the way to go about it. Now I just want to paint him with ice cream, one sweet drop at a time.

Okay.

Get it together.

It’s just a hard chest. Nothing that I haven’t seen before.

Except…

He crosses his arms and his muscles bulge.

“My eyes are up here,” he says dryly.

“But the good stuff is down here.” I draw a finger down his chest. “I made a mess, so I should make it up to you, right?”

“Lola,” he says again.

“See? When you say my name like that, I don’t want to behave. I just want to make that clear.”

He groans, hands now flexing on his thighs. He’s well over six feet tall, and I’ll bet he played football in high school. He told me once that he was too big to be a smoke jumper, so he went the traditional firefighting route instead because he’d sink like a stone if he ever jumped out of a plane with all that gear on his back. He’s probably right. Hell, he’s always right, but the size of him means that there’s just that much more for me to fantasize about. He’s tall, packed muscle and hard everything, from his face to what I suspect just might be my very favorite part of him. You’d like it too, what I’m spotting right about zipper level.

He holds my gaze. I think he might be daring me. “What do you want to do, Lola?”

Definitely daring me.

“Show or tell?” I whisper.

His eyes darken. “Show.”

So I lean in and lick the spot where my ice cream had hit. As if making amends by licking him clean. Or dirty. Very, very dirty. Really, the choice is up to him.

It doesn’t take him long to choose. Hunter’s hands close around my waist and my feet leave the ground. The man’s used to humping 100-pound packs from Point A to Point B. And while I haven’t been pack-weight since middle school, I’m also not quite into SUV territory either. Still, he makes me feel small and delicate—and big and powerful at the same time. I adjust my grip on his shoulders because I’m not leaving my safety entirely in his hands.

“If you drop me, you die.” I add the tiniest bit of incentive, pressing my mouth against his throat. His skin is warm and so very, very firm. Like him, there’s no give, no soft and easy. And while sometimes his stern, gruff side makes me want to run in circles, screaming, right now all I want to do is…scream.

For him.

Under him.

On top of him, riding him like a lust-crazed cowgirl at the best sexual rodeo ever. I think he can handle that.

He shoves the door open with his foot. Kicks it shut, and then reaches behind him to lock it.

“Are we expecting company?” I part my mouth against his throat and lick delicately. “You taste good, but I’m not in a sharing mood.”

His eyes darken as he groans something and his arms tighten around me. Yeah. I don’t think my man feels like sharing, either. Good. This will be just the two of us. The way he takes the stairs to his bedroom is another good sign. I’d hate for him to take his time. To make me wait any longer.

He steps inside his bedroom and I loosen my death grip on his throat just in time to sail gently through the air. My butt lands on his bed, and he follows me down, coming over me, one knee working itself between my legs and the other nudging my hip. I press down, and he presses up. My body is hosting its own personal Fourth of July celebration, the first in what is hopefully a series of fireworks shooting through me.

He looks down at me, just looks, for a long moment. I know what he sees. Curvy, colorful, not quite put together me. It’s hard not to be self-conscious, not to worry about whether or not that’s enough for him. But I’ve fantasized about this moment and I’ve planned for it too. I’m gonna be the Cleopatra to his Antony. Beneath the denim and the cotton, I’m rocking lace and satin. I’ve chosen the best costume ever just for him.

I reach between my boobs and pull the bow. A nice, long, slow, look-at-me pull because he’s watching like I’m his favorite channel and he’ll never get enough. A rough sound escapes his throat, sounding sweeter than any applause I’ve ever received from an audience. He looks at me like he’d like to eat me up, to devour me right here, right on this spot. That works for me. The two halves of my shirt separate.

My bra is black and lacy with cups that scoop my tits up and make a ginormous cleavage canyon. That’s either tacky or a classic, but from the way Hunter growls, he likes it. A lot.

“Happy birthday,” I say.

“Not until January,” he says. He sounds a little dazed.

“Then Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukah, and a very special Kwanzaa to you.”

He gives me a sweet, quick kiss, his lips barely ghosting mine. Hunter is a tease.

“You want me to shower first?” he asks, his mouth mere inches from mine. That distance seems Grand Canyon-worthy and far too far away. And frankly, the hint of smoke and ash just fuels my fireman fantasies. I totally need him to rescue me right now from a fire. The one in my panties.

I hook a finger in the waist of his jeans and draw him down. “I want you naked. Now.”

The bastard laughs, so I smack his chest.

He grunts and shoves lightly to his feet. The man moves like a big cat. I try to take him all in, to store up these moments in my head because I don’t know if we’re a one-shot deal, if this is my only chance to have him again, or if we’re starting something.

I lever up on my elbows and watch shamelessly as Hunter unbuckles, unbuttons, and shoves his jeans down his legs. His soft laugh undoes me the rest of the way. The denim hits the floor and he kicks it away.

“Where were we?” He comes down on top of me again, and I stretch up into him, hooking my legs around his waist. He feels so good.

“We were showing each other good parts.” Looking at him, his eyes crinkling around the edges with humor, makes me breathless. And greedy. In any case, now I’m the one wearing too much clothing. I reach for the front clasp on my bra, but his hands curl around mine.

“I get to unwrap my own present.”

And I’ll bet he’s the kind of guy who does it slowly, easing the paper apart and folding it up into neat squares. He’ll be methodical, patient, diabolical. I don’t want Hunter calm and in control—I want him as wild for me as I am for him…and I’ve always torn into my presents gleefully.

I flick the clasp open. “Oops.”

“Lola.” The way he says my name, low and gruff, makes me want to hurry this up. If we go fast this time, we’ll just have more time for round two. I rub against him, coaxing, and his eyes narrow. Guess he sees it my way—or not, because he shackles my wrists with one hand and draws them over my head. I make it just a little bit hard for him because wrestling with him turns me on. Everything about Hunter turns me on.

He presses his mouth to my ear. “I have rope in my truck, Lola.”

“I’m good.” Rope later. Sex now. That’s my plan. I rock against him, but he holds me still effortlessly. As if I really want to get away—when I have six-plus feet of hot, naked firefighter lying on top of me.

His mouth moves down my jaw and over my throat. “You’re not good at all. I think you’re very, very bad.”

“Details.” I may moan just a little as his lips find the hollow of my shoulder and lick. As if he’s tasting me and he likes what he finds, he does it again. And again. A satisfyingly long time later, he works his way down to my breasts and repeats all of those kisses.

When he pulls the straps of my bra up my arms one at a time, I almost don’t notice. When he loosely binds my wrists together with the straps, however, my nipples salute his effort. God, he’s good.

“Did I mention I was a Boy Scout? I have a lot of rope fantasies.”

He’s killing me. Granted, in the best possible way, but seriously—is there no way to make this man hurry? It’s like filling your plate with appetizers at the buffet when at the other end of the table there’s a mountain of steamed crab legs and a prime rib. I need to take action so I use my legs and his ass for leverage and fight dirty. I grind against him, angling myself to find the position that makes my body hum with pleasure.

He only laughs. “You don’t get to rush me. I have a big list of priorities.”

The man definitely has a big something.

His fingers slide over my belly, finding the button on my shorts. He undoes me, unzips, and then pushes the denim down my legs.

He makes a rough sound of approval. “No panties, Lola?”

“I was being adventurous.”

“I like it.” His jaw is tense, his eyes dark with heat and passion. He’s big, bad, and dangerous—and he’s mine.

“Do we get to negotiate your list?”

His hands cup my butt. “How about we take turns choosing?”

“I—” don’t get to finish my sentence, whatever it was, because Hunter moves. Turns out, he does have a fast speed after all. He drops down my body, spreading my legs wide until my thighs are riding his shoulders and his hands hold me in place.

“I go first,” he whispers roughly.

“What happened to ladies first?”

“You’ll be first,” he promises. “Every time.”

Just how many times are we talking about? Part of me demands I make him quantify, but the rest of me is melting out of control. Hunter isn’t interested in talking, anyhow. He lowers his head and I’ve never felt so sexy or powerful. As if whatever I do or say, however I react, will be exactly right for this man.

He’s not your forever man, I remind myself.

Hunter says my name again, his body tense. No more control, no more reserve. He opens up and gives me what he has, his strength, the burning heat and muscled power of him. Maybe we’re not a forever couple, but right now we’re naked and he’s mine.

That has to be enough.

Own it. Be a porn star, a dream lover, a Cleopatra who rules men. I could probably come from his gaze alone because there’s something about being so open, about letting him see this side of me, and knowing that he likes what he sees that short circuits my brain. He traces his mouth over the freckle in the crease of my thigh. Finds the second one, higher, closer to where I really want his mouth.

“Connect the dots?” I feel his smile against my skin.

He holds my hips steady with his hands, his thumbs stroking, teasing. Promising.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, his fingers moving closer and closer. I bite back a groan and pull my hands free. I have to hold on to him because otherwise I’ll fly apart.

“Hunter.” I groan his name, part need, part demand.

And then I can’t think, can’t speak, can only feel because his thumbs open me up and his mouth closes over me. And then while I’m still seeing stars—entire galaxies filled with shooting stars and exploding planets—he comes over me again. Somewhere, he’s found a condom and he’s got it on, and then finally, finally, he’s sliding inside me, driving home with one hard thrust. God. He feels good. Better than good. It’s like he has the secret roadmap to my body and he’s found the world’s best shortcut to my orgasm.

Because my toes curl, my heels driving into his ass, as I gasp and moan his name. This feels so right. He told me once that he left nothing to chance, and he must have meant it because he slides his hand between us and finds that one spot that makes me cry out. The orgasm catches me by surprise, a fast, hard, utterly exquisite heartbeat. I hold him close, moving, dancing, writhing shamelessly in his arms, and he owns the moment, owns us.

Ladies first indeed.

Chapter Fifteen

Hunter

Mine.

Okay. Not quite, entirely, totally mine. For the first time in my life, I get the whole caveman thing. It’s not that running around and beating my chest appeals, but I wouldn’t mind the whole world knowing that Lola and I are together. That despite our rocky start and all our differences, we’ve got something. Something that might be more than just the hottest sex of my life.

Not that we don’t give the hot sex thing quite a work out.

We totally do.

Except it’s not just sex, is it? And honestly, I don’t know what we’ve got going on. I suck at labels, and at emotions, too.

My phone buzzes. Today’s ring tone is the background jingle from Lola’s laundry detergent commercial. YouTube is fucking fantastic; it didn’t take me long to find her ad. She’s earnestly cute as she extols the miracle stain-removing virtues of the detergent in her hands to her TV audience. I’ll bet she’s sold thousands of gallons of that stuff. Millions. It comes in lavender and something called mountain meadow (which smells like no meadow I’ve ever hiked through) and I bought both.

Her text comes in:

T-Rex misses u

Lola volunteered to cat sit for me when I’m out in the field. It’s not ideal, me leaving T-Rex for extended periods of time, but the cat was a loose end when the old lady who owned him passed, and I’d brought him home with me when it became clear that his only other option was a one-way ticket to the pound. What was supposed to be a one-night stand became something more permanent, and now I belong to T-Rex. If I’m gone too long, he makes his displeasure known by shredding my toilet paper and taking a shit in my shoes or in the middle of the kitchen floor.

With Lola keeping him company, T-Rex is much happier. I mean, fuck I would be, too. Plus, T-Rex is apparently a huge fan of the selfie. Today’s snap is a close up of T-Rex’s nose and mouth—pretty sure Lola let him lick her screen. I make a mental note to buy her some microfiber and Windex. It’s the least she deserves for civilizing my cranky, hard-to-please cat. I text her back:

T-Rex loves u

Don’t draw the obvious comparison.

I am so not the fat cat in this scenario, and I don’t need a daily helping of Friskies to appreciate Lola the way T-Rex does. There’s absolutely no path to my heart via my stomach, even if a certain more southernly part would like to volunteer as a short cut. Nah. I like Lola. She doesn’t have to buy her way into my affections. She’s funny, brave, and bold as hell. What’s not to like? And if her mouth and her sass are covering up another, deeper vulnerability, I can wait until she’s ready to show me that side of herself.

T-Rex loves me for my food

I read Lol’s reply and decide my cat is no gentleman.

Such a user.

Lola answers my text with a string of emoticons. I try to decipher a pattern but fail. I half wonder if she’s trying to pass me a coded message, but Lola’s blunt. She doesn’t say one thing when she means another, so expecting me to read anything into the line of dancing smiley faces, a couple of clouds, and what looks like a purple eggplant seems out of character. Whatever. I’ll ask her when I see her next.

And there’s gonna be a next time. After the ice cream incident, one thing led to another and somehow we’re having sex. On a regular basis. Or to be more specific, on a wild, crazy, as needed basis which is pretty much any day that ends in “Y” when I’m not out here in the middle of the sexless, Lola-less wilderness. Yes, I miss her. She turns out to be amazingly inventive in the bedroom—and in the back of my truck, on the beach, in the woods, and pretty much any other horizontal or vertical surface you can imagine—I just regret that Big Bear Lake has no need for elevators, or I’d knock that fantasy off my bucket list, too.

And it’s not just about kinky positions, either. Lola’s pretty damned amazing. She’s playful, fun, and loves to laugh at everyone and everything, including herself. Of course, she also likes to act everything out and hold nothing back…but that’s not such a bad thing in our bedroom. I can totally work with that.

It’s hard to keep my mind on the job today. The Big Bear Rogues have been out here for three days now, and I’m looking forward to wrapping things up. Our job site is a recreation area near the Northern California border. It’s all ridges, canyons, and smoke—there’s nothing easy about this fire.

The funny thing about firefighting is that the flames aren’t always the most dangerous thing out here. Take trees, for example. They’re not just harmless scenery. Branches fall, tops snap off, and seemingly harmless dead trunks can harbor lightning strikes for days and then explode into flame in a heartbeat.

Pick runs the chainsaw today, while I stay on the radio and keep an eye out for shit that can go wrong. Pick cuts, and I pull the debris clear. We make a good team; we’ve done this hundreds of times before. It should be completely routine, and for hours it is. We’re almost done with the last hazard tree in our area when it happens. Pick makes the final backcut and the tree starts to come down.

I must take my eyes off it for a minute or he does too because neither of us realizes that it’s coming down at an unusual angle. I lunge for Pick, my fingers snagging the back of his work shirt, but the treetop is faster. He disappears beneath a pile of burnt branches.

I’m bellowing for help before the tree has fully settled, carefully shifting the branches away from Pick. He’s the needle in the haystack, and I’m goddamned going to find him. He’s my partner, my responsibility, and he doesn’t go down on my watch. Not ever.

When I reach him, he’s pale and not moving. His ink stands out against his skin, and for a moment I forget to breathe. There must have been something I could have done. Or didn’t do. Didn’t see, didn’t anticipate, didn’t stop. And then Pick groans, shifting, and I start first aid. His eyes flutter open.

“There has to be a better way to get me a hot nurse,” he groans.

I tease him back as I check him out for injuries, hearing the chatter on the radio as an emergency crew is dispatched to us. Help’s on the way, but that should have been me on the ground. I should have watched better, reacted more quickly. Instead, I was thinking about Lola.

Lola

Hunter’s late.

We’d made plans to go out for dinner at this new restaurant that opened down the mountain, but he texted a few minutes before our reservation and said he couldn’t make it. It’s not the first time he’s stood me up for his job, and I suspect it won’t be the last. Fire’s unpredictable, and Hunter will never not finish a job.

I text him a few more times, trying to make sure he’s okay, but he doesn’t answer. That happens sometimes. He’s explained that reception on a fire site can be pretty bad, so I shouldn’t expect him to answer every message I send. I don’t think he gets that maybe I worry that the non-answers mean something more. That his job can be dangerous, and I’d like to know that he’s okay. Yes, I Googled firefighter and accident. I know exactly what can happen to him out there, and it’s not a missed dinner that I’m worried about.

It’s Hunter.

I think we’re working on something here, and it’s not just bedroom acrobatics, if you know what I mean. Hunter’s not big on talking, and discussing his feelings is as likely as finding a throstle singing its heart out on my front porch. But I think I might finally have him figured out. He’ll give me endless orgasms, but I’m not gonna lie. Words are in constant short supply in the Hunter-verse. He shows he cares by how he acts—he doesn’t verbalize. So when he stocks his freezer unasked with my favorite ice cream flavors, he’s saying he cares and that’s good enough for me.

Around midnight, however, I lose the battle to keep my eyes open and crawl into his bed. I’ll wait for him here.

Hunter

We’re a man down. Pick bitched the whole way to the hospital in the ambulance, so I think he’ll be okay. Fortunately, he has a hard head and was wearing his safety gear; otherwise, he’d probably have a fractured skull to go with his broken thumb and sprained wrist. I rode with him, and Colt followed with a couple of the other guys, so together we saw him patched up and settled in. Keeping him there overnight, however, required a combination of threats and begging.

When I finally make it home to my place in Big Bear, the first thing I spot is a pair of black, four-inch stilettos with little tassels. They’ve been kicked off in front of the couch. And even though they’re not precisely house wear, it takes me a moment to realize in my exhaustion-induced fog that those were intended for tonight. For my date with Lola.

The date that didn’t happen.

Fuck. I hope she’s not too pissed at me.

I stumble-weave my way into the bedroom because now that the mattress is within reach, all that’s keeping me upright is willpower. I should shower because I stink like smoke with a chaser of hospital antiseptic, but all I want now is to lie down, close my eyes, and stop replaying that tree coming down and trapping Pick. Things could have gone so much worse.

Lola flicks on the light before I can trip and kill myself, and then she hops out of bed and rushes around to meet me. She’s wearing just my old fire department T-shirt and a tiny pair of bright blue panties that I’m too tired to appreciate the way I should.

“Hunter?”

I mumble something. I should apologize or tell her just how pretty she looks or take her to bed and give her a make up orgasm. But I don’t know how I’m upright. In fact, the entire room is sort of weaving, and I swear I see three T-Rexes curled up on the foot of the bed.

“Rough day?” She leads me to my side of the bed. I mean, the whole thing is technically mine, and since I own a California King, I’ve got plenty of real estate. But somehow we’ve decided without saying anything that she gets the right and I get the left. T-Rex grabs whatever vacant spot tickles his fancy.

“Pick got hurt.”

She raises her hand and touches my cheek. “You too?”

Right. There are scratches there from where the pine branch brushed my face on its way down. But that’s nothing, so I shake my head.

“He’s in the hospital,” I tell her. “But he’s gonna be fine.”

“Good.” She pokes my chest with a finger, and I topple backward onto the bed.

Christ, the mattress feels good. I’m dimly aware of Lola moving around, unbuttoning and unzipping me. My clothes melt away along with the next couple of minutes, and then she’s padding away and returning with a damp washcloth. Tomorrow I’ll be horrified that I’m almost sleeping through my first ever sponge bath, but right now…

Right now I just let go and let Lola take over.

I think she thinks I’m asleep when she crawls back into bed because she curls up around me, her arms and legs clinging to mine, and then she says it.

“I love you,” she whispers against my throat. Or maybe it’s into my hair, my ear, or my chest. People say things when they’re tired. After a monster orgasm. When they’re in that happy place where they feel safe. It’s not that I don’t want Lola to love me. I mean, love’s a nice thing, and I certainly don’t want her to hate me, but I love you can be such a throwaway phrase, like when you bring your girl a cold beer on a hot afternoon, and she says OMG I love you. It doesn’t mean anything.

Does it?

Chapter Sixteen

Lola

On Saturday night, we make a pilgrimage to Big Bear’s only bar. Bars are kind of like heads. You don’t need more than one as long as that one is a good one, and Drink Up is the best. It’s also next to Drink Me, and no one thinks the similarity between names was an accident. Ben, the bar’s owner, could actually give Hunter a run for the title of World’s Grumpiest Man, although Hunter totally wins in the hotness department. Of course, since I think everything Hunter does is hot, there’s really no contest. I’ll let some other girl have fun tormenting Ben.

Drink Up is short on interior lighting, making it difficult to see your drinking companions. A handful of ancient neon beer signs do battle with the shadows and provide a little mood lighting. There’s a small dance floor, an antiquated jukebox that mysteriously plays only country tunes (yes, we know exactly where Ben’s musical loyalties lie), and a long, sticky, mahogany bar separating Ben’s patrons from a dusty display of alcohol bottles. They’re only for show, since there are no cocktails on the menu because Drink Up is a beer-only place. If the delivery truck has been by recently, you can choose between two kinds of beer, plus some weird cocktail beer in a can. If you want wine, Ben will give you directions to Sonoma—after making sure you’re not too impaired to drive.

Tonight, things are loud and raucous at Drink Up, the Rogues whooping it up because they’re off-rotation for a few days and ready to cut loose. Those boys love their down time, and you can’t blame them. If I spent days out in the forest digging up shit so Mother Nature can’t cremate my butt, I’d want some beers and tunes, too.

The Big Bear hotshot crew has twenty firefighters, and I count fifteen of them crowded into a handful of booths in the back of the bar. Two more are engaged in what appears to be a high-stakes game of darts.

Hunter isn’t here.

I grab my phone and text him. If the rest of the Rogues are here, he must be on his way, right? I’m sure there must be a gazillion perfectly good reasons why he’s not here already. He stopped at the store. He had to gas up the truck. A little old lady and her Siamese needed rescuing from a fast-raging house fire. When I get radio silence, I’m certain his arrival’s imminent, however. Hunter would never text and drive, and I’ve got him trained to answer my texts now. In another twenty years, I might get him worked up to complete sentences, or even writing love notes. It’s a challenge I look forward to. I set my phone on the table where I can see it, and set to work on my beer. Drink Up’s not the same without Hunter, so I hope he hurries up. Unfortunately, Hunter’s also a big believer in speed limits. It makes it hard to imagine him driving a fire truck.

“Dance with me.” Olivia doesn’t wait for an answer. She just laces her fingers through mine and tows me out onto the postage stamp of a dance floor.

“I didn’t realize you were a dancer.” When I got dressed tonight, I didn’t plan on hitting the dance floor. That’s okay. Fortunately, I’m adaptable, and my denim skirt is (probably) long enough to cover everything important. And since I wore really good panties tonight, flashing the bar isn’t my worse idea.

Olivia’s a girl after my own heart. She doesn’t stop the tow-and-tug until we’re center stage on the dance floor. She drops my hand and faces me. I don’t know what she’s waiting for, but I plunge right in. It’s not like I’m going to be dancing on-beat. Or well. All I have going for me is good costuming, tits that bounce, and raw enthusiasm. I work with what I have.

“You don’t hold back, do you?” Feet still rooted to the floor, Olivia eyes my hip-swinging, arm-waving performance, which is incentive for me to work it harder still. The Rockettes will never recruit me, but the cardio burst should work off some of those beer calories. Probably about ten of them, but I prefer to live optimistically.

“Balls out.” I add an ostentatious twirl to my dance number. My ponytail whips around, almost smacking me in the face because I am the queen of elegance. I’ve put some thought into tonight’s outfit. The little denim skirt and red cowboy boots are perfect bar wear. I don’t expect the ancient jukebox in the corner houses anything but country tunes, and I’m dressed like a Nashville heroine. Ruffles cover my red-and-white polka dot blouse, and I shimmy and shake even when I’m standing still.

Olivia nods solemnly. “Only way to be.”

“We’re killing Step Three.” I raise my knuckles to hers in a careful fist bump and she gives me a smile. Olivia’s fairly reserved, so Step Three’s requirement to suppress nothing and to let everything out is a personal challenge for her. I think she must have been English in a previous life. Or possibly a nun. I, on the other hand, was born without a filter, and sometimes that’s a problem.

Olivia probably should laugh a little more, and not for the first time I wonder why she’s really here in Big Bear Lake. I’ve never seen anyone look less like camping material in my life. She’s wearing a pencil skirt that hugs her curves and a white blouse. She hasn’t even undone more than the topmost buttons, and I’m entirely certain that the bra beneath the polyester is purely, practically white. I can’t imagine an outfit less suited to dancing—let alone dirty dancing—and yet she rocks it.

She launches into an uninhibited grind.

She’s not just a dirty dancer.

She’s a filthy, show-stopping, amazing dancer.

The country singer bellows at the top of his lungs about his lost love, or his drunk love, or his truck. I’m not sure who the her in his lyrics refers to, if we’re being honest. The ambiguity doesn’t bother Olivia in the slightest. She hums/screeches along, one hand flying into the air and over her head as if she’s slowly sliding down an imaginary pole. She trails her other hand down her body, fingers gliding between her breasts like a punctuation mark. It’s filthy. It’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. And when I glance back at our table, it’s immediately clear that the penis-bearing members of the hotshot team agree with me one hundred percent. I should tip our waitress extra if she’s the one who has to mop their drool off the floor.

The song ends and the next one is slower and sweeter, some slow-dance country number where life is looking up for the singer because he’s found himself the best woman in the world and she’s agreed to be his. I can only hope his happiness is contagious. And since Hunter is still AWOL, I do what I do best. Perform.

I lean in. “You have an audience.”

“Go me.” Olivia executes a shimmy that makes her breasts jiggle and her butt shake. I swear the collective temperature of the Rogues shoots up another ten degrees. Olivia’s going to cause a riot, and that’s usually more in my job description than hers.

“How are things going with Hunter?” Olivia grabs my hips, glues her front to my back, and follows my rhythm.

“I am cautiously optimistic,” I announce.

Olivia hums in my ear, the sound jiving not at all with the music blaring from the jukebox. “Cautiously?”

For two seconds, I contemplate not taking the bait, but there’s no way I let her get away with it when she snorts in my ear. Instead, I raise our hands over my head and dance harder since Olivia is clearly, finally on board with the whole Let it out theme tonight.

“Cautiously,” I say firmly.

At twenty-six, I’m plenty familiar with how relationships work. Hunter and I are having awesome sex and I’m having feelings. I think he’s sharing those feelings too, but the man is commitment-shy. In my last relationship, I was the one who went all-in and therefore I was also the one who ended up burned, so I’m trying to hold myself back with Hunter.

“Is he coming tonight?” The bar’s loud enough now that Olivia has to put her mouth right up to my ear to make herself heard. This eliminates any remaining space between us, and I can feel the collective temperature of the hotshot team turn volcanic. We’re providing them with the perfect show for their liquid dinner. We’re such givers.

“Double entendre much?”

I feel her shrug. “Are you dating with the potential for more? Or are you just sneaking around and hoping no one notices that it’s sleepover central when you get together?”

“Dating.” I grind low. “Awesome sex is a bonus and our personal business. As is the potential for this more of which you speak.”

Olivia pats me on the shoulder, her hips and butt moving in perfect time with mine. “So you see this as a long-term thing.”

“Are you asking if we’re an item?”

She nods. “Are you?”

“Item seems so temporary. Short.” I do some expressive shrugging of my own.

“So you’re more.”

We actors are a superstitious bunch. I never say good luck. A bad dress rehearsal guarantees a stellar opening night, and I’ve been known to sleep with my script under my pillow so that my lines would magically sneak off the page, through the Egyptian cotton, and straight into my head. So the last thing I want to do now is jinx what’s happening between Hunter and me.

But Olivia’s words get me thinking. Is what we’ve been doing a dress rehearsal for the real deal? For a permanent, long-term relationship? For marriage? Playacting is just that—acting. It’s not real. It doesn’t mean anything until you step foot on the stage. Is that where we’re headed?

While Olivia out-dances me, I think about Hunter and me some more. Neither of us has talked about what happens when the summer is over. We’ve made no plans to see each other again, but is it possible that he’s waiting for me to give him a thumbs-up? Hunter is a planner. He likes to schedule his shit, and I’ve made it clear that my stay in Big Bear Lake is only temporary. He’s also well aware that my play has been picked up for production, which means my happy, playwriting butt will be following it.

So maybe he’s just being cautious.

Maybe he needs a sign.

A nudge.

A giant, skywriting blimp to announce that we don’t have to break things off just because summer’s coming to an end.

“He’s a good guy.”

Olivia gyrates-shimmies-Beyoncés her way around me so she can look me in the face. Linking her hands loosely behind my neck, she nods. “The two of you are good together. He’s amazing, and you make him lighten up. He remembers to smile when he’s around you.”

It never fails to amaze me that people have Hunter labeled as such a grouch. He absolutely knows how to laugh, and how to make people laugh too.

“We’re not on Step Seven,” I remind Olivia. “Getting back out there isn’t supposed to happen yet.”

Olivia makes a face. “Try thinking of those rules as guidelines?”

“I don’t want to jinx things.” And that’s true, but I’m also having the time of my life. With Hunter. I’m living and doing, having all the feels, and maybe Olivia has a point.

“So you think I should say screw sticking with the breakup plan?”

“I wouldn’t use those exact words, but yes. Maybe go off-road and off-plan and see where this relationship can take you.”

It’s true that things are going my way right now. My new play is almost done and I like the direction the script is headed in. I’ve got a date with near-Broadway in my near future. I have Hunter. Everything is taking off, so why am I so worried that there’s gonna be a disaster moment that knocks me off my feet? There’s a happy ending to the final act waiting for me, and I get to have hot sex with the man of my dreams. Oh, God. He’s just so perfect.

I love him.

Hunter Black is one hundred and ten percent my keeper man.

And it’s as if my head—or my heart—has conjured him up with all the thinking I’m doing because when I spin around, he’s standing there on the edge of the dance floor. Way to go, imagination. I should have fantasized about him years ago because he’s exactly what I’ve been missing for so long.

He stares back at me as I try not to fall over because apparently emotional revelations leave me off-balance.

You know what?

This is that scene in the movie where the music slooooows way down and the heroine’s heart starts beating overtime. The one absolutely perfect moment where it’s as if we’re the only two people in the bar. In Big Bear. In the entire world. There’s just me and Hunter and this indescribably perfect us.

I step away from Olivia. “I’m going in.”

“Okay.” She stops dancing. She may possibly think I’m headed to the little girl’s room and needs a wing woman, so I clarify.

“I’m doing this.”

“This?”

“I’m all in.”

Olivia nods, but looks confused. “Commitment is good.”

I’m nervous about making a public commitment. Claiming this man in front of everyone when we’ve been flying under the love radar. Showing the entire world just how much I care. I steal a can of beer from a passing waitress, pop the tab, and tear off the ring. And then because I have to do something with the rest of the beer, I chug it, crumple up the can, and belch.

Olivia waves a hand in front of her face. “Classy.”

Crap. Now I probably have beer breath, but I don’t want to wait any longer. I shove the empty can into Olivia’s hands.

“I’m proposing. Get your camera ready.”

Olivia sucks in a breath. Or tries to empty the room of all oxygen. I think she just figured out my magic plan for tonight because she looks a little anxious. Her fingers tighten around the can. “Lola—”

I rub the ring against my shirt. It sparkles in the red and yellow neon glow of the beer signs. If I’d known tonight was my night, I’d have bought him a real ring. Something worthy of him. I’ll just have to use my imagination for tonight.

I give the purple rabbit’s foot hanging off my purse a quick rub. Hunter claimed it was penis-shaped, and he’s not wrong. If you’re gonna rub something, you might as well make it good. Thinking of Hunter makes me smile, and that reminds me why I want to put a ring on this man.

I sneak a peek. Yep. He’s still watching me, a small smile playing over his mouth. He’s undoubtedly seen my antics with the beer can but it’s too late now for a do-over. I am who I am, and I only play elegant and refined on TV. I tuck the tab into my back pocket and bound over to him.

His gaze drifts down my body and his eyes darken.

I rest a hand on his chest and lean into him. “Hey, baby.”

He drops a quick, hard kiss on my mouth. See? That’s as good as a public declaration.

“I need to ask you something.”

“Shoot.” He hands me a plastic cup full of lime-green goodness. Margarita beers are the best and Hunter knows how much I love them.

Since I need my hands for what’s coming next, I bang back the drink. Hunter watches me, his expression amused.

“Thirsty?” He starts to turn, as if he’s about to head straight back to the bar and fetch me round two. Ordinarily, I’d appreciate his thoughtfulness, but I need him here. With me. I snag the front of his shirt.

“Stay.”

“Okay.” He plucks the cup out of my hand and drops it on the table. “What’s up?”

“I have something to say to you.”

His steady gaze makes me hot, but I’m playing for keeps.

For forever.

All in.

I drop to my knees (both knees because otherwise I’ll be arrested for public indecency) and grab Hunter’s hand.

“Lola.” Hunter sort of sighs my name. He tugs gently on our connected hands as if he’d raise me up but I’m not going anywhere. Not without all of him coming too—because that’s the point of this scene. I reach behind me, pat my ass, and fish the “ring” out of its hiding place.

“Hunter Black.” I look up at him. God, he’s a pretty, pretty man. Usually when I’m in this particular position, I’ve only got eyes for one thing, but I’ve been missing out.

“That’s me.” Hunter tugs a little harder on our hands. We’re starting to attract attention, and not just from the booth of hotshots behind us. Hunter’s face gets that closed off look, slightly grim and way too distant. “Time to get up, Lola.”

I hold up the “ring” before I lose him completely and a flash goes off somewhere to my left. We’ve been captured for posterity.

“Will you marry me?”

Chapter Seventeen

Hunter

I’d like to blame what happens next on the fact that Lola’s on her knees before me, her laughing, sassy mouth just inches from my favorite part. That part loves our current position. It thinks we’re getting lucky tonight, that everything is going swimmingly.

My dick is so, so wrong.

Lola says something, and I can’t have heard her right. Or she’s playing a joke on me. Not that Lola’s actually much of a joker. She loves a good scene. Singing? Dancing? Declaiming at the top of her lungs? Check, check, and check. Lola plunges into life headfirst, entirely fearless. She holds up the tab from a beer can.

“What?” I pluck the metal from her fingers.

Her grin gets broader, happier. Leave it to Lola to turn even a simple trash disposal into a dramatic production.

“Marry me,” she says—or repeats?—as I flick the beer can tab onto the table behind us.

Christ.

I try to back up because she’s smiling up at me, her mouth inches from my not-so-happy dick, and everybody’s staring at us. The sound in the room settles to a hush.

I don’t know what to say. I drop Lola’s hand like it’s on fire and back up until my ass hits the edge of the table. I stand there in the middle of the bar and I do nothing.

“Hunter?” Lola blinks up at me, waiting for an answer.

She just asked me to marry her.Marry. Her. This isn’t supposed to happen. I’m not supposed to freeze. To not know what to say. I’m the guy who always has it together, who’s calm under fire, who faces down a twenty-foot wall of flame with just a hose or a Pulaski and who comes out on top. Marriage proposals don’t happen to me.

But everybody’s looking at us.Lola’s looking at me.

Waiting for an answer I can’t possibly give her.

Somebody’s congratulating me as a lucky dog in the most colorfully creative profane language ever. It might be Pick. Or Colt. Fuck me if I know.

Somebody’s calling for champagne (which is never, ever happening atDrink Up). And Lola… Lola’s not the kind of woman life keeps down. She bounces to her feet and launches herself at me, legs scissoring around my waist. Automatically, I cup her ass to hold her steady.

My hands meetbare skin. Lola’s wearing a thong. I know this because her skirt rucks up above her cheeks as she wriggles, getting comfortable as my palms cup her sweet curves. Okay. That part isn’t so bad, although I’m not happy about the view she’s giving the guys. Turns out I don’t like sharing Lola, so I fix her skirt.

“I surprised you.” She brushes her mouth over mine.

“Little bit,” I admit.

She kisses me again, slow and sweet, and maybe this could be okay. Maybe it could work between us.

“You got an answer for me?” Lola’s mouth brushes over mine again, making it hard to think. I think she’s trying to distract me, and it’s working.

I rest my forehead against hers. “This isn’t the time or place, Lola.”

Lola goes for my mouth again, so I peel her off and set her down.

“Lola.” When I open my mouth, the right words will emerge. I’ll have figured this out. I’ll know what to say. Except…

Life throws me a curveball.

A beautiful, five-foot-eight curveball. Possibly, I hit my head out there in the field. Maybe I’m lying on the forest floor with a lump the size of a golf ball on my forehead. Or maybe it’s the size of a basketball because I swear that’s Free standing in front of me. And my imagination’s working overtime because it’s even dressed Free up in a slinky little black dress that makes her look all legs and tits. We may not have parted on the best of terms, she and I, but there’s no denying that she’s a hot woman. She just doesn’t do it for me anymore.

“Hunter!”

Can’t-be-here Free takes a step toward me. She raises her arms like she’s considering pulling me into a hug until she spots Lola glued to my side. Yeah. There’s no version of Free that would likethat. It was okay for her to cheat on me, but I think she’s mentally exiled me to the land of no pussy since we parted ways.

My first clue that this isn’t my own personal nightmare is the way Lola perks up beside me.

“Hunter?” She kinda growls my name. I’m probably not supposed to find her jealousy sexy. She pushes away from me, stepping between me and Free.

Who’shere.

InBig Bear.

This week has not gone my way. It’s turning into an epic shit storm of nightmare proportions. First we nearly lose a teammate, then came Lola’s embarrassing public spectacle. We’re probably gonna be the Facebook stars of Big Bear, and I’m really not cool with that. Adding Free to the mix is just the cherry on my shit sundae. All I wanted was a beer and a little down time.

“Hunter.” This time Lola pokes my chest with her finger when she says my name. Hard, too. Bet if I looked, I’d have a red mark.

“Who is she?” Free’s glance flicks over Lola.

“Hunter’s fiancée,” Colt drawls. Fucker’s messing with me, but he doesn’t know who Free is. He doesn’t like her, which just goes to show that he’s a better judge of character than me.

“You’re engaged?” Free waves a hand toward Lola.

“No,” I say at the same moment Lola says, “yes.”

Fuck me.

Lola sucks in a breath, undoubtedly about to deliver some epic speech about true love or trifling bitches or even the goddamned Break Up Club. She has a monologue for every situation, and I just don’t want to hear it right now.

“Don’t.” I hold up a hand. “I can’t deal with your dramatics right now, Lola.”

I half expect her to bite me just then, but what she does is worse. Lola takes off. Olivia and Sarah Jo immediately bolt after her. Since I have no idea what to say to her right now, I let her go. She’ll be holed up in the bathroom and I can figure that out. Later. After I’ve dealt with Free.

“Way to fuck things up,” Pick observes.

I give him the bird, and then deal with my first problem. Free’s moving toward me, purpose written all over her pretty face. I move so I’m leaning against the wall. I’m not letting her trap me against the table, and I don’t want her anywhere near me.

“Tell me why you’re here, Free.”

She gives me a big smile, as if we’re best fucking buds instead of exes. As if the last time I saw her smiling wasn’t at another guy when she made her position about me and our marriage clear. She’s so full of shit.

“You need to go.”

“I want a second chance,” she says.

Guess I should have seen that coming. I mean, the only reason for her to track me down personally in a small town bar would be to make some kind of personal demand she can’t make through her lawyer. Maybe she means it, too. Maybe whatever went on between her and Joe was a blip or a mistake or just not quite the flavor of perfect she thought it was. The problem for her is that I’ve moved on. All the way on.

“No,” I tell her.

Short. Sweet. Really fucking clear. I’ve definitely improved my communication skills since our honeymoon days.

“Why not?” She moves closer.

“I have to spell this shit out?”

“He was a mistake.” Free waves a hand in the air. As if her vagina accidentally landed on some other guy’s dick by mistake, the way you might stand on someone’s foot in a crowded train. You’ll excuse me if I’m not buying what she’s selling here. “I was lonely. You were always on call or out at the fire station.”

She risks another smile at me. I’d like to pretend that a table full of my team members don’t have a ringside seat for the Hunter and Free reality show, but from the way they’re whispering, I’m pretty sure they’re taking bets and I’m not about to ask on what. I angle myself until I have an unimpeded view of the hallway to the women’s room. When Lola comes out, she and I need to talk.

“We were good together,” Free announces. “You said so yourself. We can be so again.”

“Uh, hello?” Lola chooses this moment to insert herself into the conversation. Free’s gaze flicks up and down Lola, assessing and dismissing. “I just asked this man to marry me.”

Free laughs.

She actually goddamn laughed.

I mean, I haven’t decided what I want to say. Or what I want to choose. This whole night is just careening out of control and everyone is watching us like we’re the evening’s stage show.

“Not now, Lola. Okay?”

It’s the wrong thing to say.

She looks at me for a long moment, and doesn’t utter a word. That’s the silence I should be filling up, the moment when I tell her that I love her and I accept and that she’s my every fantasy. Except I don’t. I just stand there and stare at her while Free laughs her ass off.

Lola glares at me and flashes me the bird. With both hands. And just in case I missed the message, she yells, “Fuck you, Hunter Black.”

And then she turns and runs out of the bar.

Chapter Eighteen

Hunter

I’m the Tin Man who doesn’t recognize that he’s had a heart all along. Nope. I assess, I plan, and then I act. Fire can be scary as fuck, but it’s also a series of variables. With enough foresight and preparation, it’s easy to understand the science of how your world burns down about you, and then take the appropriate preventative steps. When Lola is involved, nothing is predictable. I can’t plug A, B, and C into my equation and know what will happen next. Our relationship isn’t a constant, and she forces me to react rather than plan. She makes me feel—and that’s a scary proposition.

At first I can’t decide whether letting her go was the smartest decision I ever made or if I overreacted to her barroom proposal. She’s so enthusiastic about everything when we’re together; perhaps she just applied all that energy out of habit and she didn’t really mean the words that she said. That she loved me. That she wanted to put a ring on my finger and make me hers. I’ve said those words to someone else and heard them back; I know how easy they are to say without meaning.

But part of me wonders. Wonders if Lola meant everything she said that night. Because Lola does feel things, deeply, body and soul and whatever that intangible spark is that makes her her. I sound like a sap, even in my own head, but it doesn’t make it any less true.

The weeks slip by, one Monday blending with the next, and Big Bear Lake is as dry and hot as ever. I move from fire to fire, throwing myself into each new fire line as if it’s the most important thing I’ve ever tackled. As if I can dig hard enough or long enough to forget that when I go back to Big Bear, Lola won’t be waiting for me. The last I heard, she was packing up anyhow. Summer is almost over, and she has a play to stage in New York City. Soon she’ll put an additional four thousand miles between us, as if there isn’t already an uncrossable chasm between us.

I text her a few times.

She ignores me.

Good night. Goodbye. I thought we were friends. I thought we were…more. Because I sure as fuck am more when I’m with Lola.

Today, we’re hundreds of miles from Big Bear Lake where a blaze has burned ten thousand acres in the last twelve hours alone. The hotshot teams that have been on the job for the previous week are exhausted and need relief, and that’s where we come in. We’ll let them take their breather while we hold the line. An air tanker roars by overhead. When it hits the other side of the ridge, it will dump its load of retardant, painting the trees and the ground a bright pink.

The first few hours go fine. Colt and I work together seamlessly, cutting and pulling branches away. The goal is to dig a line big enough and wide enough that the fire can’t hop over it. To do that, we have to eliminate any and all fuel sources. Setting a few strategic backfires is also on the day’s agenda because by depriving the oncoming fire of its fuel, we starve it. Still, despite our best efforts, smoke hangs over our line in a heavy, stifling pall and radio communication has been for shit. When the wind picks up unexpectedly, my instincts clamor.

“I’m headed up to the ridgeline,” I tell Colt.

“I’ll come with you,” he says.

The hike up isn’t pleasant. The smoke grows thicker and denser, and we’re not at the top when I notice the first embers settling around us and igniting spot fires. It’s like being in a snowstorm except you lick this shit and you burn. Colt and I pick up the pace. Running in full gear is something we’ve trained for, so I ignore the stitch in my side, the pull in my calf muscles, and put on a new burst of speed. I think it’s gonna matter. I think—

We hit the top of the ridgeline, and Mother Nature reprioritizes what matters and what doesn’t. The main access road’s cut off, nothing but a wall of flame and smoke.

“Goddamnit,” Colt curses, yanking at the radio on his belt.

While he lags a few steps behind me, trying to raise the command center in the ultimate Hail Mary pass, I tear down the ridgeline. We have to get out of here. Now. Thirty minutes ago would have been better. An hour ago ideal. The wind’s shifted on the other side of the ridge, and we’ve been working here, oblivious. Somebody, somewhere, has made a mistake or has failed to anticipate a shift in the weather because we’re fucking cut off. We knew we had fire on two sides, but now it’s on a third, and if it ignites on the fourth, we’re done and not in a go-home-and-have-a-beer way. We’ll be permanently retired.

“Hike out. Now. Drop everything but your packs.” I bark the order, already counting heads and motioning toward the trail.

No one argues. The higher-ups can eat the cost of the lost equipment. I don’t fucking care. Chainsaws and shovels are merely stuff. They can be replaced.

Colt catches up with us, looking grim, and we all pick up the pace to a dead run. No one says much. This is partly because we’re hauling ass, trying to make it down through the canyons and out to the road where our trucks are parked. We need all the air we have because it’s getting smokier, harder to breathe. If the embers on top of the ridgeline were the first snowflakes in a pretty storm, we’re hiking into a blizzard now. Embers rain down fast and thick, stinging where they hit exposed skin. I’m hot, sweat pouring off me, but stripping down now would be deadly.

“Feels like Tahiti,” Pick grumbles. “But without the sexy dancing or the palm trees.”

“I’d take the ocean right now,” I admit. An ocean would be a fucking miracle—and it would take that much water to put out the flames bearing down on us. We have to make it through the canyons. We have to.

Except we’re not going to.

The goddamned wind shifts some more, and there’s that fourth wall of flame, racing to cut us off from the canyon and the comparative safety on the other side. Colt’s running and cursing into the radio, but all he raises is static. And there’s not much the brass can do for us now—no tanker could get here fast enough or do enough.

We’re on our own.

Embers are raining down around us. We’ve got one shot, and that’s in the burn out I spotted on our hike in. The ground there is blackened and charred, so there’s no fuel to feed the oncoming fire. It might be the one blank spot where we can hide. Our one chance at surviving this—and we’re a minute out.

I look at Colt. He’s the team leader, but I’m his second. I’m also older and bring a different kind of experience to the table. In San Francisco, as part of the fire department, we fell back to the street when a building was too engulfed to enter.

“Burn out at six o’clock,” I bite out. “In about one hundred yards.”

“We take cover,” he tells me. He’s trying this on me for size. He’s certain it’s the right call, but he won’t gamble with our lives unless I agree. Unfortunately, I do. The flames whip toward us, coming from all sides, and there’s no magic helicopter hovering overhead to pluck us from the inferno. And even if a ladder magically descended from the sky, there’s no time to send every man up.

“Deploy,” I bellow, leading the way into the burn out. We don’t have time to waste.

We form a tight circle. The ground’s scraped earth here, and it doesn’t offer much to burn other than us. That’s all the incentive we need to haul ass to unbuckle packs that are now fifty pounds of deadweight and toss them back beyond the patch of dirt where we’re going down. I unzip and yank my shelter out of the pouch on the bottom of my pack. I rip open the Velcro and plastic packaging like it’s fucking Christmas and this is the best gift ever. I give it a sharp shake and then step inside, still standing up, and yank the shelter over my head. Christ. This is going to suck. I just hope I’m not shaking hands with Jesus himself in a few minutes.

“Down,” Colt barks. “Heads in, feet out.”

The team hits the ground hard and fast. We all know this drill and how likely the outcome is to suck. Deploying the shelters is a last ditch Hail Mary. You think they train us for real on this? Come on—you tell a guy to wrap himself in tinfoil and then spray his ass with five-hundred-degree flames and he’s gonna rethink his job prospects fast.

The theory here is that the soles of our boots will deflect the heat and save the rest of us. Yes, we’re literally holding our feet to the fire and hoping for the best. If you’ve ever wondered how a potato feels when you tinfoil it and shove it in to the campfire, here’s your chance to find out. We’ve practiced this move hundreds if not thousands of times because fire doesn’t give you time to read the instructions or ask questions.

Colt and I are the last to hit the ground. We make sure each man is down and covered before we drop. There’s nothing more I can do now except pray.

Lying here waiting? Not my thing. I prefer to meet life head on. I fight, I dig line, I give my job everything I have. I train my guys, running mile after mile with a regular, pounding rhythm. Disciplined. Predictable. Steady. My life never skips a beat.

Now I have too much time to think when I’d give my left nut to be acting. Doing. Making this shit happen for my team. Now the fire’s in charge, however. It starts off like rain, deceptively gentle. Just a rhythmic lull-you-to-sleep sound as the fire eats its way through the fuel supply between it and the burn out where we’re waiting. It’s like rocking back and forth on a real nice cruise ship, the walls creaking ever so faintly as the waves pick the boat up and shake it gently. This isn’t so bad.

Colt barks out a reminder to scratch out the ground in front of our faces. That inch of dirty space might be the buffer we need to keep the heat from searing our lungs from the inside out. I can’t get the horror stories out of my head. I keep replaying all the deaths I’ve heard about over the years, and the urge to run is almost overwhelming.

And if I’m thinking this shit, so are my guys. As we wait it out, some people pray. Some people curse. Me? I’ve got Lola as my inspiration and I know what she would do. I open my mouth and sing at the top of my lungs.

“Ninety nine bottles of beer on the wall,” I bellow. Fuck you, fire. Fuck you, whoever dropped the ball and let our escape route get cut off. I can’t sing for crap, but I need my guys to know I’m here for them, and my only other party trick is to recite the presidents of the United States. Right now, beer sounds way better than a bunch of guys in suits. The not-rain picks up its patter, embers and ash hitting the shelters, as the fire moves closer.

For a painful moment, I’m the only guy singing. Then Colt breaks into rusty song, and Pick follows. We could fucking bust out a recording contract or something when we make it through this. Mostly I’m gonna go with the power of positive thinking. We’ll hang out here for a while, enjoy our up-close-and-personal view of the ground, and take ten. And because it’s a killer fire, we might take twenty because I’m not gonna lie. Once the fire passes over, I might need a few more minutes to catch my breath. Say a prayer of thanksgiving to the universe. Important stuff.

Pretty soon it’s way too tropical inside my shelter. I force myself to breath slow and easy because hyperventilating won’t help. I dig my hole in the ground, soaking my bandana in water from my canteen and then pressing my nose against the damp fabric. The fire’s loud now. It sounds as if NASA’s decided to perform lift off right over my head and I’ve got the jet fuel of a ninety-ton rocket backwashing over me.

I sing as long as I can. Get from ninety-nine bottles to eighty. The rest of the case is gonna have to fend for itself. I’ve got a funny note from Lola taped inside my helmet. She gave it to me a few days before she proposed. She said she’d heard that the other hotshots taped pictures of their girls inside their hats, and she felt sorry for my lonely, empty hardhat. She gave me a stick figure drawing of herself blowing kisses on a purple Post-It note. I never got the chance to ask her if the mess of pen lines the kisses were aimed at was supposed to be me, a tree, or some kind of mutant cow. With Lola, you never know.

But the fact is that I don’t have a real picture of her, just a few quick snaps on my phone, and that hits me harder than I expected. We met and were kinda a summer thing. We weren’t supposed to be long-term. If I had to do it over, I’d change a few things. She was right that my hardhat was lonely. It was fucking missing out on life—and Lola. If I make it out of here, I’ll make up for my mistakes. She filled up places in my life and my heart that I didn’t realize had gotten so empty.

Somewhere, somehow, she’s become more to me than a casual friend or a convenient fuck. And yet when she offered me more, I ran scared. I hit the ground and I sheltered in place and I didn’t fight for her. For us. Someone’s cursing to my left and another guy is chanting a name. Might be his girl, his dog, someone who matters to him though, and he’s gonna go out thinking about that special someone. Me? I’ve got no one. Just T-Rex back at my place, and while he’s something, he’s not everything.

He’s not Lola.

And just like that, I know I don’t want to play with her any more. I want the real deal.

Because I love her.

She’s Lola—my friend. My lover. My everything. And sure I want to fuck her because she makes my dick wake up and sing hosannas when she walks into the room or gives me that wicked smile of hers. But that’s only part of her attraction. She makes me smile back, makes me want to be a better man, the kind of guy who could be the hero in her play—and in her life. It just sucks that it takes a near-death experience to make me realize the truth. And no, I have no idea how this happened. How my crusty, grouchy, closed-off self became the man wearing his heart on his sleeve, trying and failing to come up with some kind of romantic, meaningful message that he can scratch into the ground and that will survive this shit storm.

But I can’t think that way. I need to make it back to her so I can tell her how I feel in person.

Boy, my timing sucks.

I think we can all attest to that. The soles of my boots heat up and the freight train parks itself over my head. You can read about fire and you can stand feet from a blow up that’s reaching eight-hundred-degrees in its center, but nothing prepares you for lying in the heart of a wildfire. Waiting to find out the only way you can if the shelter will do its job, if the flames will burn over fast enough, if you’re gonna have a tomorrow.

After twenty of the longest minutes of my life, the freight train noise is long gone, and the wind’s died down. I no longer have to fight to keep the shelter down, and the air I suck into my lungs seems cooler. Or maybe that’s me being optimistic. I ease up cautiously.

The heat doesn’t sear my lungs and that’s a fucking plus. I don’t die, don’t burst into flame like a vampire doing a meet-and-greet with the sun. I’ve survived. If anyone asks, I’ve got ash in my eyes. That’s why they’re watering. No other reason at all. The area around the burn out has been reduced to stumps and ashes courtesy of today’s wildfire. I bark out an all-clear as I inspect.

“Fall out,” Colt says in a smoke-roughened voice. He might as well say holy fuck or announce that drinks are on him because we’re all here, some standing a little more steadily than others. That’s fine. I walk around, lending a hand, making sure the others are really, truly okay—and we are. There are some burns and some singe marks, but everybody’s up. We line out and start our march down the mountain. Some of us won’t be back. Nearly dying makes you think about your priorities, and while this job is my life, it won’t be for everyone.

Emergency vehicles, trucks, and crew vehicles line the road and point the way to the first aid station and the command post. SOP calls for one fire crew to anchor the road, while the others go up the mountain to fight the fire. You’re the team holding the bridge and you don’t ever fucking let go, or you’ve just cut off the escape route for every man on the mountain. We’re a bunch of soot-streaked, stinking, filthy Persephones resurrected from the grave and trudging down the mountain.

While we make our way through the silent crowd, Pick turns to me. “What are you gonna do first?”

What do you do when you’ve stared death in the face (or he’s felt up your ass and attempted to turn you into a human blowtorch)? I’ve been handed a second chance I don’t deserve, and I’m enough of a bastard that I’m seizing it with both hands. And while a shower and a cold beer or six figure in my near future, they’re the supporting cast. They’re not the star of the what-matters-in-the-Hunter-verse.

I don’t even have to think twice. “Lola.”

Chapter Nineteen

Hunter

Yes, I go straight to the cabins at Baby Bear Lodge as soon as I’m released by the incident commander. The hundred miles between Lola and me is just a blip, a blur of trees and highway as I haul ass to get to the one place I want to be. Can you say traffic laws optional? I’ve got one job, one second chance, and I’m getting this right. So when I turn into the road leading to the cabins, I’m going a little too fast. Gravel pings off the side of my truck as I come to a stop. If this were a movie, Lola would come bounding out of her place, all slo-mo and gorgeous while a sappy soundtrack played in the background and a chorus of fucking angels belted out hallelujahs. And you know what? I’m all for that. Lola deserves that. She’s an incredible woman and a salute by the heavenly host isn’t too much to ask.

Except Houston, we have a problem. I do a quick scan of the parking spaces fronting the cabins. Lola’s truck is gone. I swing down from my truck and make for Lola’s porch. She’ll be back. From wherever it is she’s gone when I was ready to pour out my heart. I’ve even bought roses. Two dozen bright red roses that I picked up in the world’s quickest pit stop. Lola loves her props and I’m gonna need all the help I can get. Plus if she’s too pissed, I can use the bouquet to put some space between us. Hold the flowers in front of my dick as a shield. Stick a rose between my teeth and get my flamenco dancer on. Lola would love that last one—she loves a good performance.

A door opens and shuts. Maybe it’s just Lola’s truck that is AWOL. Or in the shop or out on loan or nose-down in a ditch somewhere (I’ve seen how she drives). I shift so I can see, but it’s only Olivia strolling toward me. She’s perfectly nice and ordinarily I’d be happy to see her and shoot the shit, but I really need to see Lola now.

“Hunter.” Olivia definitely doesn’t sound thrilled to see me. She was at the bar when Lola proposed and she’s Team Lola all the way. I appreciate her unwavering support. Someone needs to have Lola’s back, and since I was being a stupid dick, she’s stepped up. I’m sure there’s something in the girl code that spells out how I pay her back, but I’m a guy. I give her the chin tip and refrain slapping her on the back.

“Where’s Lola?” I give her a smile despite the pathetic note in my voice. Yes, I’m ready to beg. I guess when you fall in love, you lose a certain amount of dignity. That’s fine. All I need is Lola.

Olivia returns my smile with a long, slow look. I rethink my come-straight-here plan. I probably should have prioritized the shower so I could be more presentable. Right now I smell like wood smoke, fusees, and dirt.

Bless her, though, Olivia just sits down next to me, far enough away that there’s no chance of us accidentally touching. She’s the only woman I know who would wear dry clean only clothes while roughing it in a cabin.

“Rough day at work?”

“You could say that.”

She nods, lost in thought. I rub the rose-free hand over my forehead while she mentally weighs the pros and cons of giving me any information.

Finally, she gives one of those sighs that holds a thousand different layers of meaning, none of which I get. I do best with words and other direct forms of communication. Maybe I should buy Lola a skywriting service for our anniversary so that she can always get her point across.

“It’s been a while,” Olivia points out.

“I made a mistake,” I tell her. “I get that. But I’m here now and I want to fix it. Us. I want to fix us.”

Olivia sighs again—which does not bode well for my romantic ambitions—and holds out the bottle of water she’s clutching. I’ll take it. It feels like I’ve already drunk enough water to float a ship through the Panama Canal, but I’m dry from the inside out. Kind of have an urge to go swimming too. I wonder if I can talk Lola into skinny dipping with me.

“Lola’s not here,” Olivia says finally.

“I’ll wait.”

“Long wait,” Olivia offers.

I grunt. While quick would be my preference, Lola’s totally worth waiting for. I’m kind of looking forward to all those relationship moments when she makes me wait for her—outside a dressing room at TJ Maxx, in the truck because she’s run back inside for one more thing, or (my personal favorite) at the front of a church where she’s gonna make me hers once and for all. Go big or go home—and I want it all with Lola. If the florist sold rings, I’d have picked up a diamond the size of her head.

“She went to New York,” Olivia adds.

Talk about burying the lead.

“What?”

The look she gives me this time is one of pity.

“She went to New York, Hunter,” Olivia says.

“Permanently?”

Olivia pats me on the arm. “Indefinitely. New York’s expensive. I don’t think she’s decided yet what she’ll do long-term. Her play may or may not move from Off-Broadway to Broadway, and that would change things. Her agent thinks she’s going to have other opportunities as well. She’s really going places.”

I’m happy for her, but so damn sad for me.

Olivia pats me on the arm again, and this time she adds a rubbing motion. Sympathy touches—I am so screwed. She doesn’t think Lola is coming back, and she doesn’t think I stand a chance.

“She’s not here.” Since my heart’s busy panicking, my mouth blurts out something stupid.

“Nope.” Olivia rubs my arm harder. I think the skin might come off.

“I want her back.”

Olivia smacks my arm, her palm finding a fresh burn. I wince and she glares. “You had your chance. She rolled out the red carpet and you left her hanging in front of a bar full of people. Now she’s moved on and you can go find some other nice girl who’s happy with whatever tepid version of a relationship you serve up. Even if there wasn’t an entire country between you, you dug an emotional pit the size of the Grand Canyon when you embarrassed and disappointed her like that.” She stabs an accusatory finger into my chest and then leans in. She’s got a pointy finger. “You leave her alone.”

The roses aren’t going to be so fresh by the time I find Lola. “I screwed up. In my defense, she surprised me and I had some shit playing in my head that colored how I reacted. That wasn’t okay. I get that, and I’ll apologize. You want me to grovel? Done. You want me to tell the entire world that I was a stupid, shortsighted idiot who had a chance to live happily ever after and who pissed all over it? I’m your man. No.” I slap the roses into Olivia’s arms. “Scratch that. I’m Lola’s man. Even if she doesn’t want me anymore, I’m hers, inside and out. And if that means moving to New York to be with her, it’s done. I’ll do anything it takes to make her mine.”

Olivia’s face is perfectly blank, wiped clear of all emotion. She inspects the roses, which are starting to look a little the worse for wear, and then she gives my face similar treatment. I stare back. I don’t think my words are making much of an impression.

“I love her. I worship her. She drives me crazy in the best and worst possible ways, and I’ll bet forty years from now she still surprises me.” I shrug. “And I want every second starting from now until that fortieth-year surprise with her.”

Olivia snorts. “Forty years is a long time. You barely managed forty days.” She pauses for a moment as if she’s actually trying to calculate the total number of days that Lola and I have been together, then continues. “How can you be sure? The sex is awesome now, and you’re missing Lola. But what happens forty weeks from now when you meet someone new?”

“I love her,” I repeat. “I’ve thought about it”—while a five-hundred-degree wildfire did its thing right over my head—“and I’m certain. She’s my one.”

“I don’t believe you.”

I consider repossessing my roses but that would be petty. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned this summer, it’s that you don’t get between girlfriends. Lola may be eight states away from me, but Olivia can still fuck me over in ways that defy the imagination. She’s the bestie. I’m the supplicant.

“It doesn’t matter what you believe. Lola matters.”

True story right there.

Olivia starts pacing back and forth in front of me. I actually have to scoot backward because otherwise she might pitch right off the porch and there’s no way that helps my cause. “Guys come, Hunter. They come—and they go. Lola’s had her fair share of the comers. Her ex was an emotional iceberg, too. So convince me. Why should I tell you how to find her?”

“Executive summary? I love her. You want details? You want to know what that means? I don’t know. I just know that I’m going to take care of her, no matter what that takes. My biggest regret is not giving her an answer when she asked me to marry her, and then I almost died, so that seems pretty close to divine fucking intervention to me. Lola’s an amazing woman with a big heart, and I’m just hoping she has room in there for me.”

“You suck,” she sighs. “You completely, utterly, and totally suck.”

“Duly noted,” I say.

She sighs and punches something into her phone. “Directions. And an address. Use them wisely or I’ll kill you.”

Olivia may be wearing flannel pajama bottoms covered with tiny pink ducks, but she’s no softie. She stares at me, searching my face as if the outcome of my plea is written there. I wish it were. I wish she could read me and tell me what would work, what to do. I’d give my left nut for a cheat sheet except that if I’m lucky, Lola takes me back and maybe someday she wants to procreate. I imagine a baby girl with Lola’s eyes and her smile. She’d have me wrapped around her chubby little fingers.

While I’m contemplating future progeny, Olivia elbows me harder than is strictly necessary. “No daydreaming.”

“I’m not,” I tell her, meaning every word. “I’m just spying on my future. I hope.”

Lola

After I hauled ass out of Big Bear Lake, I hit the airport. Since I’d sublet a furnished apartment for the next two months in New York City, it’s not like I had to do extensive packing to move from Big Bear to the Big Apple. I tossed my clothes into a couple of duffel bags, sucked up the excess baggage fees, and was soon standing on the curb outside JFK. It was all painfully easy, made even easier by the fact that somehow I scored a free upgrade to business class. Clearly, the universe wanted to make things up to me.

It’s not that I’ve never made a fool of myself over a man before. Hello. I’m the founding member of the Break Up Club. I’m no rookie. As the plane taxied down the runway at San Francisco International Airport, I told myself to look at Hunter as a research opportunity. I could write him into my next play in a less-than-flattering role. He could be the villain, or the idiot who ends up wearing an ass’s head and worshipping at the feet of Titania—and I’m Titania in that scenario.

By the time the captain turned off the Fasten Seatbelts sign, however, I still hadn’t convinced myself that Hunter was a primo research opportunity. In all truth, he was more like Waterloo, and I was playing the part of Napoleon. I kept making advances, certain that just one more strike would make him fall for me, all while the sacrifices were mounting on my side. When the stewardess leaned in and asked me what I’d like to drink, I had a list. And by the time we were wheels-down at JFK, I had all of business class singing show tunes with me. Free champagne is my new favorite lubricant.

Now I’m here and Hunter is firmly behind me. It’s not as if I have time to be lovesick—I’ll have to add that to my calendar for a later date. Staging a play is time-consuming. I spend almost all my time in the theater. In addition to the rehearsals and constant tweaks to my script, there are meetings about the stage design. Lighting. Costumes. Publicity. The days blend together, the hours of practice punctuated by a few moments that stand out, moments like the first time I step onto the stage where I’ll be performing. My play. In front of real, live people. I have to fight the urge to hurl—puking isn’t professional and it would make a terrible mess out of the stage. Still, I can’t help staring at it. It’s a nice, big rectangle. Nothing out of the ordinary, except it’s mine. Not yet. Soon. I’m gonna stand out there alone, bathed in the spotlight, sharing my play with the world.

Olivia and Sarah Jo text me pretty much every day. Neither one has left Big Bear Lake yet. Olivia’s up to something covert (my new theory: California is finally making good on its threats to secede from the union and she’s an advance scout), but Sarah Jo is just trying to earn a living. Four days after I abandon ship for the bright lights of the big city, she starts an Instagram account chronicling her adventures as a camp cook. Okay, she claims to be chronicling her successes, but that must be a different account. One I’ve yet to discover. Because Sarah Jo is an even worse cook than I suspected, and those poor hotshots are about to drop a ton of weight.

Eight weeks after I arrive in the Big Apple, opening night has snuck up on me. The scene backstage is as crazy as you’d expect. Stagehands rush back and forth, moving shit from point A to point B, and there’s plenty of loud commentary. I finished hair and makeup thirty minutes ago, and now I’m standing in the wings, waiting. Not freaking out. Yet.

I suck air. Let it out. That’s about as Zen as I’m getting right now. This is the biggest stage of my life. This is what I’ve always wanted, what I’ve written, dreamed, strived for. What if I get it wrong? What if I blow my one chance?

A powder brush smacks me in the face. “Stop sweating.”

Sam is an awesome makeup artist. He’s just not so good in the hugs-and-sympathy department—although he’s probably the guy most likely to have a Valium or an Ativan tucked into his pocket.

“What if I’m not enough?” I speak around the brushstrokes blotting up all the unfortunate signs of my nerves. I don’t have to bullshit Sam. He expects the talent to be nervous.

He hums as he turns my face left and then right, inspecting his handiwork. “Sunshine, you fake it until you make it.”

“Maybe I’m tired of faking,” I admit.

“Freak out tomorrow,” he says firmly. “You’re ready for tonight.”

But you see, I’m the kind of person who gets in the car and then misses the last rest stop for about a billion miles, and my choices are pulling over to the side of the road to pee or trying to gut it out for the rest of those million-billion miles. I’m not the queen of preparation. I’m just the opposite.

“I’m scared.” And whiney, but he can take that up with management.

“We all are, but you’ll look amazing out there.” He pats me on the butt. “Break a leg, darling, and then come back here and tell me all about it.”

Well, when he puts it that way… I suck in a breath and step out onto the stage. The theater is packed. Olivia and Sarah Jo wave at me from the front row, but I’m in character now, and I ignore them. I’m Harrie, the heroine of the Break Up Monologues, serial break up artist and eternal seeker of the elusive happily-ever-after. For this first act, I’m dressed in schoolgirl chic—torn blue jeans and a T-shirt, paired with pink bedazzled sneakers and pigtails.

“Here’s the thing: I’ve been a serial relationship failure since the fifth grade. What happened in the fifth grade, you ask? I met Larry, and Larry sent his best friend to break my heart. Ben asked me out for Larry and then carried my answer back to Larry. It was a prehistoric version of a messaging app, the fifth grade version of Tinder. Our eternal love progressed rapidly. The day after I agreed to go roller-skating with Larry, he sent me a construction paper card. My Larry was a man of few words, and he’d decided to let a few specially selected candy conversation hearts do the talking for him. I merited I love you and Let’s kiss and Sure love. I got all the colors, too. I ate the candy, and then I roller-skated with Larry. I thought it went great, but the next day, Ben approached me and said ‘Larry doesn’t like you anymore. You’re dumped.’ And by recess, Larry was going out with my best friend. Clearly she had yet to learn about the girl code.”

And it turns out that tonight is magic after all. As Harrie, I have the audience laughing and groaning and right there in either the palm of my hand or bouncing up and down on my heart. I’m not sure which one it is, but it’s such an amazing feeling that I can’t help grinning. This night, this place, this moment is almost entirely perfect.

Hunter

I’m wearing a fucking suit. You’re right. I know what you’re thinking. I’m not the kind of guy who sports a three-piece. There’s no monkey suit hanging in my closet because there’s no place for dry clean only in my world. But this is Lola’s night and I’ll pay her the respect of dressing up.

Her performance is pure genius. And no, I’m not surprised. She’s a smart woman, but I’ve never seen her on stage, never watched her doing her thing like this. It’s like fighting fire. You know what gear I wear, you know what a wall of flames looks like. In theory. But the actual living, breathing, people-eating fury of the thing? Yeah. You can’t imagine that until it’s singeing your fucking eyebrows. It’s the same for watching Lola act her heart out up there on that stage. I knew she was an actress, a damned good one. Hell, I’ve jacked the beanstalk way too many times to that laundry detergent commercial she did. But seeing her like this from just feet away is amazing. Scene after scene, she blows me away.

Fuck this.

I’m all in. Balls out. Putting my money where my mouth is. Because that’s my Lola up there ripping my heart out.

Lola

I’m launching into the last monologue when someone in the audience gets up. God. Am I that bad? Just like that I’m not Harrie the Bold, Harrie the Funny, Harrie Who Absolutely Will Find Her Prince Someday. I’m just me, Lola, and it kinda sucks. Not gonna lie. Whoever it is didn’t even spring for the best seats down in the first rows—he’s way in the back as if he bought the tickets at the last minute at one of those discount ticket kiosks. So fuck him if he didn’t get the Lion King or Wicked. He gets me.

He…

Comes striding down the aisle, so fast and determined that the ushers can’t catch him. He stops at the edge of the stage, and rests his arms on the edge. And for just a moment, with the lights in my eyes, half-Harrie, half-me, I can’t tell who it is. He’s big, though, and his suit is really nice.

“Lola?” I know that voice—or I’m having the world’s most ill-timed hallucination.

“Hunter?” The stupid echo flies out of my mouth before I think about what I’m saying. I’m off-script. On opening night. This is so many shades of wrong and bizarre. Hunter isn’t supposed to be here; he has a job and a place in California, where they need him. He fights fires. He probably keeps the whole state from burning down. Single-handedly.

And I still love him. As the lighting guy apparently comes to the probably panicked decision that he’s missed a memo about a production change and lights my firefighter up with a powerful spotlight, I realize that I love him even more than I did before. I missed him. He was gone from my Mondays and Tuesdays (and from every other day ending in “Y,” of which there are far too many), but he wasn’t gone from my heart. I should have gotten back on that plane. I should have demanded another chance. I should have gone for gold and proposed in quieter, less public circumstances. Hunter is a private person. He fights to keep the rest of us safe, so he’s not big on risk-taking in his personal life. I should have known that a barroom proposal in front of all our nearest and dearest wouldn’t go over well.

I could have played it differently.

“You look nice,” I say lamely, proving that I definitely improve with rewrites. But it’s the truth. He’s so gorgeous. His black suit hugs his big body, outlining those powerful shoulders that can dig line for hours and hours on end—or hold me close. He holds me so effortlessly, like it’s just something he likes to do and so he’ll do it. Over and over. I could stare at him in that suit for hours, but I can feel the seconds slipping away from us, and our audience needs a new beat soon.

“I have something I need to say.” He doesn’t take his eyes off mine. I think he may be pretending that we’re alone, that there aren’t hundreds of people staring at the two of us. Whatever he has to say, it must be important that it couldn’t wait until, say, after my show. I feel my eyes narrow. Why is he here, fucking up my debut?

“It better be good,” I tell him in a whisper loud enough to reach the back of the house. “I’m a little busy here.”

The lighting guy is having way too much fun, too. The longer Hunter stands there, interrupting my scene, disrupting my practiced lines, the more the guy in the booth tinkers with the lights. Makes them softer, kinder, giving Hunter a gold corona as if he’s some kind of super hero bounding down the aisle. Maybe the wardrobe mistress would like to toss a cape our way.

Whispering and movement in the wings catches my eyes. The stage manager starts acting out a game of charades, flanked by two of the biggest security guys I’ve ever seen. He wants to know if he should intervene and send help. I’ve got this, though, so I wave him off.

Hunter smiles at me, and I’m a little jealous the entire house gets to witness that smile. He has the best smile in the whole world, and that’s not just because some days a Hunter smile sighting is rarer than spotting a dodo bird doing its business on your front lawn. That smile is a slow tug of happiness, his whole face lighting up. And he’s Hunter, so he’s as blunt as a two-by-four to the head.

“You want to know why I’m here?” he says from just below the stage.

I drop onto the floor, sitting cross-legged and lean forward, resting my arms on my knees. “You bet I do.”

He nods and slides his hands over my calves. I think he tugs me forward. Just an inch or two. Just enough to close that last bit of distance between us.

“I love you,” he growls.

The lighting guy must be a closet romantic because he switches up the lights and suddenly we’re bathed in a pink glow. It’s like Valentine’s Day puked on us or something.

“You have to tell me this now?”

He thinks about it for a moment, and then nods, thumbs curving around my knees. He’s got my body humming in front of an audience, and I focus on the growing need to kill him.

“There are times and places,” I whisper-hiss at him.

“Like a surprise proposal in front of a bar full of hotshots?”

Okay. He’s kinda got me there.

“This is revenge? Is this one of those moments where you suddenly grab my nose and yell got your conk, and then you feel better about the size of your dick and the show we gave your hotshots?”

His palms feel so warm on my skin. “This is about us.”

His eyes bore into mine. I can’t tell if it’s sweet, or if big, strong Hunter is freaked out by our audience.

I shake my head. “There is no us.”

“I love you,” he counters. Just like that. Right out in the open. No dressing it up.

“This isn’t a Choose Your Adventure monologue. You ended things when you rejected my proposal. You made your choice.”

“Now you choose,” he tells me.

I hesitate. Everybody is watching. I’m not Harrie, not anyone other than myself. I’m just Lola Miller—and Hunter’s watching me like I’m…everything. I’m the star of his show and he’s waiting for me to choose.

To choose him.

When I hesitate, he jumps up on the stage and extends a hand to me. “You asked me to marry you.”

“Weeks ago.”

“Let’s revisit.” He reaches for my hand, and I let him. Okay. Honestly? I glom onto his fingers like they’re a lifeline and I just jumped off the side of the Titanic. “We were in the bar and the jukebox was playing and you poured out your heart.”

And then my private, fuck-off, don’t-mess-with-me hotshot sweeps me into his arms and starts humming. He’s actually not bad. I mean, I think he’s a copyright-violation waiting to happen, but, but…he’s making music and he’s pulling me close, and we’re standing right here in the middle of a moment I’d like to hang onto forever. We waltz (because this is Hunter and he can’t just dance like an aimless white man) and he hums and the entire theater is watching us.

I can’t believe he’s doing this.

I can’t believe he’s here.

“And then the song came to an end and you looked at me.” He’s dressed up my disastrous proposal, skimming over all the less-than-pretty parts. And honestly? I don’t mind. I wouldn’t mind a fairy tale—or a fairy-tale ending. Hunter gives me a look that makes me melt, it’s so full of heat and need and hunger. I did not look at him like that, did I? Like I just wanted to eat him up?

“And you proposed to me,” he continues. “You asked me to marry you and be your husband.”

I make a sound that sounds suspiciously like something the Roadrunner would make. It’s more eep than yes, and way more choked off and needy than I’d like to admit. He puts his hand in his pocket and pulls out a box. A small, black velvet box tied with a lopsided blue ribbon. We’re still on stage. Still in the spotlight. Still almost, not-quite dancing.

“Hunter?” I really don’t like being off-script.

“Yes,” he tells me. “I’m saying yes.”

“You’re sayingyes?” My voice barely carries to the back of the house.

“This is for you.” He presses the box into my hand. “And this is for me.”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a silver beer tab. It looks suspiciously like the “ring” I offered him before. Still watching my face, he slides the band over the tip of his ring finger. It’s a tight fit—I hadn’t thought that plan out very well when I proposed. If he’d actually accepted, the ring would have cut his circulation off by now. Somehow, my fingers slide down his hand and stroke over the “ring.”

“Open your present,” he says gruffly.

“Right now? Right here?”

He risks a look at our audience and winces. “Yes.”

“Are you my yes man now?” I’d forgotten how much fun teasing Hunter is. There’s a new feeling in my stomach now, something light, and buoyant. I think I might actually be floating a few inches above the stage. Or maybe I passed out before the curtain ever rose, and now I’m having the best possible hallucination.

I pinch Hunter’s ass, just to make sure. His butt is solid and firm, the muscle barely giving. He gives me an incredulous look.

“Is this one of those sex revue shows now?”

Our audience laughs, delighted. Guess we’re all on the same page now.

“It’s the Hunter and Lola show,” I tell him. “Because I’ve got a fewyeses of my own to say. Yes. Yes, yes, yes.”

I pop open my box, and am almost blinded. I didn’t know it was possible to cram that many diamonds into a single ring. My ring sports a big, gorgeous stone in the center, surrounded by dozens of smaller diamonds. There are diamonds on the band too. If I held my hand up in the sunlight, I could blind passing pilots. It’s so perfect.

“Are these real?”

“One hundred percent,” he growls. Guess he doesn’t believe in costume jewelry. I might have to invest in an actual insurance policy. “Just like us.”

He pulls the ring out of the box and slides it onto my finger. “I didn’t rob a bank either,” he continues. “Or mortgage my soul to the devil. Just to you, Lola bear. I love you way too much, and this was easier and more portable than buying you a billboard to tell you how much.”

Color me convinced.

I throw my arms around his neck and then I throw the rest of me into his arms. His big hands grip me, holding me up, and then his arms close around me. In the movies, this would be the moment where the hero dips the heroine down for a big, dramatic kiss. But this is Hunter and real life, thank God. He dances me in a circle and then he finally kisses me.

He kisses me and I kiss him back, like we’re in a contest to see who can kiss longest, hardest, best. I think it’s a tie because whatever he gives me, I give back, and Hunter has so much to give.

My stage manager has the best sense of timing. As Hunter does his best to devour my mouth, and right before my hands can grab his ass and take the Break Up Monologues to a new, X-rated level, the curtain drops. Thunderous applause explodes on the other side of the velvet material, and Hunter looks a little dazed.

“I love you,” he says again.

“I—and about three hundred other people—heard you the first time. I just can’t believe you’re really here.”

He smiles, but he doesn’t put me down. That’s fine by me. “I never should have let you go. We need to talk.”

I wave my ring hand at him. “If you have cold feet—”

“There’s nothing cold about how I feel for you. I was thinking about a new eight-step plan,” he says. Since the stage manager looks like he’s about to birth puppies or something equally uncomfortable, Hunter slides me down his body and presses a quick kiss against my mouth.

“I love you, Lola Miller. You derail every plan and make it better. I never know quite where we’re going, but I know it will be the best ride of my life and I’d be the happiest man on the planet if you married me.”

“Are you sure?”

“With everything I am,” he says. “And I have a plan I think you’ll like.”

“I’m all ears.” Sam is hovering nearby. The applause from the theater reaches deafening levels, and we need to raise the curtain so I can go back out there and take my bow. I’ll bet Hunter has kissed all the lipstick off my mouth. I’ll bet everyone knows what we’re doing.

“A new eight-step plan—for sticking together and loving each other. It will take at least eight decades…but I promise to make those the best years of our life.”

“I love you, too.”

“You know…” I lean up and brush my mouth over his ear, so that only he can hear me. “Now that you’ve crashed my show and rewritten the ending, you’re gonna have to do this over and over for the rest of the run.”

He grins at me. “Thirty nights seems like a fair down payment on forever.”

The curtain starts to rise.

“Take your bow,” he continues.

“Are you coming?”

He shakes his head, already moving toward the wings. “Your moment, your show. I’ll be right here waiting for you. Always. You come back to me, and I’m a happy man.”

And then right before he slips into the shadows and I step out into the spotlight, he blows me a kiss. A completely ridiculous, over-the-top, wonderful kiss. I mime catching it and my ring sparkles in the glare, and then I give him back my kiss, my heart, everything that I am. I guess I do believe in happy endings after all. Happy endings and Hunter.

The End

Prologue

Pick

You know those how I met your mother stories? Where he looks at her and she looks at him, the birds start warbling Ode to Joy, and Mother Nature lights the whole scene up with a gorgeous fucking sunset?

Ask me how I met Sarah Jo.

Go on. You know you want to.

I’ll give you three guesses.

She was the porn star fielding my 1-900 call, you suggest? Not a chance. I don’t have to pay for sex. Not gonna lie—it’s tempting because then there are no misunderstandings or hurt feelings. I’m just renting hot, wet space and treating my dick to the manly version of a spa day.

Don’t be offended. I’ve never pretended to be a gentleman—or to have a filter. If the thought enters my head, it comes out my mouth. You take the good with the bad, and my super-sized, XXXL dick package and my filter-less mouth have an until-death-do-us-part relationship.

So take your second guess and cut me some slack. Blind date? Please. I’m too busy fighting fires to have time to date, plus there’s a singular lack of attractive, unattached women in Big Bear Lake. In fact, we’re dick central and we could use way more women in this particular part of Northern California. Some enterprising soul could make a fortune delivering mail-order girlfriends to my very horny teammates. Single women get plenty of dating action here. It’s a small town, not a wide selection. No one fixed me up with Sarah Jo. I didn’t take her out for a steak the size of her head or a bottle of not-inexpensive red wine. We didn’t dance, didn’t dine, didn’t exchange an awkward first kiss outside her door when I brought her home.

She tried to bash my head in with a baseball bat.

I’ll let you think about that for a minute.

I meet the girl of my dreams and she takes her best shot at killing me.

Buckle up, sit tight, and hang on for the ride because Sarah Jo and I are about to go lights and sirens. I’m on my way to Baby Bear Lodge to rescue one of my hotshot team members. He’s been sucked into the orbit of this crazy group of chicks who run something called the Break Up Club. For all you guys out there, that means they get together and roast us. Talk over all our shortcomings, compare dick stories, and set shit on fire. Being wiser (if not older) than Hunter, I’ve opted for the local titty bar over the local cabal, but I need another wingman and I’ve nominated Hunter in absentia. He’s relatively new both to town and to the hotshot team, so he may have overlooked the merits of taking the look-but-don’t-touch approach to life. Dragging him with me to watch half-naked girls gyrating on a stage is a kindness.

Not that the bar looks all that exciting from the outside. It’s one more dumpy, run-down building by the highway. The road slows to a meander where it passes through Big Bear Lake, with speeds dropping to a miserly thirty miles per hour. Still, if you blink, you’ll miss Tits Up. Some decorating genius painted it the perfect shade of brown to blend into the landscape, and nothing announces that you’ve just found a man haven. In fact, the only thing Tits Up had going for it is the obvious pair (or pairs) of things. Lots of boobs, lots of shaking and shimmying, and no need to talk.

My team singlehandedly keeps the place in business, officially because it’s the only bar with a full liquor license. The alternative is Drink Up (Big Bear Lake’s founding fathers showed a lamentable lack of creativity in their naming). The bar is only allowed to serve beer, although they bend the rules for those weird beer-margarita hybrids that come in a can. Let’s just say that a pop-top cannot replace the salty goodness of icy cold tequila and leave it at that.

By the time Colt pulls into the driveway at Baby Bear Lodge, however, I’m rethinking my plans for the evening. This is because the man was doing a hundred and twenty not thirty seconds ago. I’ve got whiplash from the slow-down. No ride to the bar is worth this kind of trauma. Colt shoves his cowboy hat back and folds his arms on the steering wheel, laughing like a hyena.

“I coulda gone faster,” he points out. “You need a barf bag?”

Har-de-har-har. Serve him right if I puke into that stupid hat he’s so attached to.

“Fuck you,” I grunt, fumbling for the door handle. I’m sure the ladies love his dimples but right now I just want to punch the shit out of him. If he went any faster, we’d be in fucking orbit right now. I have no idea how Adrian can still be asleep on the backseat.

“Seriously?” The stupid dimples in Colt’s face get deeper. “You ready to take our relationship to the next level?”

I concentrate on sucking in some air. It’s way easier to breathe now I’m not watching the hairpin turns in the mountain highway leap out of the dark at me.

You need someone to jump out of a plane into a fire? I’m your guy. Hike twenty miles into a wildfire and then play hide-and-seek with the flames? Again, I’m totally onboard. I’ve been singed with the best of them, have pushed my luck time and time again. Doing a hundred and twenty down the highway, however, isn’t my idea of a good time. Letting Colt volunteer to drive was a rookie mistake. The man’s a former racecar driver and he thinks doing sixty is like sitting in the slow lane with your thumb up your ass. Some people enjoy the backdoor action but it’s not his thing.

On the other hand, we did get here in record time.

So I settle for flipping him the bird and muttering an amiable fuck off as I swing down from his truck. He can’t even drive a normal truck—his is jacked about a million feet into the air on oversized tires that could crush the contents of your average Walmart parking lot and keep right on driving.

“You need a hand extricating our boy?”

I wave a hand and trudge up the drive. In a moment of genius, we decided that Colt would park at the bottom of the driveway so as not to alert Hunter to our presence. Not that the guy has anywhere to run to—the whole driveway’s blocked thanks to Colt’s monster truck. And just in case I really thought the stealth approach was the way to go, Colt gets busy changing the tunes. I wasn’t the only one miserable on the drive over since I made him listen to what he calls my “classical shit.” Colt claims that’s why he had to drive so fast. I claim he has no taste. Now country music blasts from the speakers, some dude whining about how he can’t live without this girl he just spotted in a bar, his bed, his best friend’s bed—I can’t keep track of that shit.

I hoof it to the top of the driveway double-time. The closer I get, the clearer it becomes that keeping my own noise down isn’t necessary. The Break Up Club girls are screeching and screaming at the top of their lungs as they beat the crap out of a piñata with a baseball bat. The enthusiasm they put it into it would be kinda cute if they hadn’t taped pictures of various guys to their target. I don’t need to be a genius to figure out those are the exes and the ladies are in a homicidal mood. As I watch, planning my extraction, the piñata gives up the ghost, flying apart at the seams and launching streamers, bits of photos, and candy into orbit. I pick a Snickers off my boot. Free snacks are the best. This is better than a movie.

Is it better than the titty bar however?

A small, curvy bombshell tears after a tall brunette. The tinier chick is bundled in a pair of men’s sweatpants and a white wife beater. She could find a job at Tits Up easily because she’s skipped the bra and she bounces left and right in a spectacular display of cleavage. A flannel shirt hangs off her waist. I’ve seen Sarah Jo around town a few times and rumor has it she’s about to start working at fire camp as a cook, but she’s always done an awesome impression of a turtle and practically yanked her head inside her oversized clothes to avoid meeting my gaze. But tonight she’s laughing. Fuck me, she’s practically cackling as she tackles the taller, yoga-pants-wearing gal and levels her.

I give her props for the take down, but what comes next is even better. Fucking dinner and a show tonight. I rip open the Snickers and lean against a handy tree. Sarah Jo and the other chick both lunge for the same super-sized licorice rope, tussling and laughing. If God were feeling benevolent, this is when the skies would open up and rain down enough water to turn this wrestling match into a mud fight. That would be fucking awesome.

Since the California drought shows no signs of quitting, however, I enjoy what I’ve got. Sarah Jo is no quitter, but the brunette chick has some crazy talented moves. They roll around, legs going everywhere, asses in the air, and Sarah Jo’s wife-beater climbs steadily toward her tits as she battles for control of the licorice rope. Moments later, she springs to her feet, waving the candy over her head. As if that’s not enough, she dances away, tears open the plastic wrapper, and licks the red tip.

Fuck. Me.

I need a distraction. I need to grab my boy and get the hell out of here. I do not need to start imagining Sarah Jo’s mouth closing around my dick and sucking me deep. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that whatever’s brought Sarah Jo here to Big Bear Lake, she’s got some serious issues and she doesn’t want attention. She wears more clothes than a convention of Mormons.

Lola and Hunter are squabbling about something. I take a step closer, trying to ignore the iron bar in my pants. It’s like a fucking dowsing rod except it’s pointing straight to Sarah Jo. I guess she’s a cool drink of water. She’s certainly cold enough. Despite being one of Big Bear Lake’s few single women, she’s made it plenty clear that dating and when hell freezes over are synonymous in her own personal dictionary. I don’t aim my hose where it hasn’t been invited, so I focus on Hunter and Lola, who’s busy giving him loud crap about his refusal to join in the mad scramble for the piñata’s contents. The woman has three volumes: loud, louder, and loudest.

“Who doesn’t like candy?” she says, hands on hips.

Hunter opens his mouth to disagree, so I step in and save his ass. He can thank me later.

“Better listen to your girl.”

Both Lola and Hunter turn to stare at me like they’re surprised to see me. Do I need an engraved invitation to crash their shenanigans?

“What’s up?” Hunter doesn’t sound thrilled. He starts patting his pocket as if he’s looking for his phone. He probably thinks I’ve come about a fire instead of on a mission of mercy.

“Came to drag you out with us,” I announce.

Did that sound like a threat to you? Because my words definitely get the attention of the two wrestlers. The brunette chick just snorts something under her breath, but Sarah Jo bolts toward us, grabbing the abandoned baseball bat. She goes all watchdog, her fingers tightening on the handle as she raises it like she’s more than ready to take a swing at any shit I toss her way. Hunter tenses. Lola mutters something. Hello, DECFON two.

And Sarah Jo stares at me. She’s got both hands on the bat. She looks downright terrified. I know I’m a big guy. I came out of the dark with no warning. But when she looks at me, I don’t think she sees me at all. She’s watching her past or some really bad memories—and she’s working herself up to take a swing at those demons.

I step out of the shadows and into the light so she can get a good look at me. She’s welcome to hit me if it makes her feel better but I want full credit for any skull-cracking I allow. This also gives me a better view of her face.

I could look at her face for hours. She’s pocket-sized compared to my bulk, a tiny, curvy dynamo biting a pair of lush, pink lips. I’d be happy to do the biting for her, to nibble on her all night. Her top slides down one shoulder and I have to force my eyes to stay put and not detour downward with her shirt. I mentioned she wasn’t wearing a bra, right? So you should pin a fucking medal on me right now. She’d be fucking hot if she didn’t look so scared. I may look like a Neanderthal, but I do have some rules. Consent is one of them. Orgasms and happiness for all is another.

I slide my hands up in the air. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Sarah Jo doesn’t say anything—and she doesn’t lower the bat. Her breath sort of whistles in and out, like she’s this close to losing her shit. I don’t know what would happen then, but I do know it wouldn’t make her happy. And she looks like the kind of girl who needs and deserves happy. Maybe it’s the pink in her hair. It’s a fucking cheerful color. It’s also still all messed up from her wrestling match, half falling out of the ponytail thing she’s pulled it back in, half bouncing around her face.

“Gotcha,” she mouths and takes a step backward. She lowers the bat but doesn’t let go of it.

“Brought company with me.” I nod toward the truck at the bottom of the driveway. If this girl gets any more scared, she might come apart at the seams. Someone picks this moment to open the truck’s door, light spilling into the cab. Looks like Adrian’s finally woken up and is in search of a tree for a pee break. Awesome. His free-swinging dick can finish the job of terrifying Sarah Jo. While she takes in the truck’s occupants, I inventory the surrounding carnage. The body count includes the dead piñata, a shit-ton of candy, and a half-dozen empty ice cream cartons. Clearly, no one here is lactose-intolerant.

“Busy night,” I say out loud.

Hunter eyes me. He’s given up looking for his phone. “What’s up?”

I lift a shoulder and check to make sure Sarah Jo isn’t sneaking up on me with her bat. “We’re headed to the bar.” I lean in and whisper-shout the next part just to give him shit. “The titty bar. You in?”

Hunter grunts less than enthusiastically. “I’m busy.”

“I can see that.” I smirk. “You and your girl are having one hell of a date night.”

Not my business if he wants to ménage a trois it with these ladies, although it’s downright selfish to hog all the single ladies. The man should learn to share his toys.

“We’re—” Hunter’s gaze slides to Lola, dips over her, and then moves on to the other ladies. He looks like he wished the words titty bar had never come out of my mouth.

“You’re seeing each other.” I drop down onto one of the logs by the fire and stretch my legs toward the flames. My seat’s not Barcalounger material, but I’ve parked it on worse out in the field. “You made her a cute little fire of her own and now you’re spending quality time together. I get it. Congratulations, man.”

Colt chooses this moment to make his grand appearance. Adrian has either gotten lost taking an epic piss or he’s crashed in the truck again. He pulled a late shift yesterday and he’s punch-drunk tired. He’ll be a lot of fun once I get a beer or six into him.

“Our boy coming with?” Colt asks.

I smirk. “Nope. He’s got a date with Lola, so we’re flying solo tonight.”

Colt looks over at Lola and his face lights up, dimples working overtime. It’s amazing the guy ever managed to win any races in his former life given how much time he devotes to thinking about girls. “He’s dating Lola Miller?”

I think he’s gearing up to offer himself as a substitute if Hunter’s not, so I jump in. Besides, if we wait for Hunter to find his words, we’ll still be here tomorrow. Hunter makes an iceberg look chatty. “Yeah.”

“Wow.” Colt whistles. “She doesn’t seem like his type.”

“I know, right?” I lean back. “She’s a class four rapid and he’s a really deep, really still pool of water.”

“Stagnating,” Colt adds.

“We’re not seeing each other,” Hunter protests. The poor sucker might even think he means it.

“Right.” My smirk gets deeper. He’s deciding where to punch me first. I can tell.

Or maybe he’s just coming up with stupid crap to say because the next words out of his mouth are: “Can you imagine anything less likely than Lola and I?”

“Oil and water,” Colt grins. “Yeah. We can see that. But sometimes that’s fun.”

Colt would know. The man’s an equal opportunity dater.

“Lola and I are not having fun together,” Hunter insists.

And… we have lift off.

Lola raises her phone and snaps a picture of Hunter. “I’m buying a new piñata.”

“Not dating, huh?” I knew Hunter was lying.

“No,” he snaps.

“You suck,” Lola announces. She stomps toward her truck. Colt, being a smart man, hightails it down the driveway to move his own truck out of her way. From the look of extreme displeasure on Lola’s face, she’d happily run our ride over if it got in her way.

“Not dating anymore,” I say helpfully. “You totally fucked that up.”

I finish my Snickers bar while Hunter holds some painful-looking internal debate with himself. I’m not much for monologuing myself.

“You ready to hit Tits Up?” I ask more to help him along. The look on his face is downright constipated. Whatever he’s contemplating, it’s not making him happy. A beer can only help, but he’s clearly not open to suggestions at the moment.

Hunter grumps something in my direction that might or might not be words and then strides off. Seconds later I hear the growl of a truck engine.

“Hope to fuck that’s not my ride,” I say to the rapidly emptying fire circle. I don’t think Colt would leave me stranded, but it’s been a weird night.

Sarah Jo makes a peeping sound from where she’s hovering on the edge of the action. Frankly, I’m surprised she hasn’t hightailed it back into the cabins and barricaded her door. Guess she really is hiding a backbone under all those clothes.

“Oscar the Grouch,” she says quietly.

“Excuse me?” I give up trying to play it cool so as not to crowd her or scare her. She could have ignored me or slunk away but she stuck around. Now she gets to talk with me. My dick perks right back up.

“That’s what everyone calls him, right? He’s just acting in character.” She shrugs, like it’s no big deal. Maybe it isn’t. Maybe she’s used to polite, gentlemanly, suit-wearing guys and some kind of Zen-like quiet zone shit in her personal life. Maybe that’s why I freaked her out so badly, coming out of the dark like a caveman as I did.

I don’t want to scare her. I should get up, go, give her her space. Instead, I keep right on talking.

“You gonna hit me with that?” I nod at the bat she’s still clutching. The brunette seems to have disappeared, and we’re alone with the fire someone needs to put out. Sarah Jo’s eyes dip to the bat in her hand. She looks sort of surprised, like she’s not sure how she ended up armed and dangerous. I’m sure plenty of criminal careers have started that way.

She mumbles something and tosses the bat onto the ground. Not too far away, I can’t help but notice. But then she lays in a course for me and comes right on over. She even offers me a handful of candy. The stuff’s probably been on the ground and beaten to a pulp by her bat. Piñatas have never struck me as terribly hygienic, but I snag her offering and tear open a package of mini M&Ms. The fire camp’s down a cook—again—and it was slim pickings in the cafeteria earlier tonight. The girls who cook for us can’t keep up with the demand. Sarah Jo sinks down on the edge of the log.

Since she looks a little hesitant, I try to be helpful. “I only eat little girls on Wednesdays and Thursdays, so you’re safe.”

“Until next week.” She sighs with mock seriousness. “Duly noted, Mister Hotshot.”

“You gonna give me shit if I stay here?” I drag my palm over my head. Fucking need to get a haircut sometime soon or I’ll look like Colt with his stupid, stubby man bun.

“You want to hang out here?” She sounds vaguely horrified.

Do I?

“Might be hazardous.” I rub my hand over my chin and give her my best mock-thoughtful look. “Seeing as how folks here like to wander around armed and dangerous.”

She snorts. Win.

Colt picks this minute to prove he’s waiting for me after all. The man starts honking up a storm. The cocksucker thinks he’s got musical talent because he varies the beeps and lengths like he’s playing me a symphony of hurry-the-fuck-ups. I get that sitting around in the dark waiting on my ass isn’t his idea of a good time, but I’d like to know that Sarah Jo’s okay. That’s what you do when you accidentally scare the shit out of someone. On the other hand, if she says she’s not fine, I’m not sure what I’ll do. Colt won’t wait all night for me and the only fix-it solutions I have are duct tape or kissing it better.

But I have to ask. “Are you okay?”

The question has her looking at me like I’m an idiot. “Fine.”

I gesture toward the bat. “You sure?”

“Yes.” She blows out her breath in a big huff, making her bangs dance around her face. I’m not sure how she got just parts pink, but it’s a talent.

“So you’re totally, completely good.”

She holds up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

And as if that’s not bad enough, seeing her tuck her pinky finger into her thumb and make the perfect space for my dick to play slip-and-slide, she sticks her tongue out at me. Hell yeah, my dick bellows. My inner caveman demands we toss her over our shoulder and find a mattress stat.

Time to go.

“You’re safe up here.” I have no idea where the fuck those words come from. They sort of slip out and I can practically see them hanging in the air between us. They also translate nicely into you fucking idiot. Sarah Jo’s fuckhot and more than a little sweet, but she’s made her disinterest in me—in any part of me, enormous hose included—perfectly clear and I have a hands-off, eyes-only date with a dancer named Candy Jones anyhow.

Sarah Jo blinks at me and chews on her lower lip as she processes my promise. She’s got a streak of caramel on her lower lip; she must have stolen the last Twix. I’m not sure how it happens, but my thumb swipes gently at the sticky spot. I’d rather lick her clean—and then lick her dirty for good measure. Too much? Yeah. I think so, too. She’s barely met me.

“You want to come with us?” I’m not sure where that idea came from. It’s not like there’s some kind of hard-and-fast rule that tit owners dance on stage and non-possessors-of-tits cool their junk in the audience, but I can’t remember ever seeing a girl watching the show. But maybe Sarah Jo’s the kind of person who likes breaking barriers. Maybe watching some girl shake her stuff is exactly what she likes to be doing best.

“To Tits Up?” She’s not scared anymore. Nope. She’s fucking shaking with laughter. Good to know I’m no longer the big, bad wolf.

“We can hit the place up.” I grin at her. Fuck, she’s kind of fun when she’s not hiding in her clothes. “Grab a beer. See the show. My treat.”

“Pass.” She makes a face. “If I want to see boobs, I can look down the front of my shirt.”

“You could pretend to be disappointed,” I point out. “You know, you’re rough on a guy’s ego. First you scream and point when you see me, and now you won’t even let me buy you a beer.”

“At a strip club.” She gets busy untying her flannel shirt from her waist and covering up. Guess she’s definitely remembered that I have a dick.

“Huh.” I stand up as Colt lays on the horn again. If he abandons me here, it’s a long walk back to fire camp. “Well in the spirit of fairness, we could look at tits tonight and then next weekend we could ride over to Sacramento. Find the Chippendales or something so we can look at dick packages.”

And then she giggles. She looks me straight in the eye, her face lights up, and she makes this fantastically dorky, wonderful high-pitched heehaw of sound that’s better than a million porn moans of do me harder, big guy.

“You have a good night,” she says.

I already am.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I met the mother of my children. She didn’t know it yet, but Sarah Jo was about to become mine.

Chapter One

Sarah Jo

“Kiss the first hotshot you see. Whoever’s first in line, just lay one on him.” Rosalie waves her spatula for her emphasis, ponytail bouncing like an exclamation point. She’s the head cook at fire camp and my boss for the last few weeks, which means I’m supposed to do what she says. Somehow, I don’t think sexually harassing the hotshot firefighters was what HR had in mind.

Another cook mimes kissing, hooking a tanned arm around the neck of an imaginary lover. “A hot kiss, mind you. You’re not kissing your grandma. A little lip, a little tongue—that lucky boy won’t know what hit him. Nothing to it. And nothing you haven’t done before, I bet.”

Oooh… now my co-workers are speculating about my sex life. So much for my plan to keep a low profile—I’m about as visible now as a fireworks show on top of Mount Kilimanjaro. I stand there staring at them like I’ve never heard of kissing, tugging my oversized flannel shirt tighter around me. It’s big enough that I could use it as a tent. Or a turtle shell. If I were super smart, I’d pull my head inside the flannel and not come out for another century or two.

“A hot kiss for a hotshot,” another whoops.

We’re an equal opportunity camp: if men think about sex constantly, so do the women. Even me. I devote plenty of mental time to kissing. First kisses, dirty kisses, kisses with tongue, butterfly kisses… don’t make me pick between them. I’m an “E—All of the above” woman when it comes to choosing my favorite. Rough kisses, soft pecks, Eskimo kisses, French kisses—yes, yes, and yes please. Really, even bad kisses aren’t all bad because you can share a good laugh with your fellow kissee about whatever it is that went wrong.

So other than the sad fact that I need to not draw attention to myself, I don’t have any problem with my boss’s demand that I kiss a hotshot. I’m happy to take one for the team and add to the photo gallery I’m keeping in my head. You thought only guys stored up spank bank material? Think again. Last night over s’mores and before the piñata-smashing main event, my friend Lola suggested we rename the spank bank.

Rub club.

Jill till.

The flick file.

I’ve stored up my favorite kisses over the years, and yes, I re-run them in my head when it’s time for a little ménage a moi. I may have a kissing addiction, if we’re being honest. I’ve got an entire highlights reel of best-ever kiss moments stored up in my head. I’ve been accused—with some grounds—of preferring the warm up kisses to the main act. Some people make an entire meal out of appetizers and skip the main course. I’m done apologizing for liking what I like—and so if I prefer tongue action to sausage action, so be it.

At the moment, however, I’m on a kissing hiatus. I may just possibly have kissed the wrong guy a little bit too much, resulting in my presence in this fire camp in Nowheresville, California. A girl has to kiss a lot of frogs to find her prince, and my last frog was a warty one with nary a crown in sight. I got no magic fairy tale ending where he morphed into Mr. Tall, Dark, and Regally Handsome in order to sweep me off my feet in his private Learjet to some obscure but filthy rich European country. I was the happy recipient of no tiara, no happily-ever-after, and no super-talented dick. Instead, I’ve ended up with life on the lam and a minimum wage job that requires me to both cook and do the dishes.

The cafeteria I’m standing in used to be a mess hall back in Civilian Conservation Corps days, a period that I’ll put in the category of long, long ago. The building is still largely utilitarian, but the words dilapidated, rundown, and on its last legs also come to mind because the decorating style runs to worn linoleum and fuzzed-out screens. The cooks prop the screen door open with a rock. It definitely isn’t the Ritz, with its wooden picnic tables dotting the surrounding clearing for the overflow crowd.

And it’s certainly no dating Mecca.

Not that I’m interested in dating.

Or guys.

Sex and anything to do with the penis-possessing members of society are strictly off-limits, see the aforementioned plan of flying under the radar and sticking to the spank bank. I’m supposed to be hiding, not drawing attention to myself.

“I can’t just kiss the first guy I see.” My mouth protests, on auto-pilot while my libido considers the option. Seriously. The Big Bear Rogues light fires that have nothing to do with the trees and protecting the wildland interface. I secretly suspect that the nineteen men and one woman (go, sister!) who make up the elite team of wildland firefighters were hired as much for their pretty faces as for their fierce firefighting skills. Or maybe it’s the combination of a big, rough lumberjack of a man who’s bulked up even more by long weeks hauling a fuck-ton of equipment around the wild. Hell, I’d interface with Pick Revere, one of the hotshot team’s two seconds-in-command, any day of the week and twice on Sunday. We’ve only met once, much earlier in the summer before I started working here, but it was memorable. Even if he did accidentally scare the hell out of me, how do you forget that much man?

Pick is a bear of a man. When cooking gets boring—and since I’m no Michelin chef, I’m usually bored—I amuse myself by imagining him as a frontiersman. My brain likely has too much free time, but I’ve spent a lot of time lately contemplating the honed muscle and disciplined focus that is Pick. He’s precisely the kind of man who knows his way around the forest, and I’ve invented an entire resume for him. Fantasy Pick is comfortable with a hunting rifle or a ten-mile hike because he’s grown up on a diet of outdoor activities. He also moves with an easy confidence that does unspeakable things to my insides.

Because you just have to wonder if he knows his way around a bed and a woman’s body just as well.

Nope, there’s no missing this particular Big Bear Rogue. He loves what he does, showing up for more fires than even Hunter Black does. First in, last out, those two are practically joined at the firefighting hip. Perhaps I should add a ménage a trois to that spank list…

“She’s thinking about it,” a feminine voice gleefully calls me back to earth.

Snap.

“You don’t think an uninvited kiss smacks of”—I wave my spatula for emphasis before prying the slightly charred pancake off the griddle I’m manning—“sexual harassment? Won’t I be setting myself up for a sure meet and greet with a pink slip?”

I totally need to hang on to this job. Paychecks don’t magically deposit themselves into my checking account. I was down to my last few dollars when I stopped for gas in Big Bear Lake, California and saw the avalanche of Help Wanted and For Rent posters pinned to the wall. Old-fashioned kind of cute, I thought, tickled that someone still went the 8-x-11 route with a strip of tear-off numbers on the bottom.

Since being unemployed and on the run meant that I had time to kill and nowhere to be, I read while I worked my way through a car-warmed Coke. And it’s like Karma or God herself tapped on my shoulder because that’s how I’d found out about the Break Up Club. Or maybe my attention had been grabbed by the Craigslist posting printed out on hot-pink construction paper decorated with copious swirls of glitter glue. The sign screamed Look at me! and practically blinded me when a ray of sun hit the paper. Apparently, I had a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to join said Break Up Club and “work through” the demise of a recent relationship. The poster promised an eight-step master plan guaranteed to purge douches, exes, and troublesome penes from every area of my life.

Since I didn’t want my ex finding me under any circumstances, purging sounded right up my alley. Even better? The Break Up Club was a sleepaway camp. Members got dibs on “charmingly rustic” cabins “situated in a pristine mountain environment.” I dialed the number pronto and became founding member number three. Finding semi-permanent shelter of the non-car variety had been step one in my Reinvent Sarah Jo plan, and even if I’ve ended up in a cabin that made tiny living look palatial, I’m happy. I have a roof, running water, and my own bathroom. It’s a definite step up from the cardboard box I’d envisioned when I bolted from Auburn. It’s possible that situation there could have sorted itself out, but I’ll take my chances on the cabin and the hotshots.

Work even magically fell from the sky and landed in my lap. I called on a few of the Help Wanted posters, and thanks to a completely understandable lack of people willing to make millions of pancakes for minimum wage, I ended up here. Thank God no one actually tested my cooking abilities before saying the magic words you’re hired. With my phone and Google, I can fake anything. I also flipped a digit on my Social—close enough to excuse if and when someone notices—and gambled no one had time to run a full background check when they were shorthanded. Hotshots can eat their weight in pancakes, I kid you not.

But back to the whole sexually-assault-a-hotshot thing. I’m sure you want to know how that turns out. I know I do.

Rosalie’s shaking her head. She’s still stuck on the whole kissing thing. “Those boys like a good joke.”

“Uh-huh.” Frowning, I examine my pancake. One side is definitely edible. The other? Not so much. With a mental shrug, I carefully position the pancake on the stack. Show only the good side. I’ve learned that, haven’t I? Strategic cover-up is the story of my life.

“The first guy in line. That’s the dare.” Rosalie crosses her arms over her ample chest where large letters declare Firefighters light me up and with which statement I am in whole-hearted agreement. It’s like mountain scenery. Sometimes, you just have to stop and stare.

“I dare you,” she continues. “We all had to do it. You want to be a summer cook and one of us, you kiss the guy.”

“I’m hardly new,” I point out. “I’ve been working here for over a month.”

Rosalie grins at me. “Yeah, but none of us thought you’d last this long.”

She makes a good point.

What she doesn’t know, however, is that the sad state of my checking account combined with my secret escape plan means that I have plenty of incentive to stick with the job, even if it isn’t fantasy fodder material. You know. Except for the sexy hotshots that parade through my line every day.

“I’m a sticker,” I say virtuously. It’s not like I’m pro-quitting, after all. I can totally polish my halo on this one.

“Uh-huh.” Rosalie snorts and points at my pancake. The one I’ve flipped over to hide the burned bits. “Hope you kiss better than you cook.”

Rising to the bait is stupid, but I’ve never liked backing down from a dare. I can do this. I just have to hope that the first man in line is decent looking. Yes, I’m shallow that way, but if I’m getting my first kiss in months, I want a good one.

“Hostile work conditions,” I grouse, pouring more batter out of the ancient Tupperware container. The griddle spits and hisses, trying to christen my forearms with second-degree burns. My flannel is multi-purpose—camouflage and protective gear.

“Honey, you want hostile, you go out there.” Rosalie jerks a thumb southeast where a thick column of oily black smoke punches up over the horizon. Seen from a distance, the fire is little more than a thick, sluggish haze right now. The hotshots headed out early this morning, on a mission to keep the fire small. Early is the perfect time to catch a fire and put it out. Later, when the sun rises and the day heats up, fire becomes a bear to stop, or so I’ve learned. I eavesdrop on a lot of conversations while I’m serving pancakes.

“You really did it?” I have to ask.

“Kissed the first man I saw? Honey, you bet I did. That hotshot didn’t know what hit him. Took him home with me, too, and kept him.” Rosalie laughs, amusement shaking her entire frame.

“This isn’t some kind of weird dating service, is it?” My suspicion is a hard-learned lesson. If a perfectly lovely, noble white steed popped its ass onto my front lawn I’d absolutely look it in the mouth. I’d run a background check on it too because no matter how pretty a horse is, it’s still going to shit all over your grass and generally make a public nuisance of itself.

Case in point? I went out with a perfectly respectable deputy sheriff, no questions asked, and that ex-boyfriend burned a house down around my ears and blamed me for the ensuing property destruction. To avoid certain legal charges, I’ve transplanted my city-loving self here to fire camp. Big Bear is my second chance, and sex isn’t on my to-do list. Although a kiss hardly counts as sex. A quick peck on the lips, a flirty answer to the girls’ dare, and my place here this summer is secured. Ka-ching.

The other cooks already have questions. Fitting in usually isn’t a problem for me even if irreverent is my middle name and I’m never quite certain when to shut my mouth and when to let her rip. But most people like a good laugh and I enjoy the company. Based on the super charred state of the pancake in my frying pan, however, I’ve still got fitting-in issues to resolve.

The noise of the returning crew drowns out Rosalie’s laughter. Battered pickups bounce over the rutted road, disgorging a load of hot, sweaty, buff hotshots and the unmistakable smell of smoke, outdoors, and something else indefinably masculine. If I could bottle the eau de hotshot, I’d never need to flip another pancake because I’d be a billionaire with a private island in Fiji.

The horde approaches. It’s refreshing that they eye my food and not my boobs.

One kiss. How can it hurt? I can go back to hiding in plain sight afterward.

“I’m in.”

Rosalie tosses me a pot of cherry lip gloss. “Lube it up, honey. Give him something to remember.”

Chapter Two

Pick

It’s amazing how much suckage can be packed into twenty-four hours and mine have been a fucking overachiever starting with the crap roads. Part fire access, part logging route, the pavement ran out after twenty yards, forcing me to bump northwest for hours. The ruts were deep enough that I fucking feared for my balls each time my truck bottomed out. Then, the pumper truck had hit mud left over from last week’s storm and bogged down. The boys and I had thrown a cable around a handy tree and winched like hell trying to pull the truck out. Eventually, I’d had to dump almost two hundred gallons of water to lighten the load.

Which totally worked.

Until the next colossal mud puddle did the truck in again. It was like being stuck in the Groundhog Day movie, re-living the same crappy moments over and over. God was probably laughing his ass off at the outtakes too. Me and him need to sit down and discuss all the ways he’s decided to keep my ego in check, preferably over a cold beer. I think we could come to some kind of amicable arrangement.

The fire hadn’t cooperated, either. Eventually, after an all-night battle with the wind picking up and fanning the flames for a steep upslope run, we’d been forced to admit that fire was now burning out of control and hand tools wouldn’t get the job done. We’d called for a tanker drop, packed up our shit, and started the long drive back to camp. Lining up for pancakes and coffee seems like a waste of time when there’s still fire to fight, but fresh guys are manning the line now and the higher-ups have decided that the Rogues need the rest. The sooner we start on the downtime, the sooner we can head back out there. Plus, God owes me that beer and I intend to collect.

I park my truck on auto-pilot, replaying the last hours in the field in my head. Some guys like their sports highlights or porn stars, but usually it’s just me and fire in my head. Take that line ten feet farther south and call in the tanker twenty minutes sooner . . . That right there was where the day had gone FUBAR. That’s fucked up beyond all recognition for you sensitive flowers who never have to put a quarter in the swear jar. A hand slaps me on the back, jolting me out of the full-color replay in my head.

The hand belongs to Hunter Black and is quickly retracted. He doesn’t look much happier to be on recall, either, but at least he’s got a girl. Maybe. Possibly. He’s been doing a kind of complicated dating/mating dance with one Lola Miller. They’re not officially a couple, but they’re definitely friends with benefits, as her rampaging on Piñata Night seems to imply. She’s hot as fuck, more colorful than a rainbow, and an aspiring actress who somehow manages to turn every encounter into a dramatic scene. Hunter is usually our resident Oscar the Grouch, but ever since he and Lola started shaking the sheets or hanging together, he’s practically been Suzy Fucking Sunshine. Right now, however, the look on his face is less than pleasant, so I’m betting he’s thinking about our fire instead of his maybe girl.

Hunter doesn’t bother with pleasantries as he falls into step beside me. There’s no need to say hi and bye given the quality time we spend together. “Not ready to pack it in?”

I snort and move forward with a groan as every muscle in my body protests. Too bad the fire camp hasn’t invested in masseuses. Or masseuse-strippers. Who serve filet fucking mignon and ice cold beers. I take a moment to appreciate that little fantasy. Ever since I got a little banged up and singed earlier this summer, I’ve been noticing the aches and pains more often. It’s like my body’s been put on high alert and wants to make sure I don’t inflict any more grievous bodily harm on my various limbs. What the hell is wrong with me?

“Not likely. You?”

“Nope,” Hunter replies. He’s a man of few words. There’s a reason why he’s been compared to Oscar the Grouch—and why Oscar has always come out ahead in any contest of manners. “And yet here we are. Back in base camp.”

The benching of our asses is a temporary state of affairs, I remind myself. Tomorrow’s another day. Blah fucking blah. Insert your platitude here, but I guarantee one thing. I will be out there, and I will be fighting fire.

Hunter stares balefully at the plume blocking out the daylight. He’s also thinking what I’m thinking. “Plenty of fire out there to go around. She’ll still be there when we finish our R and R.”

A couple of the guys bypass us, double-timing it toward their trucks. Must have a hot date in town. I can’t remember the last time I pulled that kind of shit myself, but I’m not a flower and roses guy. You want sex, I’m happy to put out. I’ll bring you to heaven and back and make you come so hard that you see stars, but I’m not gonna open doors or make restaurant reservations. I won’t remember to call, I don’t do anniversaries, and I don’t care if you went to the trouble to pick out a matching panty and bra set. I just want you naked, wet, and willing.

Hunter, however, is well on his way to being officially pussy-whipped thanks to Lola. I don’t know if she’s just got a magic pussy or he’s let her hijack his heart, but I don’t want that. Why would I? Relationships require work, and I’ve already got a full-time job. Hunter fishes his phone out of his pocket, spends a long moment searching for cell service, and then proceeds to thumb through about forty million texts from his female overlord. From the dazed look on his face, I’m pretty sure Lola sent him a naked selfie. I’m just not gonna ask of what—Lola’s good people but she’s not shy. I don’t need to accidentally spot her beaver shot.

Does it sound like I’m not happy for Hunter? Because I totally am. It’s just part of the man code that I have to give him shit because he’s getting regular sex in exchange for letting Lola housebreak him. The rest of the team already has a betting pool going on whether or not he pops The Question before fire season ends. The odds are split pretty evenly at the moment between Hunter investing in some high-quality diamonds and Hunter running for the hills. He’s already got one bad marriage under his belt, so I placed my ten bucks on his splitting. In the meantime, however, he’s spending time with her like the sex shop is about to close up and he needs to make his purchases now, now, now.

I don’t have the same draw to leave camp. In all honesty, I don’t have much of a home to go back to. That makes a difference. If you’ve got the Four Seasons and limitless kinky sex waiting for you, you’re gonna haul ass, right? My life is more like the Motel 6 with the vibrating bed that you feed quarters into—and that craps out on you mid-thrust.

The fire camp is a temporary way station. Like many of the guys, I’ve got my RV and my pillow, but where I hit the hay doesn’t matter much. Sure, sleep sounds good right now, as does a real hot shower, but getting my hands on a Pulaski and digging line sounds better. I like to finish what I start, whether that’s in bed or in the forest. It’s my job to kick fire’s ass, and the higher ups in the forest service had decided I wasn’t going to get the chance today.

“We were close,” I growl when Hunter finally looks up from the picture he’s salivating over. “Another hour and we’d have had her.”

Leaving a problem unfixed goes against the grain. Fixing what’s wrong just makes sense. Eight hours of knocking down flames, shoveling dirt wherever the orange pops up. Everything is dry and heated, ready to go up at a moment’s notice, and then the wind shifts and we’re suddenly staring defeat in the face. The flames had hopped the line we’d scratched out like all our work was nothing and raced upslope. Fire doesn’t offer do-overs. Just overtime.

“Maybe.” Hunter shrugs and pockets his phone. “But rules are rules, and coming in for a few hours isn’t hurting us.”

“You say that because you’ve got a date with Lola tonight.” Hunter’s fascination with the actress is an unending source of amusement for our team, and the guys miss no chance to give Hunter guff. When we’d found out about her national laundry detergent commercial, we’d packed Hunter’s bed full of the big, blue containers. “You taking her somewhere good this time?”

Hunter’s romantic repertoire makes me look like the world’s most talented Don Juan.

“I’ve got plans.” Hunter grins.

No, no, no.

Change the topic. Do not imagine what’s on his to-do list for tonight. I eyeball the chow line, instead.

“We’re first in line.” I’m never first. Don’t get me wrong—it’s not because I’m gonna voluntarily hang back and let someone else charge the goodies. The breakfast line is usually more stampede than orderly queue, and my teammates play dirty. It’s weird, because while we’re not Miss Fucking Manners, out in the field we look out for each other like we’re channeling our inner Musketeers and it’s one for all and all for one no matter how much fire Mother Nature tosses at us. Add pancakes to that equation, however, and I’m surprised we still have twenty hotshots. Pretty sure that if we were in a plane that crashed in the middle of the Himalayas, none of us would hesitate to eat the others. Tastes like chicken, right?

Hunter looks at me and I give him a big ass grin. It never hurts to play nice. Hunter’s gaze narrows as he takes in the cooks, waiting to serve up the day’s breakfast, and then he shoves me forward. “After you.”

I smell pancakes, bacon, and nothing out of the ordinary. “Not hungry?”

“Not for what those girls are cooking up.” He backs up, putting some more space between me and him.

Danger.

I eyeball the row of stainless steel heating trays. Still looks like pancakes and bacon to me. Smells like breakfast with a side of Styrofoam and coffee. Whatever trouble he sees, I’m not seeing—and I’m hungry as fuck. I look behind me, and sure enough, the rest of the team is hanging back. What’s up with that? It’s not my birthday and I’m not that much older than the other guys even if they do like to call me Gramps. Or Grumps. Age before beauty, right? Looks like I’m taking one for the team.

“Avenge my death,” I mock-whisper to Hunter and slap him on the back even harder than he walloped me in the spirit of keeping things even.

By the time I reach the start of the food line, I’ve figured a few things out. My teammates may have cleared the way to the pancakes for me like Moses parting the Red Sea, but looks like it’s a one-man pass. As soon as I’ve gone, they all fall in behind me, jostling for position like they always do. Whatever’s up, it’s only gonna shit on me and that’s fine because I’ve just spotted an unexpected bright spot in an otherwise suck-ass day.

Sarah Jo is working the line today.

Her haphazardly buttoned flannel shirt gapes as she shovels pancakes into a stainless steel warmer, giving me an excellent view of her blue T-shirt that announces Firemen do it hotter, the pink curlicues scrolling across her tits. I know she’s wearing the matching hot-pink bra because the lacy strap peeking out from beneath its evil cotton overlord just screams look at me. So I do. Even though I shouldn’t. It’s like being handed a beer when you’ve decided tonight is a dry night or a slab of chocolate cake an hour after you start that diet. I have no will power when it comes to Sarah Jo, just a whole lot of dirty thoughts, and I’d absolutely love to show her how this fireman does it.

The truth is, I am dirty. Whether she is is still up for debate. The last time I saw her, she was more scared than turned on. I remind myself that makes her really off-limits while I grab a plate and a napkin full of rolled up silverware. She’s wearing my favorite skirt, too, the one made out of some kind of clingy fabric that hugs her ass and stops two inches below the flannel shirt and far, far above her hiking boots. I suspect she thinks wrapping herself up in an acre of used flannel will be some kind of penis deterrent. My dick, however, just decides that she’s gift-wrapped herself for us and we should tear into her one button at a time.

My dick has the best ideas.

She glances toward the start of the line, and the southern parts of me perk up and wave hello.

Bad hotshot.

Dating anyone in camp is a potentially messy mistake, and she’s given me no real reason to think she might be interested anyhow. Plus, the odds of her lasting the summer are low. She can’t cook worth a damn, although her enthusiasm more than makes up for it as far as I’m concerned. Burnt eggs taste way better after I’ve brushed up against her. Or snuck a peek down the front of her T-shirt when she bends over, flashing me the sweet valley between her tits. Or… yeah. I’ve got a fucking catalog of dirty fantasies and she’s got… coffee. She beams like a lighthouse as she hands out the Styrofoam cups and fusses over her basket of Mini Moos and sugar. She always remembers how I like mine and hoards the French vanilla creamers for me. Mentally, I smack myself. This sounds way too kindergarten. Maybe I should pass her a note. I could itemize all the ways I like her—and want to do her.

Unlike her ignore-me flannel shirt, her hair demands a second look or three. I still can’t decide what the color was. Her chunky strands are a L’Oreal rainbow, browns and blonds mixed up with the occasional streak of red. I’ve spotted pink, blue, and purple, too. Like her choice of hair color, every emotion she feels is painted on her face. Watching her talk up the other cooks is like staring at a merry-go-round. She’s fucking full of life and color, and damned if she doesn’t make me dizzy. The ride would be worth it, though.

Yes, I’ve imagined riding her. More than once.

I’m a fucking HR lawsuit waiting to happen, but the truth is what it is and that T-shirt of hers isn’t helping any. She looks away, bending over to grab something, and the cotton stretches tight over her breasts, gifting me with another flash of pink and lace. Black lace. Christ. Wonder if the boys would be up for a panty raid tonight?

She looks back, and this time her gaze hones in on me like a bird dog sighting quail and her blue-gray eyes light up. Of course, knowing what color her eyes are is just one more sign I’m in trouble.

“Pick Revere,” she announces loudly, nodding her head like she’s continuing a conversation with herself. Not like I can disagree with my name, so I just let her continue while I grab a plastic tray from the closest stack. “You’re first in line. That’s just perfect.”

Whatever.

In addition to being almost a co-worker, she’s too young for me. The first day I laid eyes on her, slinging eggs and hash browns, I’d started running numbers in my head, guessing at her age. I’d pegged her for maybe twenty-four, and I’d last seen that side of thirty more than two years ago. She’s part-Goth, part sass—but I’m betting that, beneath the oversized clothes and the skittish demeanor, she’s one hundred percent sweet, hot female. She damned certain deserves better than me, and no way she belongs out here in the woods.

I don’t even care how she got hired on despite not being able to cook. Frankly, there aren’t too many people interested in camping for the summer, slinging eggs and burgers twelve hours a day for minimum wage. She looks more Corvette or racing car than RV, but she gives her job her all and I respect that.

“Morning.” Nodding my head toward her, I heft my tray and eye the dishes on offer. Yep. Pancakes. Bacon. And… beans. I’ll pass on those, but otherwise I’ll take everything else she has to offer.

“That’s settled,” she announces. I think about that for a moment, but I’ve got nothing. It’s like I’ve just barged in on a half-done conversation.

She steps around the food-laden table and stalks toward me, a determined look in her eye. I’ve seen fire start up a hill that way, unstoppable and devouring everything in its path. That look spells trouble. I back my ass up, doing a little fancy footwork. What. The . . .

Heaven.

Sarah Jo throws her arms around my neck, stretching up on tiptoe. Her enthusiastic embrace slams the empty tray between us, a plastic chastity belt squashing the fuck out of my balls. I’ll catch hell from the boys for that later, but right now all I feel is cheated with that hard plastic pressed against me instead of Sarah Jo. Those millimeters separating me from her are a fucking shame. She smells good, too. Pancakes and syrup, with a hint of something floral and feminine. She definitely smells better than I do.

She’s impatient too, pulling my head down toward her. There’s nothing tentative or shy about her, just all that happy laughter filling her eyes and her voice. “It’s going to be a real good morning, hotshot.”

I open my mouth. Damned if I know what I intend to say, but she takes full advantage. Hello.

Her mouth covers mine and she plants a hot kiss on me. Her tongue tastes my bottom lip, sweeps inside, and proceeds to pillage my mouth ruthlessly. When she comes out of hiding, she does it with a vengeance.

The groan escapes before I can bite back the rough, hungry sound. I haven’t kissed a woman in a long time. Too many fires, not enough time. My dick likes to argue about my priorities, but I think protecting people’s homes from burning up beats anything. Sarah Jo has no idea just how hungry I am, or that my inner pirate demands we make a sensual feast out of her body. If she did, she’d run like hell.

But she doesn’t know, and she doesn’t run. Her mouth locks on mine, her tongue retreating to tease my lower lip with a light stroke that’s nowhere near enough. And Christ, when her fingers seek the back of my neck, tracing a little up and down pattern across my bare skin, it’s game over.

Being kissed by Sarah Jo is so much better than anything I’ve imagined—and I have a great imagination. While her tongue explores my mouth with the enthusiasm of an orchestra racing toward the crescendo of a really awesome symphony, I kiss her back as much as she allows. I’m not just gonna be the audience on this kiss—after all, we’ve already got one. I’m dimly aware of raucous background noise as my fellow Rogues whoop and holler. Pretty sure even the kitchen staff is getting into it, laughing and waving the verbal pom-poms for us. As if I could stop this kiss. As if I’d want to. Mostly, though, I’m aware of the woman in my arms and the sweet scent of her pressed against me. Whether it’s shampoo or perfume, or some secret female thing, she smells damned good.

When she pulls back, her lips pink and swollen, and tries to dance away from me, I hold on tight. That mischievous smile of hers tugs at the corner of her mouth.

Too bad for her I’m not done with her yet.

Tossing the tray away, I scoop her closer with one arm. “Honey, I’m definitely wanting seconds today.”

Sarah Jo

Pick threads big hands through my hair, holding me in place for his next kiss. He’s either forgotten about or doesn’t mind our avid audience, because his mouth covers mine in a take-no-prisoners kiss. He pulls me into his body, a body that’s every bit as hard and muscled as I’ve fantasized—and I’ve done more fantasizing than is good for me. It’s hard not to notice how strong Pick is, from the muscled forearms I’m clutching like a sexual lifeline to the way his shoulders stretch the cotton of his T-shirt. Everything about him shouts that he’s got your back, that you’re safe from everything and everyone. My inner cave girl squees with delight—she’s not totally on board with my no man—stand on my own feet plan.

When Pick kisses me again, the rest of me rejects the plan, too. God, he’s gorgeous. He’s got brown hair that’s just long enough for me to run my fingers through, but not quite long enough to hold onto. Pick’s the kind of fantasy man who slips through your life, your arms, your dreams. But the way he grins… his whole smile lights up his face and you just have to like him. He’s built like an ox—or a stallion. A really big, really hung stallion. This man is Grade A, panty-melting male.

The firm press of his lips follows that full-body caress and then his teeth nip my lower lip with a sweetly erotic sting. When I gasp, he sweeps inside like he belongs there and he’s just been waiting for me to open up and hang out the welcome sign.

The whole gosh-darn fire camp could burn down around us now. I don’t care—screw fire safety. I want more of this. More Pick. More kissing. As first kisses go, this one is amazing and it’s going to be the crown jewel of my collection. His tongue strokes mine, mapping my mouth with slow, deliberate thoroughness and leaving behind a wicked burn of pleasure. Hell, the man kisses as if he’s the one in charge, and the heated arousal building low in my belly warns me that my body, at least, has zero complaints about the change in management because Pick is one hell of a kisser. Sliding my hands up over his arms, I hang on to his broad shoulders like some kind of sex-crazed kudzu vine as he deepens the kiss further.

This attraction exploding between us is a five-alarm blaze. Pick doesn’t pull his punches—he just goes all out as he devours the mouth I’ve offered him in lieu of pancakes. I’ve tossed a lit match into dry grass, and now we’re both on fire. His mouth moves expertly over mine as he plays a game of show-and-tell about how he’s feeling. Hungry. Possessive.

Unlike my city dates, who sport expensive colognes, Pick smells of smoke and pine, a woodsy, outdoor scent as wild and rugged as the man himself. He’s every lumberjack fantasy come to life, and he needs his very own warning label: smoking hot fireman… danger of smoke inhalation. Because when I breathe in, he just works his way deeper inside me. He’s big, he’s rough, and yet he’s impossibly careful in the way he holds me. This is no he-man clinch. I’m not bent over backward like a movie poster heroine. He wraps his enormous arms around me and holds me close while his mouth works wicked, dirty magic on the rest of me. The chest beneath his ash-smudged white T-shirt is as hard and unyielding as the muscled thighs pressed against mine, but I’ve already figured out for myself that there’s not an ounce of give in Pick.

But I’m not supposed to kiss him for real. This is just a hazing rite, a ritual so I can be one of the girls and hide in plain sight just a little more thoroughly. I’m the cook. He’s the firefighter. The only thing we have together should be pancakes—not the extremely thick, most impressive dick that makes its presence known when he tugs the plastic lunch tray from between us and tosses it somewhere. Away. If only his clothes would follow.

Pick’s big, protective, determined, and rough around the edges. So damn sexy. And for the cherry on my hotshot sundae, he’s out there fighting fires to protect homes and lives. That’s hero material right there.

The problem is, I’ve dated heroes before. Sometimes, heroes aren’t all that heroic when they get you alone and the capes come off. And I’m not precisely heroine material, either. Why would anyone want to rescue me? And why would I let them? This time, when I pull back, he lets me. And we both know it’s let. My girl parts sigh in happy protest because they’re really, really enjoying his alpha male lumberjack highhandedness even if my head’s shrieking danger danger.

Chocolate eyes stare at me, probably making connections I don’t need him to make because Pick’s as smart as he is pretty. Looking at him makes me want to do stupid things, like throw myself at him again, or maybe that’s just the rich, warm brown of his steady gaze making me want to lick him. Everywhere.

Pick regards me for another way-too-long minute. I’m not sure what he sees, but he slowly untangles his fingers from my hair. As he steps back with a polite nod of his head and a “Thank you, darling,” whoops and catcalls erupt from the hotshots watching the Pick and Sarah Jo Show. Our audience is clearly jonesing for a sequel.

Is that what I want?

He took charge of our kiss and then he just plain took over. So letting him know that he’s shaken me—woken me—to my very core isn’t an option. I’ll never let him know how close I came to losing control. Men like Pick don’t just take an inch. They take the whole goddamned mile and then some. Putting him in his place suddenly matters a great deal. He’s turned the tables on me and I need to turn them back. Fast.

I saunter back to the laughing, clapping cooks.

Game. On.

Chapter Three

Pick

It takes twenty-four hours for me to get Hunter alone. The four-thousand acre fire blowing up the side of the nearby mountain is partially to blame for the delay. The blaze starts out small enough. The Rogues arrive and scratch out a line, shoveling dirt over the smoldering embers. But as the day goes on, more grass burns and the fire gets happier, although no trees catch. Right about dinnertime, however, Mother Nature picks a side, the wind kicks up, and we end up with flames crossing the line. The scene explodes, flames devouring the dry grasses and rushing upslope. Boxed in by cliffs, the fire’s crackle is overly loud, amplified by the rock walls. The tall, black column punching up into the sky guarantees that every breath I take is thick with smoke and the unmistakable smell of burning. Eventually, the fire’s head hits rocks upstream and dies, a lucky break, leaving only the treetops flaming, along with patches of smoldering grass.

Now, fighting fire becomes a routine mop-up followed by a quick break while we wait for the helicopter to swing by and lift us out and back to base camp before it gets too dark to fly. My teammates pass the time by giving me shit about my having been on the breakfast menu yesterday. Several produce videos shot on their phones, and I’m pretty certain we’re now Facebook stars. I take a bow, pretending that Sarah Jo’s kiss is just a prank. A funny stunt that means nothing.

Maybe it doesn’t.

Maybe I’m crazy for thinking that kiss came with possibilities.

I definitely understand the value of a good joke. I get that the camp cooks were teasing Sarah Jo and that I’d been a convenient bystander with a penis and a set of lips to kiss. Any other summer, any other woman, and I’d laugh it off right along with them. I’m not claiming to have fallen in love on the spot. Nope. Not claiming that at all. It’s just that I felt something when Sarah Jo kissed me, and I’m almost certain she felt that something right back. Maybe I believe in insta-lust. Or sex-ever-after.

Even if I’m not supposed to.

I don’t need the HR lecture to know that shaking the sheets with a co-worker is a dumbass move. After the orgasm, I still have to work with her—and she has to work with me. It’ll suck if having seen each other naked becomes an issue instead of spank bank material. Ergo, I steer clear of my co-workers, and that includes the camp staff. So it’s just too damned bad that Sarah Jo kissed me, because she put ideas in my head and now I’m curious.

Beside me, Hunter’s Pulaski chews through the iron-hard ground. Two regulation inches down and then straight back up, turning over the dirt nice and neat. Too bad it isn’t as easy to get a handle on Sarah Jo.

I give Hunter side eye, not breaking my own rhythm. Hunter’s all muscle and he can keep pace no matter how fast I dig. The front line is loud. Men shout over the roar of chain saws, almost drowned out by the crackle of the fire and the steady chop of the helo ferrying new crew in.

Too tired to bother with subtleties, I open with the truth. “You set me up.”

“That kiss?”

I shoot him a look and Hunter just grins. “Uh-huh.”

Hunter flips the Pulaski, dropping the hoe end down into the dirt and spreading it around. The line is good. The trees, however, are still a damned problem.

“Hazard tree,” I say, jerking my head toward the nearest snag. “She’s leaning and the fire’s got her good.”

Hunter tilts his head back and gives the tree a onceover. He comes to the same conclusion as me. “Let’s drop her.”

A quick round-trip to the pickup and he returns with a chain saw, the rest of the hotshots falling back to a safe distance.

I fall into step with him as we case the tree. It’s a big, gnarly motherfucker, slanting worse than the Tower of Pisa. The risk isn’t unacceptable, however, and we’ve got the team cleared out. Better to drop her safely before her top snaps off and lands on someone’s head. Good men die that way every year.

Hunter starts checking the chainsaw while he picks up our previous conversation. “Rumor has it those girls do that every year. It’s just a game to them.”

Yeah. That secret, unreasonable disappointment comes right back. Sarah Jo kissed me like she meant it. Had she? Or was it all just the game Hunter mentioned? She’s got a playful streak if the color in her hair and her T-shirt collection is any indication, but now that I’ve had a taste of her, I want more.

Lots more.

If she’s playing games, I’ll play. I totally rock at games. I’ll be in it to win it.

I smile. “She distracted me.”

Hunter grunts something unintelligible. I don’t think it’s encouragement.

“Have I ever told you how much I love games? I’m a huge fucking fan.” I pin my eyes on the snag, ready to call any movement. Doesn’t matter how dirty my plans are for Sarah Jo if my dick gets squashed by a falling tree. Since Hunter’s got a girl, I’m assuming he’s similarly attached to his equipment.

“Right.” Hunter yanks the cord and the chain saw roars to life. “More like you saw Sarah Jo standing there and you lit up like a Christmas tree.”

“Did not.”

Hunter shakes his head, making the first cut through the trunk. “Say what you want, but if I’d gone first, Lola would have killed me. Those girls are friends.”

“Maybe.” Lola’s definitely a firecracker—the kind with a really short fuse and an endless number of explosions. She’s all color and pinwheeling shit that lights everything up while you knock back a beer and try to figure out if it’s a dragon or a comet or cosmic poop up there in the sky. I consider pointing this out to Hunter but he’s already started on his second cut and he might be tempted to use the saw on me instead. He’s super touchy about any implied criticism of Lola.

Do you think she would have gone off on him if her own girlfriend had done the kissing? It’s hard to pass that kind of liplock off as an accident. You don’t just slip and shove your tongue into some random guy’s mouth. Still, Lola’s got a great sense of humor. She’s also not afraid to use her own mouth. I’m betting she’d either do a whole lot of yelling at Sarah Jo or simply kiss Hunter long enough that he forgot all about an unexpected lip-lock.

“You liked kissing Sarah Jo,” Hunter says. Okay. He fucking bellows it loud enough to be heard two states away because the chain saw’s not shy about making noise. The blades roar through the back-cut, and the snag topples. For a long moment, the charred treetop hangs there in the smoky air, undecided which way to fall.

Hunter makes a give-it-up gesture at me. See that look of glee on his face? The way his eyes light up and the corners of his mouth quirk? The bastard got an eyeful when Sarah Jo kissed me, and now he thinks he’s getting details. Which he’ll then share with Lola, who will turn around and unload on Sarah Jo. Do I look stupid?

I smile. “Watch the sky, hotshot. You’re not getting me to kiss and tell.”

Calling a warning, I step back. Right on target, the snag comes down in a slow-motion, flaming arc. The clearing lights up like a birthday cake for an octogenarian.

Hunter Black is no talker, either. He’s the one who first made friends with the bunch of women who’d rented out a string of cabins ignominiously called Baby Bears Lodge. If you’re going to name your place after wildlife, you should at least aim for the top of the food chain. Pick a badass predator—not something cute and fuzzy. However bad the name was, however, the cabins are now well-stocked with hot, lonely chicks hosting some kind of summer camp for adults. Hunter confided once that the girls called themselves the Break Up Club and that they were working through the end of their most recent relationships. Since club meetings seem to involve pajamas and ice cream, I can understand why Hunter chooses to stick around. Hell, if they add naked pillow fights to the agenda, I’d join.

Although, on second thought, that might be more of Hunter than I need to see.

Hunter, of course, seems perfectly happy that his days are seemingly numbered. “So was that kiss a onetime thing?”

Let’s pause that line of questioning, okay? Anytime someone starts questioning the future of a relationship, it’s quitting time. Time to hit the road, to get the fuck out of Dodge before things get even stickier. Sarah Jo kissed me. And she didn’t protest when I kissed her back, did she? I’m thinking that if the movie preview is that awesome, I’d be crazy not to see the whole show. Still, I go with the safe answer.

“Sarah Jo’s the boss.” I’m no prize. Hell, I’m working-class all the way. In the off-season, I own my own garage where I work as a mechanic. I pay my bills, but I’ll never be a California billionaire. I’ll never wear a suit. I like Budweiser, Monday Night Football, and burgers. That doesn’t mean I won’t try other things—when I look at Sarah Jo, I can imagine all kinds of things I’d like to try on her—but I prefer my shit simple and straightforward. Sarah Jo is going to be complicated as fuck. If I’m a straight line about sex and relationships, she’s some multivariate calculus—in Mandarin.

She kissed me—and then she let go so fast I still have whiplash. She peeled that pretty mouth of hers off mine and then she’d danced back behind the serving table. As the guys had jostled forward, elbowing me, I’d stared at her like an idiot. Thanks, she’d said, like I was just the Mr. Helpful who’d popped a lid on a jar or passed the salt.

Thanks doesn’t begin to cover that kiss. My dick is still singing Hosannas, my fingers itching to find her waist again. Yet she wants to pretend that nothing happened.

Hell, I’d half-expected her to call next, and I still don’t know what I’d have done then.

Because I’m going to be her next and her last, at least as far as this summer goes.

Chapter Four

Sarah Jo

The door to my eensy-weensy, closet-sized cabin shudders, waking me from a deep sleep and a very nice dream about a Prince Charming with a shoe fetish. The sound of determined pounding fills my ears, and taking the hint, I bolt off the lumpy mattress and grab my go-bag. Which is really just an extra-large tote with all of my essentials and some clean underwear, but I’ve prepared. I haven’t quite managed to diet down to a size that will fit out the bathroom window easily, but I’m banking on desperation adding oomph to my wriggle.

The door shakes beneath the force of a new blow. Shit. I’m busted, bagged, and nailed. Okay. Not nailed, although my dreamy Prince Charming was about to give it to me good. Focus.

I stumble toward the bathroom, clutching my getaway goods. I have to pee, I have to run, I have to…

“Emergency intervention!” Lola bellows from outside. Lola is a stage actress and a drama teacher, so her voice carries effortlessly through my locked door. My sleep-deprived brain is still a few pages behind in the script, so I need a moment to process the words. I haven’t been found. Everything’s fine, or as fine as it gets when you’re on the run and nearly broke and the big, bad wolf’s going to bite your butt any day now. Sometimes I think it would be easier to just sit down and wait. Screw the sick anticipation, right?

“Be right there,” I croak out. I’ve spent the last few months trying not to be noticed, so I have to repeat myself—twice—before Lola hears me. At least she stops knocking and goes away, although I know she’ll be back if I don’t make an appearance.

I shove my go-bag/purse back under the bed, grab a sweatshirt, and stagger out. It’s approximately dark o’clock, the sky a dense black like a squid pooped ink all over the stars. The late hour doesn’t seem to faze Lola, who’s now plopped cross-legged in front of our sleek new fire pit.

I’m pretty sure the fire pit is courtesy of Hunter. It showed up one morning shortly after he yelled at us for illegal, unsafe burns in the previous fire pit (which was either a hollowed out, ashy depression in the ground or a metal trash can, depending on our mood and needs). I like Hunter. He’s like a loaner brother, big, grumpy, and protective. I’m not sure what’s going on between him and Lola, but it guarantees he has zero sexual interest in me, so I can just admire his very manly scenery. Plus, since he’s the local Oscar the Grouch, he’s not big on conversation, which guarantees that my secrets stay safe.

Lola huffs out a breath as she stares up at me. “Were you asleep? Or engaged in ‘personal business’?”

“Huh?” I shouldn’t have taken that Melatonin to help me sleep because it’s short-circuited a significant number of brain cells. My tongue is thick and my mouth more parched than the Gobi Desert.

Lola tugs me down beside her. One of the drawbacks to our super-cheap cabin-in-the-woods lodgings is that outdoor seating is extremely minimalistic. In other words, we’re sitting on logs a previous tenant scavenged from said woods. I try not to think about carpenter ants, termites, or any eight-legged friends that could be trying to get into my pants. Yippee. That’s the closest I’ve been to any non-solo panty action in months.

“Mas-tur-ba-tion,” Lola mouths slowly—and at full volume.

Olivia, the third member of our club, raises a brow as she drops a pillow onto the log next to us before sitting down like it’s a freaking throne and she’s Queen Olivia. She’s been sketchy on the details of her qualifying break up, and I don’t think that’s due to her being shy or private. “Are we planning on a group orgy?”

“Shouldn’t we wait for Hunter?” He’s the fourth and newest member of the Break Up Club, although by rights we should have denied him membership. He has a penis and this was a girls-only club. As Olivia pointed out, however, discrimination is never okay, so we let him in because his break up story is pretty darn dismal.

Lola cackles. Right. I guess “group orgy” and “wait for Hunter” shouldn’t be uttered in close proximity. I give her the finger and wait. Lola doesn’t do silence well, which is one of the things I love about her. She’s loud, she’s colorful, and around her I usually forget the shit that’s bothering me.

I’m about to clarify my anti-orgy stance when something rustles in the trees. The problem with Baby Bear Lodge is that it’s approximately in the middle of nowhere—a nowhere surrounded by an insane number of trees. During the daylight hours, I don’t mind all the vegetation. At the very least, I can pretend I’m starring in my very own version of Heidi and that there’s nothing more menacing than a bunch of goats nearby. At night, however, it’s dark.

Super, super dark.

So I find the stick-cracking noise issuing from somewhere near a gigantic pine tree disturbing. I bolt to my feet. It could be bears. Or killer possums. Or the Douche. Frankly, stalking me in the dark is exactly what the Douche would do. He swore he’d come after me, and I’m sure he’s doing exactly that. It’s why I’ve made it my mission to avoid his capturing me. One step ahead. That’s all I have to stay.

Another unidentifiable noise emanates from the shadows.

I grab the baseball bat I keep stashed behind the log for midnight defensive maneuvers. I have another one in my cabin because I don’t trust myself not to forget it and a girl needs to be armed and dangerous in this world. Olivia bolts to her feet too, but she calmly sweeps the clearing with her eyes. I guess she’s looking for whatever shit’s about to storm toward us. Her whole body’s relaxed, but she looks ready to rumble. I always knew she was a bad ass.

“Stand down.” Lola tugs on the hem of my shirt. “Cute wildlife alert.”

Sure enough, a raccoon waddles out of the dark, blinks at us, and then scoots down the driveway. Presumably, it’s on its way to the dumpster down by the road for a little midnight snackage. Olivia sits back down like it’s NBD. Lola starts laughing.

“Are you okay?” Olivia’s still got her super calm gaze trained on me.

“I’m fine.” I wave my hands like a little breeze might distract them from the way I’m sort of, almost hyperventilating.

Lola rubs my back in little circles. “What are you afraid of?”

It would be stupid to tell her. It—

Olivia throws up a staying hand. “Don’t self-incriminate.”

When we both turn to look at her, she shrugs. “We’ve all got secrets,” she says.

“Are you holding out on us?” Lola frowns mock-ferociously.

Olivia draws her fingers away from her eyes in a vee. “Don’t make me threaten you.”

“Oh.” Lola chews on that for a moment. A very short moment. Then she shrugs and stabs a finger at me. “This one, however, needs an intervention.”

Wait. What?

If we divide our crew up into saints and sinners, I’m the saint. Even my reasons for being on the lam are almost entirely benign, although I’ve kept those to myself. Lola’s my girl, but we haven’t known each other long enough to trade life-and-death secrets.

So I frown right back at her. Deny deny deny. “I’m an angel.”

Lola reaches over and smacks my arm. Since she’s already sitting super close, she comes close to honking my boob. “You kissed a boy.”

This is not the moment to ask which boy because there are only two possibilities: my last kiss with the Douche or my first kiss with Mister Hotshot. So I suck it up and brazen it out.

“So?” That’s a genius comeback right there. Short, pithy, and puts the onus back on Lola.

Of course she’s up for the challenge. “Shall we review the rules of the Break Up Club?”

“Objection.” Olivia’s hand shoots up into the air. “Those rules were suggested steps, not stipulated regulations.”

“Are you a lawyer? Judge? Jury? Long arm of the law?” Lola blows a raspberry—and Olivia sort of freezes.

“No?” Anybody hear the question in Olivia’s answer?

Yeah, me too. Unfortunately, they both turn and stare at me. I’d rather pursue whatever Olivia’s hiding.

“Sure?” I say rather weakly. The longer we review, the longer I have to figure out which guy Lola’s up in arms about. I’ve spent loads of time recently getting creative with my life story, so I can deal with this.

Lola springs to her feet and starts pacing back and forth. I think she might have mistaken our rather grubby campsite for a Broadway stage because she pitches her voice to be heard by us and every wild animal lurking in the woods.

“Ladies, in order to be founding members of the Break Up Club, you swore you’d lived through a particularly egregious break up. We agreed to get over those bad relationships together, to support each other, to make sure no member backslid.”

I nod vigorously. “And I’m pretty sure I said thank you.”

Thank you not being the same thing as signed in blood, but there’s no stopping Lola. She marches over to the porch hanging off the front of her cabin and retrieves a large, pink sign. It’s huge, but lighter than it looks—kind of like the men in my life. They’ve been well-hung but light on emotions and feelings. Olivia winks at me, while I wonder if there’s a way to slink back to my cabin. I miss my stupid, lumpy mattress something fierce. Instead, I read obediently.

Accept the empty spots in your life: heart, head, bed, laundry basket, and that drawer in the bathroom you cleaned out just for him.

Cut it off. No texts, no tweets, no Facebook pokes, pings, or any other blip or beep on the social media radar. Distance is your new best friend and beer goggles have nothing on your ability to overlook the 1001 reasons that relationship was doomed.

Feel it. Don’t suppress! Let it all out!

No negative thoughts. Own your self-worth. Move out of the hermit shell and back into the real world. It's time to talk to people.

Be honest. Acknowledge why you broke up—and rip the Band-Aid off that sucker.

It’s all about you. Self-improve, shop, and be nice to yourself.

Get back out there.

Onward! Upward! Don’t look back. You’ve come this far, now be open to the possibilities.

“Are we on Step Seven?” Lola stabs the poster with her index finger and stares at me. Which is pointless. I am not the kind of person who remembers numbers. Or order. I can barely deal with the curveballs life has been lobbing at me lately, so I haven’t been paying too much attention to steps one, two, and whatever. I’ve just been using the time to catch my breath and lay low.

“No clue,” I lie.

Still…

I read the rule that Lola’s now tapping with a dramatic finger. Step Seven. Get back out there. Uh, no. I’ve been doing my very best to stay right in here. Undercover. Sotto voce. Not drawing attention to myself. Except for yesterday’s slip up, the little voice in my head chimes in. The slip up where you accidentally on purpose gave tongue to Mister Hotshot.

Yeah. Except for that.

“Class?” Lola points to Olivia, who’s looking doubtful. I suspect she’s the kind of person who will still be able to do calculus proofs when she’s ninety.

“We’re not on Step Seven,” Olivia admits.

“But Sarah Jo has skipped ahead on us.” Lola winks at me. She’s not mad—just giving me a hard time. “She locked lips with a very sexy hotshot at fire camp yesterday, and then she kept the details to herself.”

Pick, not the Douche. I inhale deeply and nearly choke on a nose-full of smoke. I’ve done plenty of things I regret in my life, but strangely enough, kissing Pick is not one of those things. Not even close.

“I’m not getting back out there,” I say firmly.

“But you did kiss the boy.” She whips her phone out of her pocket and holds it up so I can see the screen.

FYI? When you kiss a guy in public with a half-dozen cooks egging you on? You should expect to end up on the Internet. So I’m not surprised, although I’m not trying too hard to see the evidence with my own eyes. I don’t even like my own photos. I doubt I’ll like watching myself kiss any better. Fortunately, my face is mostly obscured in the footage.

“Guilty as charged.” I’m not convinced that confession is good for the soul. Frankly, I’ve been happier telling nothing to anyone.

“Was it good?” Lola passes her phone to Olivia. I think about trying to wrest it away from her, but I’m pretty sure she could kick my ass. Plus if Lola has the video, it’s undoubtedly all over the Internet—or at least the local Facebook pages.

Olivia grins. “You can see that for yourself.”

“Cannot.” I give in and grab the phone.

Whoever shot this was expecting it. In the first frames, I’m standing with my butt to the videographer, who shoots over my shoulder as I strut up to Pick. He’s so damned gorgeous. Even all mussed and sooty from the monster forest fire he’d just spent hours fighting, he looks ready for some hot loving. He’s big and built, and he moves with that easy grace some large men have. He’s comfortable in his own skin, and he doesn’t care what anyone else thinks. If I didn’t want to kiss him again so badly, I’d resent that.

Movie Star Me reaches up and drags Pick’s head down to hers and proceeds to kiss him vigorously. I give myself points for effort. It’s not the smoothest kiss I’ve ever seen, but it’s clearly getting the job done. The phone disappears out of my hand.

“So?” Lola stares at me expectantly.

“It was a dare. I had to kiss the first guy I saw.”

“Such a hardship,” Olivia mocks.

“So you just tripped and your tongue accidentally ended up in his mouth?” Lola’s not ready to let this kiss go.

“It was just a kiss.” A really awesome, smoking hot, toe-curling first kiss—which is my favorite kind. It also sort of has me wondering what a second kiss with Pick would be like. I don’t really want to admit this to Lola and Olivia because then they’ll know that it wasn’t just because of the dare.

“Just?” Olivia asks.

“It was nothing. Are we really meeting just to ask me about a ten-second kiss?”

Lola grins. “Are you really doing Step Seven without us?”

I take a moment to imagine the collective reaction of the Big Bear Rogues if the three of us (or the four of us if I include Hunter) descend upon them looking for a chance to get back out there. Honestly, they’re nice guys. I’m sure they’d be happy to help strictly as a public service, but I don’t really want my sex life to be a group project.

“He’s not my Step Seven man,” I say as firmly as I can. “He was an aberration, a mistake.”

Lola nods thoughtfully. “Because it would be totally okay if you felt ready to get back on the horse.”

From the way she waggles her eyebrows, I think we all know she means horse as in hung like a horse. But I’ve sworn off guys. Maybe not forever, but for at least a year or ten. Kissing Pick was fun—and he’s a good sport—but I can’t go back for seconds. He is not an all-I-can-eat buffet.

Even if part of me wishes he were.

“This is the intervention part, right?” Olivia looks at Lola. When Lola nods, she continues. “Good. Then I’m going to tell you that you’d be crazy not to kiss your hotshot a second time. You only live once, and that man…

She makes a good point.

I need to stop.

Stop running.

Stop hiding behind my clothes, my hair, my fears.

And if it takes plastering myself all over a very sexy hotshot to do it? Well, there are definitely worse self-help programs in this world.

“I’ll think about it,” I say.

“Do it.” Lola nudges my knee with hers. “No regrets, girl. If you want to Step Seven that hotshot, you do it. YOLO.”

Lola screams this last word as she hoists her phone over her head. She looks like a warrior princess, a star, like a woman who’s not afraid of anything. I’m so sick and tired of being scared all the time. That’s not who I used to be, and I don’t like who I’ve turned myself into. The old Sarah Jo didn’t back down from a challenge. She went through life at full speed, living balls out. I’d kind of like her back.

Chapter Five

Sarah Jo

The look on Pick’s face when I strolled away from him after our first kiss is priceless. Yes, that’s present tense. Thanks to the miracle of modern cell phone technology, I’m able to replay that look of stunned surprise over and over again. I’m also the happy recipient of not one but two iPhone videos of his face and a third of his butt (the cook in question has a definite thing for faded denim and I’m not complaining). He looks amused. Deliciously confused. Ready to come after me and ask me all about my specials. It has to be the sensual warmth in his eyes, though, that has me melting. I kissed him on a dare, but I definitely don’t need any more trouble. Or men.

So maybe I grabbed a screenshot from Rosalie’s Pick video and made it my wallpaper. And just maybe one of the steamier stills is now hanging on the wall of the kitchen with Dish of the Day scrawled in the margins in hot pink Sharpie. I’m sure you remember that Pick is a good-looking man. Mr. Chocolate-Eyed, Broad-Shouldered, Big-Dick Lumberjack kisses even better than he looks, too, which is a definite plus in my book. It’s too bad I can’t start something with him, but I’ve learned my lesson. No more policemen, sheriffs, first responders, or firemen. That kind of guy is nothing but take-charge trouble.

Still, walking away from him was hard.

Especially since parts of me—the more southern parts—insist I should grab his hand and lock him in my cabin. He’d make one hell of an afternoon off.

On the other side of the camp, a car starts. I jump before I can stop myself and the silverware I’m holding bites it, scattering on the cafeteria floor. I look down at it. Yup. Dirty, dirtier, and dirtiest. I’ll have to re-wash it all. Bending down, I scoop up the rejects and eye the departing vehicle as surreptitiously as I can. Just one of the hotshots leaving camp for an afternoon of R&R. A car pulling out—not in.

Still safe.

“Don’t overreact,” I tell the silverware. “He can’t find me out here.”

Okay—so it’s won’t and not can’t. I’m pretty sure my ex could track me down in Antarctica if he put his mind to it. Thad Hill has the tracking skills of a bloodhound.

Unfortunately for my peace of mind, the sound of a second motor approaching the camp requires a recheck of the impromptu parking lot through the cafeteria’s front windows. The battered pickup definitely seems like hotshot material. Hotshots don’t make billionaire money, and they like their trucks tough and rugged, chosen for their ability to take on backcountry roads and haul loads. Like the men themselves. There’s a certain raw beauty about that kind of dedication and power. Hotshots are men with staying power.

Unlike my ex.

Thad will come for me. Making like an ostrich won’t change that truth. I should have known better. Thad is law enforcement and I fingered him for a jewelry theft and cover-up arson . . . and then he deflected the blame back onto me. Nevertheless, the possibility of discovery seems far away right now. I’m three hundred miles away from Mr. Douche. Plus, the fire camp, for all its rough-and-tumble ways, is more peaceful than any town or city. Instead of skyscrapers, ponderosa pine reach for the summer sky, which is all hazy heat and summer gold instead of smog and light pollution. It’s like I’m starring in my very own Disney movie because I can count at least a dozen different birds flying around and making mad, loud bird noises. Even the squirrels have glossy coats, for crying out loud. The place certainly smells a hell of a lot better as well.

Line cook isn’t any harder than my last job as a home care worker. I had my own small business, taking care of a few elderly women. I met Thad when I picked up the phone and called for a wellness check for one of my ladies who hadn’t answered the door or collected her mail. He arrived in uniform. Different from my usual dates, but he was polite. Considerate. My client was fine, but he kept on coming by. Calling, my ladies said.

Sniffing around, more like.

You know those truffle hogs that Frenchmen use to dig up super expensive, ugly as fuck, but really damned tasty truffles? Thad is the ultimate truffle hog. He’s all beady eyes and snuffling nose. You know, if he were a girl. I Googled it the other night when I couldn’t sleep, and it turns out that truffle hogs are all females because truffles have some chemical in common with male pig saliva. You’re confused? Welcome to my life.

Hog or not, Thad made his grand entrance into my life, and I greeted him like he was a tasty treat. He had the same reaction to me, which should have been my first clue. Small-town dating has never been my thing. I don’t do sitting on the front porch or evening walks and sweet sunsets. I stuck out and not in a sexy or good way. After he met my Mrs. Joan when I was running late one night, his interest had done a 180. The elderly lady sat outside with him, wearing her “diamonds” and chatting Thad’s ear off, while I finished up inside. Unfortunately, the only diamonds I’m familiar with are the tiny engagement rings my friends’ fiancés buy at the local Sears. I had no idea that those big stones were real.

Yeah. Reality check.

Dragging my attention back to my new here-and-now, I dump the sullied silverware into the dirty bin and then add more clean forks to the pile I’m assembling for the dinner rush. Fifty should be enough. Eight hours into my shift, and quitting time is definitely on the horizon. I hate loose ends, though, so I’ll finish the sorting, prep the tables for tonight’s hungry hordes, and then clock out. After all, it isn’t as if I have anywhere to go. My deluxe, five-star summer accommodations are that double bed in my just-big-enough-for-one cabin at Baby Bear Lodge. The cabins are named after the local wildlife, and of course I’ve been blessed with Beaver #1. The mattress sags something fierce, and the slippery art of keeping the sheets put still eludes me. So there you have it, folks. More forks, or an early night curled up in bed with a paperback.

Choices, choices.

Another car crawls up the rutted fire road, gravel crunching beneath the tires. Why am I working in Grand Central Station? This is Mountainsville, the capital of Nowheresville. There shouldn’t be so much traffic. I don’t have to look. I really don’t have to.

Of course, I look.

How can I not? If my life were a horror movie, I’d totally go into that empty room or check out the nice, dark, spooky woods. And, oh, God, that is a patrol car. I can’t read the words on the passenger side door, can’t tell if this is the local sheriff or if Thad has found me. I recognize the cold clench of my stomach, followed by the wave of nausea. Today’s lunch promptly transforms into one of those little rowboat things that the waves toss around ruthlessly. Still thinking I’m overreacting? Just wait until I hurl on your feet. Hoping stupidly for a coincidence, I crane my neck, trying to see.

Someone moves in behind me. Someone male and large, who’s scuffing his feet deliberately because he’s afraid he’ll scare the shit out of me. The hotshots can be a real sweet bunch, but I’ve already overdosed on scared for today.

“Be right with you.” I twist my neck wishing I’d paid more attention to that yoga thing Olivia had tried to teach me. Olivia’s the second member of the Break Up Club, and she’s a bit of a health and fitness nut. Where I’m a peanut butter milkshake, she’s an organic kale smoothie. As you’d expect, I’m about as flexible as PVC piping, and I still can’t get a good look at the car. Go. Stay. My body practically explodes trying to choose between fight or flight.

The car’s driver is clearly male, but I can’t make out anything else through the tinted glass. I’ll have to wait for him to get out, and then I’ll have only a few seconds to decide. It’s not like I can announce that the good deputy is a thieving bastard. I already tried that and got precisely nowhere. Sure, I know that he broke into Mrs. Joan’s house, stole enough jewelry to purchase a small island in the South Pacific, and then covered his thieving ass by setting the house on fire. Problem is, I caught him leaving—but I have no proof. It’s my word against his. And no one believed me. My only consolation is that Mrs. Joan wasn’t home—thank God for Bunco night at the senior center—so no one was hurt. Physically, at least. I imagine the older woman mourns the loss of a houseful of memories that no insurance check can replace.

I lean a little further.

Is the door opening? Is he just sitting there, trying to torture me? Maybe I should walk out with my hands up.

“Problem?” Oh, the surprise. The universe has decided to go all in on my helping of trouble today. Because that too-male, too-interested voice belongs to one Pick Revere. Like whiskey going down, his voice is all rough-smooth, golden edges. And just like whiskey, I’ll have nothing but regrets in the morning.

I go with the safe answer. The so-not-true answer. “Nope.”

“You sure?” He sounds unconvinced—and concerned. As if he has a stake in my personal well-being, or at least some kind of interest. Plus, he’s called me out on lying about my mood before.

Somehow, I’m even less surprised by his pursuing me than Thad. He might have removed his mouth from mine after our kiss, but he didn’t pull back. Not really. I’d beat feet back behind my table ready to give the man all the pancakes he could eat, but he’d stood his ground. I’m pretty certain he’d been five seconds from clearing the table and repeating our kiss, and I hadn’t known how to feel about that. Now, as he steps closer, I swear I can feel the heat of his big body despite the rapidly dwindling stretch of empty space between us.

And there’s the desire I’ve been pretending doesn’t exist, the insta-lust that just shouldn’t happen to mostly-good girls who are trying really hard to start their lives over. I should pick a mantra. Some kind of reminder word that freaking encapsulates what I’m doing here.

Solitude.

Independence.

Absofreakinglutely.

Oooh, that last one is a good one.

Unfortunately, nothing seems to cure me of wanting to jump Pick and see if he’d be open to a game of hide-the-sausage. The extra dirty version, naturally. I remind myself that I’ve declared my independence from the male of the species. Every day is the Fourth of July on my calendar. I’m not dating, and I’m definitely not putting myself in another no-win situation with a take-charge alpha. Everyone here will take his word over mine any day of the week and twice on Sunday.

So there’s the question I don’t want to ask. Pick’s the original bossy lumberjack. Take charge. I’d like to think I could hold my own, but I’m supposed to be flying under the radar in this camp, and there’s no way I take him on quietly. Fighting with him would be fun. And taming the alpha male? Sign me up for that safari, please. It’s just that I shouldn’t. Not today, not tomorrow, not until I’ve somehow magically resolved this business with Thad. My hooha and my heart are officially closed for business.

None of which explains why my stupid head goes rebel and jerks around for a better look at Pick and is promptly rewarded for its foolishness. Pick is definitely worth looking at. His hair is damp from a recent shower, and a clean T-shirt clings to his powerful chest. No fancy words or logos for him. Just plain white cotton and blue jeans paired with practical steel-toes. Strong, tanned forearms cross over his chest as he watches me, his eyes narrowed. Play it off.

This would be more successful if my traitorous head doesn’t swing back and forth between Pick’s pretty face and the parking lot like a Wimbledon spectator.

“There’s really no problem?” I have to give him credit. He sounds like he’s at least trying to believe me. I promptly feel all warm and tingly inside because my stupid, stupid head is suggesting that we’ve just found ourselves a white knight and we should take full advantage. You know, ride off with him into the sunset of happiness, or at least ride him. Lady’s choice, right?

“No,” I repeat, a little more loudly than is strictly necessary. “I’m absolutely fine. My life is one big dream.”

Liar, liar, pants on fire.

For Pick, those certain southern parts of me point out.

Nightmare alert, my head screams because it’s hard to ignore the police when you’re on the run, no matter how hot the local scenery is.

The patrol car makes that small pinging sound of a vehicle that’s been driven long, far, and fast. Funny how such a little sound still sounds like the trumpets announcing the start of the apocalypse. I can practically hear God going told you so. I’m such a bad country song. The po-po shows up, lights flashing, and I can’t stop myself from flinching. Thank that laughing God that I don’t play poker.

“Seems like it to me.” Pick’s right behind me now. “You’re real tense.”

Okay, Captain Obvious. Also, FYI? I’m revoking his credit for pretending to believe me when I said I was okay. Still, he wins some points back for his next move. A big hand walks down my spine, pressing out the knots. Bliss. Leaning into that hand would be too easy.

“Figment of your imagination.” I pull away because I’m still wearing my big girl panties (despite the panty-melting qualities of my companion), tracking the car with my eyes. Will the door ever open? Why on earth is he just sitting there? Admittedly, even the non-penis-owning scenery up here is impressive, and lots of people like to ooh and ah over big, tall trees and the mountains, but still. He should get out. Move on. Do whatever it is that police officers get paid to do that does not involve arresting my butt.

Pick’s hand comes back, landing on my shoulder. I do my best not to flinch. Just because I kissed him yesterday doesn’t mean he has touching privileges now.

I’ll use my words if I have to.

Of course, I also talked and talked that last time I visited the police station. I filled out forms and told them what I knew. Thad paid me a little visit that same night. He’d pulled up alongside me in his patrol car and snapped out an order to get in. At least he’d pointed toward the passenger side and not the back, in the Plexiglas cube where he locked up criminals. After I got in—and I should have started running right then—he threatened me. If I kept talking, he’d talk, too, and share his side of things. The whole time, his fingers clenched my arm, squeezing the bones of my forearm together. It hurt. It was like being in a bad movie, except we weren’t at the happy ending right before the credits start rolling, when our heroine has overcome all the nasty shit life’s dumped on her and hooked up with the hero. I was stuck in the part where she’s lost all hope. I promptly panicked and ran as soon as he let me out.

I can’t do that again.

Strike that. I won’t do it.

New and improved me will stick up for herself or get even or maybe consider mortgaging her soul to buy a remote castle with a really big moat. Then I can always pull up the drawbridge and wait trouble out.

“You know the county sheriff?” Pick’s voice rumbles in my ear. Is it just me, or does he even sound sure and steady? Dependable. Protective. Like a total white knight, if you know, white knights were the size of mountains and rode Harleys in their spare time. Whereas I’m ready to run around in frenzied circles looking for an exit, he’s not in any rush. The car door is definitely opening, the sound drifting through the cafeteria’s screen door.

“Not me.” God, I hope not.

“So there’s no problem there. You didn’t date and dump him, or bump into him in the supermarket and have to listen to his long-ass stories about fishing and now he’s on your avoid-at-all-costs list.”

Pick’s drawl is slow and knowing. He knows he makes me nervous, and he knows I’m hiding something. In fact, he knows far too much. I open my mouth to say something, anything, because I know things, too. Like how to lie. It probably should bother me how easily the lies come, but I’m long past caring about ethics and moral values. You don’t put caviar on your shopping list when you’re down to your last dollar. Adrenaline spikes through my body, leaving me weak at the knees and painfully alive. Life is too short. Too uncertain. Blah blah freaking blah. Pick’s big body brushes against mine because of course he hasn’t stayed away, and I make the split-second decision to seize the opportunity. He’s here, he’s close, and if I don’t have my way with my hotshot now, tomorrow might be too late.

Thad could find me tomorrow. And if not tomorrow, the calendar is full of alternative dates, all of which will end equally badly for me. The only safe moment is now. I have to stop freaking out at every little noise. This is no way to live.

And I really, really want to live.

The last few months I’ve been putting down the highway of life in an overloaded minivan towing a whole lot of baggage. I’m ready to upgrade to a Camaro. To something with sizzle and flash and fire. No more speed limits, no more detours, no more wishing I’d gone in a different direction.

I’m lonely, I want sex, and this big hunk of man mountain is checking all the boxes on my top ten sexiest man traits list. You think all those driving metaphors were bad? Well, I’m getting off the highway of fear. Pulling over, making a pit stop, taking some me time.

This hotshot’s mine.

“Sarah Jo?”

“Yeah?” Even the way he says my name revs me up.

“You dating the sheriff?” I can hear the amusement in his voice, along with something else. Something that’s darker, hotter, and way more dangerous to my panties.

“No dating at all,” I get out, before a big finger comes up and covers my lips.

“Better not to say anything, darling. Whatever you’re coming up with, I’ll wait for the truth.”

Chapter Six

Pick

Sarah Jo bites me.

Not hard, but enough to make a dent in my finger that will be gone within the hour. I’m a tough son of a bitch, partly because it’s a job requirement, but mostly because that’s how life’s made me. Teeth marks don’t put me off. Fuck, part of me likes the fact that she’s decided to sink her teeth into me. The rest of me knows I damned well deserve whatever she dishes up because I shouldn’t be pushing her. Shouldn’t be touching her yet since she hasn’t issued an invitation.

Yet.

Hasn’t issued one yet.

Apparently, I’m an eternal fucking optimist where this woman is concerned, too. Still, I move my finger. I’m not entirely certain she won’t try to detach it from my body otherwise, and I have all sorts of dirty plans for that finger and Sarah Jo’s body. I’d hate for her to miss out because I’ve been reduced to a nine-finger wonder.

Now that I’ve removed my finger from her person, her grip tightens on the pile of forks she’s clutching like they’re an arsenal of deadly weapons she just can’t wait to launch. Possibly, she’s entertaining fantasies of stabbing me. Although I’d rather she mentally undressed me and rode me like a cowgirl, I’ll take what I can get. She’s not ignoring me and that goes straight into the plus column in the Pick Revere Dating Ledger. Frankly, that ledger’s been a little too empty lately. I haven’t dated much in recent history—a fire call comes in and I go out, which makes me bad Friday-night fodder and a frequent flyer at the local titty bar where I can at least look if I can’t touch—but even I know that paying attention is a good sign. Besides, I get the feeling that Sarah Jo doesn’t do things the easy way. She won’t be Friday night and a movie.

Or maybe that’s just me, looking at her and seeing something more. Maybe yesterday’s kiss really was just a quick dare, a little fun that’s over now and she’s thinking why the fuck isn’t this guy moving along? Maybe I’m the only one who sees her move as the opening gambit in something bigger. I liked the taste of her all right—and I definitely want more. I’m not settling for the one-scoop vanilla cone when I could have the entire fucking sundae and a cherry. I want her naked and underneath me. Or over, alongside, or reverse cowgirl. We can work our way through the entire Kama Sutra if she wants, even the crazy positions that would challenge an Olympic gymnast.

But instead of getting naked followed by getting down and dirty, she’s tense and hyper-focused on the sheriff parked outside the building. I don’t know why a police car has her jumping like fleas on a dog, but she’s visibly a nervous wreck. Pretty sure she’s trying to hide behind me, too. On the other hand? I can work with that. Shielding her from sight is simple enough, and letting her lean on me some is even easier. Hell, I can even admit that having strong, sassy Sarah Jo leaning on me gives me a primitive satisfaction and awakens a desire to take care of her. Whatever bad thing she feared isn’t going to happen on my watch. It’ll just be non-stop orgasms and good times.

You know what? I’m not sure where this urge to go all protect and defend on her came from. It’s a little foreign when not applied to burning buildings.

Maybe it’s because she definitely looks good enough to eat. Today she’s wearing another sassy T-shirt—Hugging a firefighter is hot—and a matching skirt that clings to her ass and her thighs. An enormous flannel shirt is tied around her waist, her full-body camouflage shucked in deference to the already oppressive temperatures. Likewise, her bare legs sport flip-flops instead of boots because only a sadist or a hotshot would wear steel-toes in the triple-digit summer heat baking the camp. Missing her would be hard since her shirt is the most obnoxious shade of purple I’ve ever laid eyes on. I’m not certain she’s wearing a bra beneath all that color, and I damned certain want to find out. So I rile her up just a little bit more.

“You still say there’s nothing wrong?”

She moves then, putting me between herself and the car’s line of sight. Obligingly, I step closer so my shoulders block the window. I’m such a fucking Boy Scout. Maybe she’ll pin a merit badge on me later. With her mouth.

Sarah Jo doesn’t strike me as the kind of woman who runs scared. She’s more likely to kick trouble in the balls (and yes I’m watching mine), so I don’t know what could have set her off so. It’s just the county sheriff, doing his weekly drive-by and the other usual fire camp visitors. She’s made it clear she isn’t sharing, however, so I won’t push.

Much.

“Not a thing,” she says confidently, but then jumps at nothing, showering forks all over the floor. The clatter’s loud enough that you’d think a one-man band just exploded or something. The move, however, puts her right in my arms. Her amazing tits brush my chest, and now I’ve got firsthand evidence that she opted out of wearing a bra today. There’s a whiff of something citrus, too. Her shampoo, maybe, or lotion. Either way, she smells like she belongs on my menu. She’s lunch and I should absolutely eat her up. And out. Fuck, yeah.

She slides her hands up my arms and over my shoulders, linking them around my neck. If she’s omniscient and on board with my dirty plans for her, I’m the happiest man alive.

“You liked kissing me?” Not stopping for an answer, she abandons the forks and walks me toward the side door, her thighs pressing into mine with each step she takes. I have no idea where we’re going but I’ll let her lead in this little dance we’ve got going on. “The other day?”

I’d kiss her anywhere, anytime. I set my hands on her hips and let her steer me outside. I’d even be up for sex in public at this point because my dick’s that damned hard.

No point in beating around the bush. “You know I did.”

I have the feeling my mouth is opening and shutting in a troutlike fashion I’ll regret later. Something about Sarah Jo knocks me off balance, starting with the unexpected offer coming out of her mouth. Apparently, she isn’t waiting for my answer, however, because her fingers walk up my neck, find my ear like she owns it, and just like that I’m even harder. I definitely want to do that again.

And her. Performing wicked, naughty sex acts on Sarah Jo’s willing body is high on my to-do list right now.

“My shift is over,” she announces.

Does that mean what my dick is praying it does? Could be she’s just making awkward conversation or is leading up to abandoning me and my hard-on, but it’s hard to not be hopeful.

“Mine too,” I growl. Meant that shit to come out as a whisper, something soft and teasing, but the blood’s abandoned my brain and nothing about me is smooth and easy. Sarah Jo’s fucking gorgeous, and she’s got me so hot for her that I’m about to spontaneously combust. You think I should be romantic about this? Come up with some heartfelt compliments and do the woo? I’d like to, but my dick is in overdrive and this is so not what I thought would happen when I followed Sarah Jo into the cafeteria. I was planning on a beer and some dancing of the fully-clothed variety. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that a woman who would kiss me in front of an entire fire camp would also make it clear what the next step in our not-relationship should be. I like that she’s not afraid to show me what she wants.

She dances me straight out the side door and into open air, executing a clever little twist that reverses our positions so I’m once again between her and the parking lot. Are you confused? So am I. Not sure if this is really about sex or not, but I can’t help hoping. Which makes me an even bigger dick than I already am because if she’s scared or worried about shit, I shouldn’t be taking advantage of her.

I’m still wrestling with my inner good guy (FYI he’s fucking losing), when she stops. Inner Good Guy abruptly comes over to the evil sexy hook up side when she goes up on tiptoe to peer over my shoulder, her pussy rubbing against my dick as she turns my body into her own personal ladder. “You know what’s inside that cabin? Is it open?”

She points. I turn my head and look. Sooner or later, we’re gonna have to have a conversation about who gives orders and who gets them.

Typically, my days start and end with the fire cache housed in the rundown wooden cabin at my back. Forty feet by forty, the one-room cabin is stuffed full of ordered supplies and twelve-packs of tools half-broken into, cardboard boxes and piles, piles, and more piles. When I’d opened the cache at the start of the summer, I discovered that someone had gone crazy with an ancient label-maker, sticking precisely lettered strips of black-and-white everywhere, although no amount of labels could ever corral the mess of Pulaskis and axes, sleeping bags and hard hats. Everything has been ordered in by the caseload and in multiples—and then left to explode everywhere.

“Supplies,” I growl out, maneuvering her a little closer. Her hips are the perfect fit for mine—we slot together like two pieces in a sexy puzzle. But she’s asked me a question, so I try to concentrate. Supply depot is definitely too fancy a term for what lies inside that cabin. More like dumping ground or organizational nightmare. Maybe, if there were fewer fires, I’d give a damn. And maybe pigs will fly.

She beams. “So it’s empty.”

If you count metal shelves crammed with crap empty, then, yeah. Totally empty.

She bounces against me, and turns up the wattage on her smile. I’m pig enough to ignore the forced cheer because holy fuck, the bounce move slides her pussy up and down the front of my jeans yet again, and I’m in unexpected danger of going off like a rocket.

She pats my chest. “Let’s go in.”

What the lady wants, the lady gets. I’m an absolute fucking gentleman like that. Possibly, I nod like a bobblehead because something about Sarah Jo short-circuits the thinking portions of my brain. Or maybe it’s just that all available blood has stampeded south of my belt where there’s a whole lot of happy and turned on going on.

She takes charge again, not waiting for my answer. That’s fine. The only thing my mouth is good for right now is kissing and licking. Possibly also biting, moaning, and loving her good. My body doesn’t mind the Sarah Jo takeover one bit. On the contrary, my dick jumps right to attention and my feet move doubletime. She sure is sexy. She slaps her hands against my shoulders, pushing me faster because she’s impatient. I agree. Getting naked and closer is high priority. I move.

When my back hits an immoveable wall, I consider and then discard the idea of just picking her up and banging her against it. Wall sex is amazing, and she’s so tiny that I could hold her up for hours. On the other hand, doing it for hours would put us on full display for the hungry hordes, and that has to violate about a hundred different HR rules. Might be a health code violation as well.

Since I like my job, I shove my hand down, feeling around the rough timbers for the doorknob. She takes charge of that, too, reaching around me, her fingers brushing against my ass as she pushes the door open.

And then she fucking shoves me inside.

Okay, so I go. Willingly. Apparently, I’ve answered my own question, and I’m up for a repeat of yesterday’s kiss. I’ve tried being a responsible, mature adult and asking her what’s wrong—because, clearly, something out there in the camp has spooked her bad—but she’s made it clear that she doesn’t want words. She went for my goodies instead, and I’m so on board with that plan. I’m even willing to let her sit in the driver’s seat. Temporarily.

Yesterday’s kiss was smoking hot, even with an appreciative audience. She apparently enjoyed kissing me because this unexpected lunch date in the storage cache proves I’m more than a dare and a drive-by kiss. Clearly, she’s ready to give me a second shot, so screw Hunter and his claims that I was a throwaway and a convenient five minutes. I’m getting me at least an hour today—and a promise of more.

She two-steps me deeper into the cabin, her tongue tracing my lips.

“Making me work for it, Pick?” She whispers the teasing question against my mouth, and I smile. She has no idea.

“You’re always welcome, honey.”

My ass bumps up against a desk shoved along the wall, and my dick suggests we take full advantage of the horizontal surface. Good plan. I sweep one hand beneath me, ignoring the clatter of office supplies biting it. I’ll sign on for pickup detail. Later. Right now, I park my ass down and pull her between my legs.

It’s my turn to kiss her.

She doesn’t make it easy. I don’t mind the unexpected hookup, but the cabin isn’t aces in the romance department. Chockablock full of card tables and shelves loaded down with extra handles and oil, wedges and spray paint, the few visible inches of the walls are papered with less-than-sexy park posters. A graffiti-covered Smokey the Bear stares at us, surrounded by fire road signs and maps bristling with pushpins. Those are souvenirs and victories right there, half covered with flight maps and helicopter schedules. I’ve been in here hundreds of times, and it’s never looked so good as it does now that she’s here with me.

“Sarah Jo,” I say roughly, threading my fingers through her hair. Her name comes out half plea, half demand. We’re still fighting to see who gets to be in control of what’s happening here, and for the first time in my life, losing doesn’t seem so bad.

“Don’t talk.” She leans in closer, her tits squashed up against my chest. She has to feel the massive boner I’ve got for her, but she doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, she gives a little wriggle, like she’s checking my stuff out and so far, so amazing. Her words trail off in a little moan-sigh.

“You don’t want to slow things down?” Asking the question sucks, but informed consent is non-negotiable. Once I get the verbal go-ahead, I’ve got plans to strip off her clothes, lay her down on the floor, and go at her despite our potential audience outside the cabin. I’d be happy to draw you a flowchart, but showing you will be so much better.

“Not a chance,” she growls. “I’ve decided that life is too uncertain not to take what I want, and you’re first on my list.”

I admire her priorities. Better yet, she slaps her hands down on the wall behind the desk, pinning my head between her palms. This is new. I take a second to appreciate my position. Usually I’m on top and in charge, but I’m willing to let her hold the reins for a moment. It helps that she’s looking at me like I’m the center of her universe, and she’s in a mood to explore.

Sure enough, she eliminates all remaining distance between us, pulling us closer together until there’s not an inch of space left. I can’t help groaning, which makes her smile. Naughty girls get what they have coming to them, and I have plans for Ms. I-Started-This Sarah Jo. Needing to touch her, to feel her hair, her skin, down her back, and over the soft crease of her hip, I reach for her. Behaving myself is no longer an option.

“See?” Her eyes light up with humor even as her fingers find my shoulders and squeeze. I squeeze back, but since my hands are on her spectacular ass, it’s her turn to groan. “Talking’s over-rated.”

The lady is always right. Have I mentioned how much I believe that? She follows up the groan with a whimpering sound as I touch her more. Running my palms over her perfect curves. Pulling her closer, sliding my fingers beneath the hem of her shirt because I need bare skin, now.

She’s hungry for me, too. The gentle shoulder squeeze turns dirty, her hands sliding slowly lower, yanking me close. She’s not tall. She has to tip her head back to make eye contact, but we’ve got enough light, even with the door shut, that I can see her clearly. She gives my face another once over, and then smiles. Her hands move. Skim over my shoulders. Down my arms until her fingers tangle with mine.

She makes me feel… Christ, I’ve never deliberately set a fire outside working hours, but I suddenly know how an arsonist must feel. It feels so goddamned good to go up in flames, to make her burn.

“I’m right here.” My voice sounds rough. “Right where you put me, babe.”

She grins. “I’ll make sure you don’t mind.”

Mission. Accomplished. She sends her hands roaming over my body like she wants it all right now. Over my shoulders and down my chest, yanking up my T-shirt and smoothing her fingers over my abdomen. Slowly because Sarah Jo’s a masterful tease. Yeah, it’s that good. She pulls me into her embrace and then our lips meet and we’re devouring each other, hungry and urgent.

Turns out Sarah Jo doesn’t take orders. Or directions, suggestions, or hints. Her tongue strokes mine boldly, taking my mouth exactly as she pleases while her hands go on a wicked, wicked walkabout. I have no complaints, but no way I get mine before she does. It’s that gentlemanly code of conduct I can’t quite seem to shake. Fortunately, although I’m not more determined, I am both bigger and stronger. I flip her around, laying her back on the table in one smooth move, pinning her hands. 

“Kisses first,” I whisper roughly.

“Pick.” She gasps my name, trying to reach for me. I’d like to give in, give her what we both want, but I have to make this the most amazing fucking first time ever because I already know I want a second and a third chance. Is a million too ambitious? Because I can’t imagine not wanting more Sarah Jo over and over.

So I hold her hands over her head. “Ladies first.”

Before she can protest, I let go and drop to my knees in front of her. If she wants kisses, I’ll give her kisses.

Chapter Seven

Sarah Jo

Pick kisses his way down my body, a hotshot on a mission. God, I could watch him for hours—and not just because he’s sporting a most impressive erection. His new position—going down on me, be still my quivering hooha—lets me appreciate the downright enormous ridge beneath his jeans as he drops lower. It’s my good fortune that the man’s built to scale. The hard length presses first against my belly, my thigh, then is gone all together. Well crap. Now that he’s let go, I try to steer him with my hands, wanting his face back within kissing distance, but he gently brushes me away.

“Let me make this good,” he says. I’m dying, and he’s laughing.

“It’s your job to put out fires,” I point out, sounding downright freaking virtuous. “Chop chop.”

He outright laughs this time. God, I love that raspy sound, half amusement, half growl. “You got to trust me.”

“Now,” I demand, because this is my carpe diem moment and he’s withholding orgasms, but there’s no hurrying Pick up. He’s as methodical and thorough about this as he is about fighting fire.

While he explores the soft curve of my belly—God, I should have bothered more with sit-ups—his hands discover my breasts and rub over the cotton T-shirt, thumbing my nipples in a deliciously rough caress. You think he could take a hint from the words embroidered over my boobs, but maybe reading isn’t on his mind right now. Torturing me is. The best, most delicious, sinfully erotic torture mankind ever devised. He teases and pinches, rubs and pulls, until my nipples seem to have a one-way connection to my clit, and everything in me is pulling tighter and tighter in the best possible way.

And he’s in absolutely no hurry at all, damn him. He devours me, like I’m the tastiest dish on today’s menu. As if he’s starving—for me. He strips off my shirt, licking, kissing, and nipping his way from one boob to the other. He likes what he sees, and he loves what he’s doing, and me? I just melt in his big, capable hands.

Then finally, finally he’s moving all the way down, his head dipping lower as his broad shoulders pushed my thighs apart. For a moment, I stiffen, not quite certain how far I really want to take this, but he pushes gently and I give, leaning up on my elbows, watching him. He’s freaking amazing, so screw resistance, self-control, or discipline. I’m going to eat him up like he’s the biggest, baddest, most sinful piece of cake ever.

I think he’s in full agreement with me, too. He eases the skirt up over my knees and thighs until the fabric pools on my stomach.

“Watch,” he orders.

He didn’t just say that, did he? I just want to come, not reenact Fifty Shades of Grey. I don’t like orders or not feeling in control. But then he blows lightly, sending shivers through me. Okay, so now isn’t the time to bring up my issues.

He doesn’t wait for me to agree or disagree, just runs a thumb over my thong. The feel of that light touch drives me crazy. Makes me groan. I didn’t plan this, I swear, not until I spotted the car driving up, and even then I was running on instinct and relief. I just wanted to grab everything I could before time ran out and my life was game over. Thank God my panties are good ones, a sea foam kind of color, the edges trimmed with lace and a perky white bow. He’s staring at them like I’ve got the Sistine Chapel wrapped around my hooha. His eyes darken and his breath catches.

“Pretty,” he groans. “You know how badly I want to get underneath those panties, Sarah Jo?”

“Tell me.” That’s my voice that sounds so breathless and out of control. I’d do anything if he’d just keep touching me.

He does. I don’t know if he’s a mind reader, or just as desperate as I am. He drags his thumb down the very center of my panties and I moan.

“The whole fucking mountain could go up in flames right now, and I’d still be right here.” He slides his hands under my butt, lifting me toward his mouth.

I squirm because we’ve got a few logistical issues here. He hasn’t taken the panties off. His fingers cup and curl, teasing and stroking. And yet my panties stay firmly put. I’m giftwrapped for him, and all he’s doing is shaking the package because he knows what’s inside—and is going to make me wait. Damn him.

“What are you doing?” I ask the stupid question because, hello, I need an answer now.

“Wait and see.” He flashes me a grin, the bastard. “If you still have questions in a minute, I’m not doing this right.”

His hands didn’t stop lifting, either. Guess that’s my first clue. I could try wriggling out of them myself but this isn’t the most secure position in the world. He touches me, and I moan again. He leans closer, his shoulders pressing my thighs apart as his mouth skims over my panty-clad center. I want him to lick me. To tongue me hard, to shove his face down, and make me forget about everything bad in the world. He could do it, too.

I’ve never felt like this. No man has ever made me want to have sex so badly. I’ve never been this desperate for an orgasm. And then his mouth… God… his mouth is right there. Pressed against the center of my panties. He’s every bit as good—or as bad—as he’s been promising because I go up in flames. I pull him closer, pleading for more. Or everything. Anything. My reward is a small, secret kiss I feel deep in my core. He has his palms wrapped around my butt cheeks, his fingertips tickling the crease between them and when he inhales, he has to smell me. Instead of being embarrassed, though, I’m aroused.

“Open up more,” he growls.

Bossy, isn’t he? I hesitate just a moment, thighs tensing against his shoulders before I give up and give in. I open my legs wide. He immediately rewards me for that obedience, moving higher, his fingers curling into the hot, salty spot where my thighs meet.

“Farther,” he coaxes, nudging me. Anything. I’ll do anything to keep him right there. Never mind that I can feel the cool surface of the metal desk beneath my butt and there’s a ridge of fabric jammed at the base of my spine. It would have been smarter to jump him at a Four Seasons, but we’re here now, and I’ll kill him if he doesn’t finish what I started.

“Did you lock the door?” Yes. I have to ask, even if I kind of hope he ignores my question. Or just tells me that yes, of course he did, and he’s got a tank or something equally impenetrable (har) blocking the entrance to our impromptu love nest. Lies. Truth. All I want is plausible deniability and the green light to go ahead. This is the best worst idea ever, and I totally blame his hot physique and that unexpected flash of caring. How was I supposed to resist?

Unfortunately, he lifts his head. An inch. Crap. “Do you care?”

That’s not a yes. In fact, I could probably infer it’s a fuck no because you didn’t give me a chance, babe. The problem is that I can feel each one of those three words on my skin. His breath brushes over me in a dirty, wicked tease. Do I care? Yes, I decide reluctantly. I do. Despite the fire camp baking outside in the summer heat, the air in the cabin feels shockingly cool on my bare skin. Which is bare because my skirt is hiked up to my waist and I’m using Pick’s shoulders as my own personal footrest. I lift my hands. Set them down. Consider crossing them over my boobs. Why is casual hook up sex so goddamned awkward?

He takes pity on me. “No one’s coming through that door. You can relax.”

Right. Because stopping and having a conversation in the middle of hot, impulse sex-on-a-desk is so relaxing making. He must correctly interpret the look on my face, because he lowers his head and hooks my waistband, his thumbs drawing my panties down. The fabric teases me where I’m slick and swollen, pulling over my swollen flesh. He doesn’t take them off, though, just leaves them tucked below my mound like now that he can reach what he wants, nothing else matters.

Thank God. We’re done passing the appetizers around, and now we’re going for the main course. I expect him to hop up, grab a condom, and get down to it, but instead he swipes his tongue over me. Oh. FREAKING. Yes. I suddenly understand why the hotshot team is sort of legendary all over town. If his teammates are anywhere near as talented, it’s amazing anyone ever lets them out of bed.

Sensation bursts through me, pleasure following each sure lick. No more thinking. No more worrying. I fall back—forgetting all about my metal bed—grab his head with my hands, and turn him into my own personal steering wheel. Left, a little more to the right, and then right. Fucking. There. I yank him closer and let him hear my appreciation of his insane oral skills.

Once again, Pick proves he isn’t a man in a rush. Again and again, he kisses me while I bump and grind, riding his amazingly talented face to the best of my abilities. He’s admirably thorough too. He swirls his tongue around the top of my girl bits, drawing torturous circles around my clit before making the trip back down like he has all the time in the world and it’s no rush, nowhere to be but here as the sweet, slow ache builds in me.

At some point, he’s set me down on the desk because now he’s got two hands at his disposal and God, can he use them. He slides his thumbs up, loving the hell out of my pussy. When he presses inside me with one callused finger, I see stars. And then I do some more groaning and demanding because why settle for looking at the Big Dipper when you could have the entire galaxy? I try to explain that to him, but my mouth seems incapable of anything more than babble and throaty moans. I run my hands all over him, touching each inch that I can, feeling up his arms, his shoulders, the top of his head. More Pick, please.

And he gives it to me. “Let go. Lean on me a little. No worries, honey.”

It’s rather obvious that I have worries, an entire tanker truck load of them, but I try to let it all go. His finger pushing back inside me again helps a whole lot with my attempt, because God bless the man, he finds my G-spot like he’s got his own personal map of my body with a big X marking all my favorite, dirty spots. I come so fast that I surprise myself, grinding hard against his mouth and moaning his name.

Yeah. I just did that. I grabbed a guy, dragged him into some kind of storage shed, and proceeded to use him as my own personal dildo. It sounds kind of bad when I think about it like that. Whatever else he is, Pick’s a decent guy, and he deserves more than being my police evasion tool. Like a matching his-and-her orgasm. He totally deserves that.

It takes me a moment to come down from cloud nine or wherever it is that Pick’s magic tongue has catapulted me to. I’m sort of hanging onto his head, alternating between patting it and pulling on it. Hopefully, I haven’t snatched him bald, but he’s certainly to blame. He made me see stars, and he made me lose control. Any resulting bald patch is just the price of entry.

And… he’s watching me. I mean, that’s better than having him stare at my post-orgasm cooter, but it’s a little unnerving. I’ve spent most of my time recently doing my best to hide in plain sight, and rule number one of hiding is don’t attract attention. I should say thank you. Or praise his mad oral skills. Something. Anything. Instead I blurt out one word.

“What?”

Awesome. I could have gone with that one. Or fantastic. Mind-blowing. Even without the thesaurus app on my phone, I have to be able to come up with a dozen more flattering words to hit him with. He doesn’t look offended, though. He just keeps on staring, although his hands drift lower, running over my inner thighs and making little shivers run up and down my back. It’s both relaxing and arousing at the same time, which explains why my eyes start drifting shut. After the monumental orgasm I’ve just had, a nap sounds perfect. I know I should move, should return the favor, but he’s reduced me to this boneless pile of limp.

“You don’t like being told what to do.” He slips the casual observation in, like he’s telling me something I don’t know.

I force my eyes open and attempt to multi-task, wriggling back enough to sit up and slam my shameless thighs shut. My inner hussy has been exposed enough for today, thank you very much.

“Why would I?” I’m sure he’s not a fan of order-taking, if we’re swapping secrets here, so why should I like it any more than he does?

He laughs, rocking back on his heels. Yes, I shoot a look at his crotch, trying to check out the goods. As far as I can tell, he’s abnormally blessed in the downtown department. Super shlong, packing, hung. “Sometimes, taking orders can be fun.”

I’m about to ask him for an example because I still have my doubts that he’s ever taken orders and enjoyed it, but the dinner bell rings outside and someone hollers my name. Real life is about to come a-knock-knocking on the door.

“I need to go.” Wham, bam, and thank you sir, but we’re done here. In reality, after hiding in plain sight for so long, I’m feeling a touch too exposed now that he’s been eye-to-hooha with me. A little strategic retreat is in order

“Gotcha.” He pushes to his feet, the masculine grace and raw power of that big body kicking my senses into overdrive again. Or maybe I’m just disappointed that I’m going to have to make do with appetizers and not the main course after all because so much for having sexcapades. “Looks like I have a date with dinner after all.”

“We’re not dating.” It’s hard to sound dignified and in control when he gives me a hand off the desk and stands me up. Plus, I’m still super wet from his attentions, and there’s an embarrassing noise I can’t and won’t place. At least I don’t have sperm running down my legs, right? I try to lunge for the door, but my panties are still down around my thighs, and the sudden movement throws me off balance. Rather than face plant, I catch myself on his shoulders before I even realize what I’m doing. I’m grace incarnate and so not-sexy. Oh well, right? He adjusts my panties matter-of-factly, but then he squeezes my ass gently and points me toward the door. I think…

I have no freaking idea what to think.

“Whatever you say, honey.”

Chapter Eight

Pick

The fire camp at Big Bear Lake isn’t precisely easy to find, and the two-lane highway that dumps visitors out at the ranger station near the park’s entrance is a poor excuse for a road. Most folks end up cranky as fuck, and from the dust coating the sheriff’s cruiser that pulls into the parking lot the day after I make Sarah Jo see stars in the storage shed, this newest of visitors hit every pothole and then some. Hope the taxpayers sprang for high-end suspension on that car because otherwise its driver has to be both shaken and stirred. You need a truck out here, one with four-wheel drive. We’re not Kia country, and our rides have one job: to get us from camp to the fire and then to haul our asses out double-time when it’s either quitting time at the zoo or the fire overruns us.

Not sure what’s up with the cruiser, though. I spot a full rack of shotguns as if the good officer had prepared for bear or Armageddon. There’s no snap-crackle-buzz of the radio, either. I’m betting this guy’s running dark, which may have something to do with the name painted on the side of the car. He’s across his county line, and he doesn’t have jurisdiction this far southwest. I’m betting, however, that he’s got something to do with Sarah Jo being jumpy as fuck yesterday—jumpy enough that she’d dragged me into the storage cache and had her wicked way with me. I probably shouldn’t have done that, that whole letting her seduce me and ride my face thing. But it’s hard to regret when I imagine I can still taste her every time I lick my lips.

So I watch as the officer finally opens the door and stands up, adjusting his uniform. Despite however long he’s been sitting around with his thumb up his ass, his pants still hold a perfect crease and his utility belt is a thing of beauty. In addition to his semiautomatic, he sports what looks like a department-issue baton, a pair of cuffs, and a Taser. He still looks like a douche, though. Like he thinks he’s in charge of All The Shit and he’s just looking for an excuse to haul your ass down to the station in the back of his car.

I know what he sees when he looks around. The Bears’ Lair, aka fire camp, is a sleepy dot in the middle of nowhere. This is our downtime space, the spot where nothing happens, and we fucking love it that way because out in the field hell is either breaking loose or you’re mopping up after the last break out. Camp is a handful of weathered wooden buildings and a patch of gravel mostly filled with beat-up trucks and a few Japanese imports. A dented POS peels out of our impromptu lot, a foreign car from overseas with good mileage and a decent resale value. There’s a little fuck you spit of gravel as the driver leaves the parking lot too fast.

I’m betting that’s Sarah Jo leaving. I could will her to stay all I wanted, but she’d been scared yesterday and itching to go.

The Douche pauses next to his car like he’s expecting a marching band welcome or celestial trumpets announcing his arrival. He’s gonna be waiting a long time. I count it off, one one thousand, two one thousand… Get to fucking thirty before he gives up on anyone pulling a meet-and-greet and scans the buildings. He hasn’t spotted me yet. Instead, the cabin door next to the cafeteria seems to catch his eye. Someone has added a neat sign saying MAIN OFFICE. Honestly, that someone is messing with The Douche because none of us are office types, and that office is empty. Everyone’s either eating or out in the field.

I saunter over to intercept the man before he can spoil anyone’s lunch. I’m such a saint—my boys can thank me later for taking one for the team. The good deputy spots me when I start moving, and promptly comes to a halt, waiting. He clearly thinks he’s pulling a genius power play by making me approach him, and I’m itching to disabuse him of that idea. Preferably with my fists, although my feet wouldn’t mind getting in on the action and kicking the shit out of him, either.

He looks complacent as fuck. He’s tall, but not as tall as me. Bet he hates having to tilt his head back to make eye contact with me, so I get right up in his space. He’s the kind of pretty boy that looks like he belongs on a billboard advertising cologne or tighty-whities. His dark hair is slicked back from his face, and he’s got a real nice pair of cheekbones and a perfect nose. You know Humperdink in The Princess Bride? This guy could be his doppelganger, except without the velvet and lace.

“What’s up?” I come to a stop when moving another inch would put my steel-toes on top of his shiny, hi-gloss loafers. Leaving my footprint there would practically be charitable of me because then his ass will have a nice keepsake of his time with us.

“Deputy Thad Hill,” the Douche announces in self-satisfied tones. This is apparently my cue to fall down and worship, or at least show him the kind of respect I’d give my president or commanding officer. He must have the world’s smallest dick, given the amount of compensating he’s doing. I, on the other hand, know I’m hung. God’s been over-generous in the dick department, and so I don’t need to get into a pissing contest here.

The Douche then proceeds to trot out a badge case, just in case I have any doubts that my presence has been blessed with greatness. He flips it open smoothly, flashing a square of laminated, official looking plastic at me. His creds certainly look genuine, although there’s always the possibility that Deputy Douche (to give him his official job title) is a fake with the real article. Deputy Douche flicks the case shut and slides it into his back pocket.

We look at each other for a moment. Eh. Fuck it. I’d like to eat lunch, and I’d also like to go after Sarah Jo. Sleep, a shower, and a cold beer are high up on my to do list as well, so Deputy Douche needs to get on with it.

“You got business here?” Looming over him is ridiculously easy. Bet Deputy Douche is wishing he’d met a smaller hotshot or put lifts in those fancy shoes of his. Deputy Douche isn’t a small man, either, but I have the advantage, the biggest one being that I don’t have to pretend to be nice. Or professional. Even if Hunter Black is off-site at the moment and that makes me the man in charge. Which is very convenient when Deputy Douche shoves a picture in my face.

“No autographs,” I tell him, enjoying the way he chokes on his righteous indignation. I’m not sure why I’m baiting him. Normally, I have nothing but respect for law enforcement—they do an important job, and like my hotshot team, their number one goal is keeping people safe. I admire that. This guy, however, rubs me the wrong way.

The photo is also a problem. I snatch it out of his hand and head into the office just in case that wasn’t Sarah Jo getting the hell out of Dodge a few minutes ago. I also think I’m not going to want an audience for this conversation because that’s definitely Sarah Jo in the picture. Her hair’s a little less colorful, but she’s beaming at the camera with her trademark smile, flashing her fingers in a vee for victory gesture. She looks happy and way the fuck less haunted.

Her expression’s almost as good as the one she sported yesterday after my tongue and I got done expressing our heart-felt appreciation for her pussy. Fuck, but she tasted good. Probably a good thing we didn’t get around to actual penetration because she’s obviously in an emotionally vulnerable place. You can’t believe I just said that? That makes two of us. But banging the hell out of her on a desk when she was scared shitless about something didn’t sit right then, and it doesn’t feel any more right today. Sure, I’ve got regrets. My dick’s been sending urgent messages to my brain since we parted and my balls are permanently Smurf-colored.

But even if scared and sexy can co-exist, I feel like I should take care of the scared thing first for her. Must be because I’ve still got a gentlemanly side and if she’s not worried, she’ll be able to focus all her considerable attention on the amazing orgasms I’m giving her. Who wouldn’t want his best work appreciated? Just thinking about her spread out on the desk gets me hard all over again. Hope Deputy Douche doesn’t think the hard-on’s for him and end up with his precious feelings crushed.

“I’m investigating an arson.” Deputy Douche obviously expects his pronouncement to be greeted with a chorus of Hallelujahs because my continued silence makes the other man blink. Which is why I continue keeping my mouth shut and wait. Sooner or later, Hill will tell me what I need to know. Then I can assess my options, fix whatever shit Sarah Jo’s landed in, and go after her for round two in O-ville.

Hill fidgets. Gotcha. “You run into much arson up here?”

He’s standing in the middle of a fire camp—we’re a goddamned fire buffet up here. There are plenty of ways a wildland fire gets started, and arson ranks right up there at the top of the list. Idiots with matches, campers who think a no-burn rule doesn’t apply to them, lost hikers who decide building a big-ass signal fire will get them out of the woods faster, firefighters who want the overtime or the experience… it’s a crowded list.

“We’ve got plenty of fire up here,” I allow.

Hill shakes his head. “Not a Big Bear kind of blaze. My fire is three hundred miles northeast of here.”

The downright possessive tone in Hill’s voice sets off all kinds of alarms. An officer of the law shouldn’t be nosing around here without some kind of professional reason, but this doesn’t sound like a routine investigation at all.

“Have you seen this woman?” Hill trots the line out like he’s starring front and center in a bad television show. Just in case I’m terminally stupid, he taps the photo I’ve set down on top of the desk.

I’d sort of guessed based on her reaction to the sheriff’s car yesterday that she was on the run. Turns out I’d also harbored a stupid hope that she’d let me in on the reasons why before law enforcement showed up for her. It’s easier to hide the bodies before they’re on public display, you feel me?

“You looking for her?” I counter, already running options in my head. Outing Sarah Jo to this man isn’t happening. There’s something off here, and I learned years ago to listen to that little voice in my head. My subconscious processes way before the facts reach the rest of my head—there’s probably a big, fancy study backing me up, but this is experience talking, too. So, if my gut insists there’s something wrong, my head’s gonna listen.

“Sure am.” Hill’s thumb strokes over the glossy and I get the bad feeling that he’s imagining that he’s touching my girl. “Sarah Jo here is wanted for arson. She burned down the house of a little old lady she took care of.”

“The lady get hurt?” Christ, I hope not. Whatever happened, Sarah Jo doesn’t need to carry that burden, too.

Hill shakes his head. “Just a whole lot of property damage. You know where Sarah Jo is?”

“Can’t help,” I say blandly. More like, won’t, but no point in tipping my hand to Hill just yet.

“No?” Hill sounds skeptical. Guess he’s not as stupid as he sounds. “Because I’m fairly certain she’s up here.”

“Let’s call in the boys, then,” I suggest. “See if they’ve got anything to say.”

Deputy Douche thinks this is a fantastic idea, even if I did come up with it myself, so that’s what we do.

The reaction of the other hotshots when they pile into the cabin says plenty, too. My boys don’t like the newcomer. Thad Hill is a slick, friendly guy, but he’s also a little too friendly. One by one, each hotshot admires Sarah Jo’s picture, a few of them a little too much (Colt actually asks for her number as if Deputy Douche is running a dating service), but all of them insist that they’ve never, ever seen her. They fucking lie like champs and I love them. Deputy Douche gets visibly frustrated as he gets one no after another, which is entertaining for the first ten minutes but ten gets old. Twenty Questions is so not my favorite game—that would be Truth or Dare, dirty style. Muttering a quick excuse, I leave Hill to wrap up his interrogation and head out for the cooks.

The good thing about those gals is that they’re easy to find. Unlike my team, which can be almost anywhere along a fifty-mile fireline, cooks tend to be found near stoves, sinks, and large collections of knife blades. Blowing through the door of the cafeteria, I step into the path of the first cook I spot. She wisely comes to a halt rather than slamming into me because I seriously outweigh her.

I’ve got just one question. “What does Sarah Jo drive?”

The cook eyes me suspiciously for a long moment. Yeah. She’s aware of Deputy Douche’s surprise visit, and now she’s calculating whose side I’m on. This isn’t a playground, and we aren’t playing boys against girls. I give her a nice, sexy, calm smile. A smile that promises we both want what’s best for Sarah Jo. Safe and happy, right? And if I plan to ensure happiness with my mouth, fingers, and dick, that’s nobody’s business but mine and Sarah Jo’s. Before any orgasms can happen, however, I have to catch up with her first.

“Honda Civic,” she says finally, when I sling an arm around her shoulder and wink at her, tacitly promising that Deputy Douche isn’t getting within a hundred yards of our girl.

My cook prefers words to coded gestures, however, because she proceeds to spell our agreement out. “You going after her—or selling her out to that man over there?”

She nods toward the office where Deputy Douche is exiting. He looks distinctly unhappy. Colt marches along on one side of him, and Kade brings up the right. Kade’s the new boy on the team, and he was something hush-hush in the US military before he joined us, so he must know at least a dozen ways to kill a man and that’s fine with me. Leave nothing to chance. They’ll see him off and make sure he leaves. Also, FYI? Thad Hill had better not accept any offer of coffee these ladies make him, because the cook leaning into my side is definitely out for blood. She’s a fucking amazing woman.

As is the one I’ve temporarily misplaced. As soon as I catch up with her, I plan to point out that I’ve got her back, even if she’s not ready to open up anything more than her legs. So sue me. I’m not a poet. Hallmark wouldn’t hire me if I were the last person left on Earth (although I guess they wouldn’t need greeting cards then, would they?). What I’m trying to say is that I’ll take sex for now, but I’d like to get inside her head and maybe her heart. Just a little and whenever she’s ready. I’m a patient man and I know how to wait.

I let the cook go, dropping a kiss on her cheek. These ladies rock. “I’ll always go after her.”

Truth.

Chapter Nine

Sarah Jo

The Harley comes up fast behind me. The powerful cycle devours the road, easily chewing through the small distance I’ve managed to put between myself and the camp. Low-slung with a custom black paint job, the bike pales in comparison, however, to the helmeted man riding it. Pick hugs the powerful machine with his legs, all black leather and raw power. He looks hot.

Good enough to eat.

And almost-sex with Pick rocked my world in more ways than one yesterday. I’d pulled him into the storage shed because I’d known I was running out of time, so I’d planned on taking what I could. If you only get one pass through the world’s best buffet, you load up your plate and you start with dessert first. Screw vegetables and eating what you should—you go for the good stuff and you shovel it in. Life’s too short not to get my hands all over my hunky hotshot. What I hadn’t expected, however, was that Pick would make me feel like something besides a mind-blowing orgasm. Why does he have to be so hot? And so freaking sweet underneath that tough guy exterior? He makes me dream about curling up next to him, into him. Letting him take care of me as I pour out my worries and concerns. I can’t explain why I feel this way, but I know it’s a mistake.

In fact, it’s a super familiar mistake, and one I swore I’d never make again. There are plenty of enjoyable uses for the penis-owning members of society, but expecting them to stick around and partner up isn’t happening. So that makes my fascination with Pick pure trouble.

Pure temptation.

I can ignore him, right? That’s a possibility. I’ve left camp so it’s not like I’m on pancake duty. He has no business following me, plus I could always argue that I didn’t recognize him with the helmet on. Driving on and on is a tempting thought. I cranked the radio up as soon as I cleared the parking lot and Thad’s line of sight, going pedal to the metal somewhere else. Anywhere else. Unfortunately, the near-empty gas gauge reminds me that I’ll need to refill before I do too much more driving. I’m certainly not making it to Mexico before I’m coasting on empty.

Driving like a mad woman isn’t the wisest of moves, but I’m not going to lie to myself. Thad scares me. He wields his badge like a weapon, and I’m in his sights. He’s already insinuated that I can make up my bad behavior in the backseat of his patrol car. After I’d peeled away from the camp, it had taken the next fifteen miles of windy, twisty highway to get my panic under control.

I half expect Pick to pass and cut me off, but instead he drops in behind my Honda. Not crowding my bumper any, but right up on my butt where I can’t possibly miss him. He flashes his lights and jerks a thumb to his left. Once. Twice. Part of me agrees that talking might be smart. That’s a very small part, however. The rest of me remains convinced that the faster I run, the better. Mexico looks better and better the more I think about it. They have beaches, margaritas, and an unlimited supply of colorful fish I can hang out with. Of course, it would mean life on the run, and I’m fairly certain I’d be violating like a million Mexican immigration laws. And I’m broke. Driving an ancient Honda Civic that has two gallons of gas left. I flip the turn signal on and ease my foot off the gas.

Running forever isn’t feasible. I know it, you know it, and now Pick knows it.

Twenty yards of guardrail and mountain give way to a small turnout. Bingo. I pull off carefully because dying now isn’t part of my plans, either. A small placard declares this to be a Scenic Spot, and sure enough, there’s one hell of a view. Other than the generous helping of outdoors beauty, however, there’s not much. Just a few yards of rutted gravel and a wooden picnic table. I kill the motor but leave my keys in the ignition. On the horizon, a dark boil of smoke announces that the Rogues will have plenty of work tomorrow.

Getting out of the car, I cross to the picnic table, hop on top, and give the impressive drop-off a serious once over. Or pretend to. There might be more than a few stupid tears between me and the view because I’ve just been crashed by a pity party.

Behind me, gravel crunches as Pick pulls his bike off the road and coasts to a stop. Leather and denim rustles as he throws a leg over the seat and then approaches. For a big man, he moves quietly. He won’t hesitate or pull his punch about what he saw back there in the camp. For some reason, that’s not as scary as it should be. I think he might actually listen to my side of the story and not rush to judgment, and not just because a guy who looks like him and who rides around in leather on a bike has probably been on the wrong side of assumptions before. But because Pick’s a fair man. Dirty, rough around the edges, and more than a little bull-headed when he gets an idea—but fair.

I might just freaking trust this man and I have no idea how that happened. Perhaps I should revisit my belief in Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy as well.

“Hey,” he says when he’s standing in front of me, opening his arms wide. He’s blocking the fabulous view, but that works for me. I stare at him instead. “You want to tell me what this is about? Why there’s an officer of the law looking for you?”

Despite my newly discovered trust, I really don’t want to answer that particular question. So… fight fire with fire, right? “Did you tell him about me?”

He smiles, real slow. “What do you think, Sarah Jo?”

“Do I look omniscient? If I knew, I wouldn’t ask.”

“No,” he says. “Of course I didn’t tell him anything. I was singularly unhelpful, as were the rest of the guys. We didn’t know a damned thing. Had never spotted your pretty face before. By the way, Colt wants your number. Last I saw him, Deputy Douche was getting back in his car, as unenlightened as when he arrived.”

Deputy Douche. I like that name. It sums up Thad’s sterling qualities so well.

Pick gestures with his arms, another, smaller Come here gesture. “You gonna spill the details now?”

Not a chance. I wrap my arms around myself. If I need a hug, I can totally self-provide. My butt’s staying planted right here on the picnic table at a safe distance from Mr. Hotshot. “Nope. Not a chance in hell.”

“Uh-huh. That’s what I figured. You have trust issues, Sarah Jo.”

“Working on it,” I snap. Wow. I might even mean it because some part of me I’d thought was long dead rears its head, almost begging for us to launch ourselves at this guy and spill all. Pick mutters something and drops his arms. Maybe they got tired, or maybe he just realized that hell would freeze over before I flew to him like some helpless little lady.

He covered for me, though, and that gets the warm fuzzies going. He hasn’t asked too many questions. Has, in fact, simply followed my lead in a show of support that’s as unexpected as it is appreciated. Pick is turning out to be far more than a dare or a delicious treat. He’s rock solid and a genuine hero . . . but he’s also alpha to his core. Taking control is second nature to him. I need to run hard—in the opposite direction. He’s used to being in charge and giving orders. My deputy ex was like that, and I’ve totally learned my lesson there. No more take-charge authority figures for me. Never, ever again.

Pick does some more silent staring. Or maybe it’s waiting. I’m tempted to stick my tongue out at him to break the growing tension, but there’s something impossibly sweet about him. He came after me. Maybe he was worried. Maybe he cared. Hah. As if. It’s far more likely that he just wants to finish what we started yesterday. I chew my lip and examine his face, looking for answers. The sexual tension between us is out of this world, but that’s all we have going for us. One hot kiss and an even hotter twenty minutes in a supply cabin. He didn’t even get an orgasm out of it, although I haven’t heard him complaining.

Since I’m watching him like he’s my favorite show, I know the exact moment he decides screw this. Moving slowly enough that I could dance away and make a joke, he steps up to the table and pulls me into his arms, hugging me close. And I let him. Are you surprised? Because it shocks the hell out of me. Worse, I turn and rub my cheek against his chest like I’m his goddamned sex kitten.

His voice rumbles overhead. “You change your mind, you know where to find me, honey. I got one question, though.” He pauses, clearly waiting for some sign from me. But I’m obviously clueless, so I shut the hell up and eventually he continues. “Why did Deputy Douche come all the way up here looking for you? Seems like one hell of a drive.”

“Six hours,” I agree. Oops. This is why it’s better to say nothing because I’ve just incriminated myself.

“So you do have a passing acquaintance with the good officer,” he drawls.

Admit nothing. “I can read a map,” I offer, shoving away from him. It’s harder to do than I’d like. He feels so good, all steely muscles wrapped up in sun-warmed leather and cotton. Someone should totally bottle that. “And do math. That doesn’t mean Thad came out here looking for me.” I point toward the motorcycle parked alongside the road. “You should go back to fighting your fires.”

Our moment—whatever it is—needs to be over.

Pick just smiles. “And you’ll come back to cooking dinner in camp as soon as Thad’s gone?”

Shit. Well, it’s not like it’s really a secret that I’ve got secrets, is it? I’m still going for somewhat plausible deniability.

“Sure.” I fold my arms over my chest, and wait for him to get a move on. Unfortunately, Pick’s as stubborn as he is large. He leans down, placing his hands on either side of me. His fingers brush my hips, he’s that close. I can’t bring myself to complain.

“Here’s the thing, honey,” he says. “You can’t cook worth shit. So I have to wonder why you came out here, in the middle of nowhere, providing three squares for a crew of hotshots.”

I slap a hand on his chest and shove. God, he feels so warm and solid beneath the cotton T-shirt that proclaims BIG BEAR ROGUES. I so do not want to curl my fingers into that fabric and pull him closer. The man just insulted my cooking skills. I should be insulted—not turned on. “You heard about this little thing called the economy? It sucks.”

“Uh-huh. Which is why you’re on a first-name basis with Deputy Douche and hiding out on the road instead of starting dinner.”

He knows my work schedule? I’m not sure if I’m flattered or creeped out that he’s been watching me enough to know when I work.

“I’m a bad employee.” He just insulted my cooking—he can hardly disagree.

“You work at camp, so you should know something.” He doesn’t move away. Doesn’t give me the space I crave. He just keeps me boxed in… and I like it. He smells like laundry detergent and wood smoke, plus something indefinably, indescribably Pick. He’s freaking spectacular, but he doesn’t even seem to know it. He prowls through camp, putting everyone to rights, and he doesn’t notice the feminine looks that follow his ripped and corded body. God, I’d like to get him into an actual bed. I’ll bet he’s the best, the kind of man who gives as well as gets and who ruins you for anyone else because he’s hung and he sets the bar high.

“Hey.” He nudges my cheek with his fingers. “Still talking here. Earth to Sarah Jo.”

“Present.” God. Am I blushing? Please say no.

“You work here,” he repeats, “and that makes you part of the team, okay? That means the Rogues have your back. Trouble follows you here, trouble has to deal with us. I sent Hill packing.”

He got rid of Thad. Relief courses through me, and it turns out that all that adrenaline actually does make my knees weak. There’s a funny, low-grade buzz throughout my body and a prickle of heated awareness in my belly and lower. Where Pick spent quality time yesterday. I can’t tell if I’m just relieved or horribly turned on. I can go back to camp, and my nemesis won’t be waiting for me there. The reprieve will be only temporary—Thad is stubborn—but, God, I appreciate it.

“Right. Trouble.” The most pressing trouble I have right now is my reaction to this man. I kissed him and went up in flames. I don’t need another chance at his mouth to know that the reality of Pick will be better than any fantasy I can dream up.

“Bottom line me,” I suggest, tilting my head back. The move buys me a few inches, no more. Certainly not enough to defuse the six-plus feet of rugged charm pressed against me. “Are you offering to be my knight errant?”

He blinks, all delicious masculine confusion. He finally doesn’t know what to say. Good. He doesn’t get to have the upper hand here. I might be done with men, but confused Pick does something to my insides. Dazed suits him, and I love knocking him off balance.

Just to keep him off said balance, or so I tell myself, I run a hand down his chest, savoring the solid beat of his heart. That’s my Pick, rock solid inside and out. He’s dependable. Loyal to the core. He looks out for his team members, but I’m no hotshot. No matter what promises he makes, I don’t really belong here. His fire camp is a temporary pit stop on my journey, and I’ll move on sooner rather than later.

“You in the market?” he asks finally as my hands dip lower, resting against the rock-hard muscles of his abdomen. This is crazy. I blame him.

“No.” I push gently and this time he backs up. Hopping down off the picnic table, I head back to my car. I don’t need his help. Don’t have to humble myself to accept it. I stand on my own two feet. Always.

“All right.” He follows me and opens my door for me so I can slide into the driver’s seat. “You headed back to camp?”

I hear the unspoken question: or am I hitting the road? His face watches mine patiently, focused and determined as he waits for me to answer.

“For now, yeah.” Where else can I go, really? Back on the road, sure, but the paycheck, however small, is desperately needed, and running out on the girls seems wrong. Besides, I like to think that the girls in the Break Up Club and I are friends, so I’d have to stop and say goodbyes there, too.

“Good.” He shuts my door. “Wouldn’t be the same without you, and that’s the truth.”

Now it’s my turn to be speechless. Does he… like me? What does that even mean? Rather than try to come up with something to say, I settle for driving off. Leaving Pick standing by the side of the road is unexpectedly difficult, and I regret every inch I put between us. I do it, though.

I’m not stupid.

That man’s every bit as dangerous to my peace of mind as Thad Hill.

Chapter Ten

Sarah Jo

I shouldn’t.

I really, really shouldn’t.

I slipped away from Baby Bear Lodge as quietly as I could. Yes, I coasted down the driveway before starting the engine. I was in super sex ninja stealth mode. My fellow members of the Break Up Club would probably condone this little midnight field trip, but I’m not in the mood for their teasing. Not now. Somehow, what started as a camp game, a gentle tease, has grown into something more, but that more is between me and Pick. Just the two of us and no one else. I tried to figure out what it might be the entire drive from my cabin to camp, but answers eluded me.

Wrapped in sleep, the fire camp is dark and silent. Stars dot the night sky above, impossibly bright. I don’t even need a flashlight to see where I’m going. Pick’s RV is parked on the other side of camp, and the man inside draws me like a compass to magnetic north.

I don’t know what I was thinking, coming here. I have no invitation, just this… chemistry. I’m not even sure I can deal with seeing Pick. He mixes me up inside, making me feel all these things. Lust, need, embarrassment, confusion, aggravation, more lust—it’s a long list. Pick’s like a bag of chips, and there’s no way I stop until I’m licking the crumbs, still craving more. I can tell myself as many times as I want that I’ll stop after one. One kiss, one touch, one night of hook up sex. One big fat lie. One certainly hasn’t been enough for me so far.

So I get out of the car and make my way toward the RV. He hasn’t even bothered locking it. The handle turns easily beneath my fingers.

Pick

I have company. The door to my RV snicks open, light spilling in from the camp outside. It’s still dark as fuck, though, so I’m not certain who’s making free with my place. I lever myself up on one arm. Late-night visits aren’t usually social calls, and the red numbers on the alarm clock read well after one o’clock. My boys do like their practical jokes, though, so I pull a wait-and-see.

It’s Christmas.

Santa dropped the biggest, best-ever gift on my doorstop and I can’t wait to unwrap it. Her.

Because that’s Sarah Jo inching her way inside my door. Her oversized Hanes is rendered semi-transparent by the faint light behind her, exposing the curve of her waist, and Christ, her magnificent tits. I didn’t pay nearly enough attention to those tits when I had her spread out on that desk, and that’s a mistake I should fix ASAP.

“You need something, Sarah Jo?”

She hovers in the open doorway, rubbing one foot against the other. One bare foot against the other. I hope she dropped her shoes at the door, but I get the feeling she drove up here this way. I should take a look at her feet. The ground outside is rough. We’ve got sticks, pinecones, and a shitload of stones. She could be cut up. I should make sure she’s okay, offer to kiss it better wherever it hurts.

“I’ve changed my mind.” Her voice is low but sure. “If your offer still stands.”

Logically, I know she’s wearing a pair of denim shorts beneath that gigantic cotton shroud, but it’s no good. I should get up and take a cold shower. Or find me a nice mountain stream to soak in until I can think about something, anything, other than putting her in my bed and making her come. Again. Doing what I should do is a goddamn problem. I want this woman something fierce.

I find myself gaping like a hooked fish, my dick tenting the sheet over my lap. Hope to fuck Sarah Jo has really poor night vision, or she’s gonna think I’m making assumptions about what her presence in my RV means. At dark o’clock. Mostly naked.

She slams the door shut, pads forward, and stumbles over my gear bag. Guess that answers the question of how good her night vision is. She seems to be flying blind here, which makes two of us. I’m used to the dark, however, so I can see the way she holds her hands out in front of her, sort of feeling her way. I reach out and hook a finger in the hem of her T-shirt, tugging her in my direction.

“One o’clock and two feet,” I promise her.

She lets me guide her, moving forward slowly until she bumps against my bed. Should have gone to her, right? I have no idea what’s happening next, but I know I don’t want to hop out of bed wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, sporting a monster hard-on and a grin.

She plants a knee on the bed. “You promised you’d always have a pair of open arms for me.”

“Uh-huh.” Fuck me if anything more coherent is coming out of my mouth tonight. Her eyes roam over my face, looking for something, and I try to slap an expression on my face that’s more welcoming than ravening beast, but I totally want to eat her up. A small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. Okay. She seems to like what she sees, so that’s good.

Just to test that hypothesis, and not because I’m dying to touch her (liar), I wrap my hand around her knee, urging her forward. Sure enough, beneath that too-big T-shirt, she’s all long, bare legs wherever I touch. Those have to be the shortest shorts in all creation, and I’m a fan.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” She grins and shimmies out of her shorts. My head and my dick vie to see which will explode first, but before I can decide, she’s swings a leg over me, straddling me until we’re face-to-face. My head (one guess as to which one) promptly engages in a little mathematical exercise and determines that there are exactly three things standing between my dick and her pussy. One sheet, one pair of boxers, her panties. And a few scruples. I should get busy removing those, right?

The scruples, not the panties.

Or maybe I do mean the other way round.

“This is unexpected. But good.” I put my hands on her waist. That’s nice, neutral territory. Better than palming her tits or asking if she’d mind if I ate her pussy for my midnight snack.

“Make it better,” she demands, and I bite back a smile. She’s so take-charge. It’s downright adorable. Since I want what she wants, however, there’s no problem. I tug the T-shirt up and she helps me, grabbing the hem and yanking. Okay. So we might not want exactly the same things. She’s clearly in a rush—again—and I’m in the mood to take my time. Since I’m bigger and stronger, I end up in control of the T-shirt ascent, exposing her body in a slow, sexy striptease in the night-lit RV. First, her panties. Some kind of silky purple material this time, with little white polka dots and thin ribbons crisscrossing her hips. They’re pretty fucking amazing, although the woman in them is even better.

Then she treats me to the soft curve of her belly and higher as the T-shirt clears her shoulders and disappears over her head. Her breasts are goddamned beautiful, perfect handfuls, the nipples a sweet dark rose. I’d look all night if she’d let me, but she swings the shirt over her head and lets it fly. It disappears somewhere into the shadows and good fucking riddance. She doesn’t need to cover up around me. She makes a face, hands flying to her hair to pat and smooth. She’s tousled, but I’m just going to mess her up even more.

Where to start? She’s pretty much riding my dick through the sheet. It reminds me of how fast and hard we went at in the storage cache. She loved it when I ate her pussy, and I absolutely want to do that again, but I want other things, too. I can’t stop thinking about what I haven’t had a chance to do yet. Like fuck her gorgeous tits. Lick and suck those pretty nipples and see if she can come that way for me, too. I run my hands up her sides and palm her breasts, working my fingers over those delicious curves.

“Come here.” Pretty sure my voice comes out more growl than request, but I’m hungry for her mouth too, and feeling greedy. She leans right into me, onboard with my new plan.

“Mmmm,” she whimpers. “Definitely better.”

Playful Sarah Jo is fucking amazing. She’s not too quiet, either—I’m gonna catch hell from my teammates tomorrow but she won’t get any complaints from me. She can come riding my face, my dick, my fingers and scream that news to the entire camp if that’s what makes her happy. Fuck, not as if I don’t love everything about her. She’s stubborn and mischievous to a fault, but I look at her and all I see is Sarah Jo. I’m counting my lucky stars that she came to me tonight, so whatever she wants, it’s hers.

She may be basically dry-fucking my dick, but our kiss starts out surprisingly sweet. Mouths closed, lips on lips while I give into temptation and finger her nipples as I take her mouth. She rocks gently against me and then harder, the sexy roll of her hips picking up speed as she breathes harder. She’s practically panting when she pulls back from our kiss.

“You going to undress for me?” She doesn’t stop riding me so I’m not sure how she expects a coherent answer. My dick has plenty of things to say for me, as it’s pointing out.

“You taking these off?” I counter her question with an important one of my own, hooking a thumb in the ribbons at the sides of her panties and tugging.

Her eyes darken. “I could be convinced.”

She slides off me, taking her sweet time to do so. When she stands up on the bed, her head almost brushes the RV’s roof. We don’t have a whole lot of room to work with here. I settle back and enjoy my new view as she slowly works those panties down her hips, over that sweet pussy and her thighs, before stepping out of them. Fuck me, but she’s killing me. The kick that sends those panties over the side of the bed, though, is pure impatience.

I take advantage of the moment to shove my boxers and the sheet down, looking my fill all the while. I’m putting my tongue right there, I decide, where I can see the dark shadow of hair between her thighs. I’ll be all over her, kissing and licking until she hollers and we set my RV to rocking something fierce. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this, but she’s apparently decided to green-light my fantasies for the night, and I don’t need asking twice.

“Shoot.” She sort of hops in place, which makes her tits bounce and I might be drooling. “The condom was in my shorts.”

It’s good that she’s come prepared, but I’ve got her covered. I’d never put her at risk. I slide open the bedside table drawer and fish out a foil square. I’m not even sure why I have these since the only action I’ve seen in months is fire action, but thank Christ anyhow. Her eyes follow my hands as I tear open the package and roll the latex down.

“Come on back?” I manage to make it a fucking question. Unless I miss my guess, my Sarah Jo likes being the one in charge, and I can work with that tonight. I lie back, head on the pillows. Besides, damned if it isn’t sexy, waiting for her to ravish me. I can certainly let her take charge once in a while. Her smile echoes mine, so game on.

She straddles me, cradling my dick right where he wants to be in the hot, wet valley between her thighs. When she leans forward to kiss me again, I slip inside her hot, sweet slit just the tiniest amount. She gasps. I groan. It’s the fucking best symphony ever, but we’re playing allegro when I’d planned on lento. I’ll just have to save the slow, long ride for later. We’ve got hours before the sun comes up and the camp gets busy.

Hot and fast now.

Slow and sweet later.

Her kiss grows hotter, more desperate, her mouth devouring mine as her tongue sweeps inside. I cup her breasts, thumbing the rosy tips. She returns the favor, her fingers finding my nipples and pinching erotically. She gives as good as she gets, my Sarah Jo.

She tears her mouth from mine. “You like that?”

Fuck yes, I do.

“Just as much as you like my touching those pretty breasts.”

“So we’re square.” Smiling impishly, she lifts up, sinks down, and does her best to take goddamned all of me in one fast move. Uh-uh. She doesn’t get to rush the ending. Putting my hands on her hips, I control her descent, matching it with my ascent, pushing in, giving her what we both want.

If it were possible to fuck ourselves to death, we’d be giving it a fair shot. The bed creaks, protesting each move we make. She takes me, her fingers digging into my shoulders as she works herself on my dick like it’s her own personal toy. And I… lose it. Lose control, lose myself in the hot, sweet wildness that is Sarah Jo. She rides me like a rodeo queen, rising up fast and slamming down hard. She drives me out of my mind, and she knows it. She watches me fiercely, gauging my pleasure. I’d bet my last dollar my Sarah Jo knows exactly how close I am to coming. That’s good, I have no complaints, but I’m not the only one in this bed, am I? This has to be even better for her. So I take control, flipping her over and pinning her to the bed beneath me.

I slam into her, long, luxurious, powerful strokes, seating myself deep inside her body. She’s small, I’m large, but somehow we fit together just right. She whimpers, fingers clutching at my shoulders, leaving red crescents.

“Don’t you dare stop,” she whisper-yells into my ear, biting down hard on the lobe. I grunt and hammer into her as her hips push up against mine, seeking an even deeper penetration, and I grab her ass with both hands and lift her. Stroke deeper and slower, then pull back and drive inside her again.

Yeah. Right there. I adjust and seat myself again, drinking in her little groans and breathy whimpers. Her fingers push and pull as she strives for the climax hovering just out of reach.

Dropping a hand between us, I find her clit and pinch.

“Let go for me, honey.” My next stroke forces the palm of my hand hard against the top of her pussy and she stiffens, legs quivering. Her body comes around mine, and that’s my green light. I go over the edge right behind.

Chapter Eleven

Pick

Two hours after she bangs me into happy oblivion, Sarah Jo sneaks away. Or attempts to. Since we fell asleep naked and tangled up together, she’s facing a logistical challenge if she wants to make a getaway, and clearly she doesn’t want to go panty-less. After she wriggles out from beneath my arm, she sort of ninja-crawls across the floor, sweeping around for her clothes. I’d like to point out that some shit gets easier if you turn the lights on, but Sarah Jo’s a big fan of hiding. She might actually have a coronary if I shone a light anywhere near her. So I enjoy the show she’s giving me. Fucking sucks she’s about to cover up that fantastic ass, although not as much as her need to leave me alone and in the dark does. I consider letting her know I’m awake and that she doesn’t need to sneak.

Yeah. Don’t think that would go well, and I won’t stop her if she wants to leave. I’m not fooling myself, either. Sarah Jo’s not worried about the rest of the camp learning that we’ve hooked up. Sure, we’ll come in for some teasing, but the Rogues won’t push too far. Not once I make it clear that Sarah Jo’s feelings matter.

And when the fuck did that happen? She invited herself over. We should be firmly in hook up territory, and her leaving shouldn’t come as any kind of surprise. I’ve been pretending I’m down with whatever she wants, but the truth is that I’d like more. I’m ready to all Oliver Twist on her cute ass and ask for some more, please. And it’s not just the sex, although she’s amazing and I’d never want to go without sex. It’s that she matters to me. You know how you hit the grocery and you get flour, eggs, and a bag of other crap that you line up on the kitchen counter? By themselves, that shit’s just groceries. Mix it all together, however, and you’ve got cake and that’s something out of the ordinary. Sarah Jo’s my triple-layer fudge, my red velvet goodness, a cupcake with mile-high frosting and a hell of a lot of substance underneath all that sweet. I like her. Okay. Fuck that. I more than like her. She’s snuck up on my heart, and boom, there she is, front and center in everything I’m doing and thinking.

This is not a great state of events seeing as how she clearly doesn’t feel the same way. My big clue? The way she’s sneaking out of my place before the sun comes up and I can get a cup of coffee into her because she doesn’t want to say anything. Good morning is apparently too complicated for her, which is too damned bad. I have plenty of things to say to her.

She steals my T-shirt and shimmies into her shorts bare-assed. There’s some muttering, a jingle of keys, and then the door opens with a quiet snick; a flash of night sky fading fast into dawn, and she’s gone.

“Bye,” I say to the empty RV.

Fucking sucks. I roll over and punch the pillow.

I’ve never been in a hurry to settle down or marry up—but I’ve generally avoided one-night stands, too. I’ve never been a fan of sticking my dick anywhere with frequent flyer miles because I’m a special fucking snowflake about feeling special. I like my girl to know who I am, and I like to know her. If you can’t have a conversation with someone wearing clothes, how are you gonna do any better naked? So maybe I haven’t always had love, but I’ve definitely had like. Nothing about Sarah Jo screams permanent or keep me. She’s a temporary fire camp hire who’s made her intentions of moving on after the summer all too clear. So if quickie sex isn’t what I want—and my dick points out that parts of us are way okay with it—Sarah Jo should have been off-limits. Over and done with. No thinking about her, pining after her, or trying to get her into bed. I can’t have it in my mind that it’ll happen again.

Yeah. Right.

Non-naked talking isn’t on Sarah Jo’s to do list. We won’t be having long conversations about our favorite fucking movies or taking romantic walks by the lake. Not that that’s all bad because a mountain lake is freezing cold even in July, and I like my balls non-shriveled, thank you very much. No talking. No getting to know her. No anything. But some things don’t need words. Have you ever noticed that? So while I wait for her to come round and open up, I’ll just have to keep an eye out and watch over her some. And if that sounds stalkerish, just give me credit for having good intentions. Just watching her is a joy. Her laugh lights up a room. And trouble is definitely riding her ass.

So what if she doesn’t trust me? I text her to see if she’s gotten home okay. She doesn’t answer, but that’s okay. Texting and driving isn’t safe, and I want her safe. And happy. Happy’s good, too. Then I get up. I’ll go for a run because no way I go back to sleep now, and trust me, being a hotshot requires you to stay in peak shape. Somedays, hauling gear from point A to point B feels like trying to drag a cannon uphill in the grass.

By the time I’m lacing my sneakers and it’s gray outside rather than pitch black, Sarah Jo hasn’t texted back and I know she has to be home. Unless she ran out of gas or that POS car of hers crapped out and she’s stranded by the roadside. I should totally check on that. I text again.

If you don’t prove you’re okay, I’m coming out for a welfare check.

Then I grab my earbuds and head outside. I’m debating between hitting the trail or hitting the highway when she finally texts back. She doesn’t waste any words on me, either. She just sends a picture. Of herself.

She’s in bed. Do you think that’s an invitation? Because I’d love to take it that way. Plus, she’s still wearing my shirt and my inner caveman demands I beat on my chest. Do some growling. Possibly tattoo Pick’s on her ass or mark her with my jizz. Too much? The thing is, I’m not sure I’ll ever get enough of her.

You stole my shirt.

Think she might have stolen something else, but I’m not going there. Not yet. Not like I was doing much with my heart anyhow. She kissed me. She rode my big dick like a pogo stick and rode the hell out of me, but she doesn’t trust me. No matter how awesome the sex is, she doesn’t like losing control. I get that. From our first kiss to when she opened my door and came straight on over to my bed, she’s taken charge and she’s never really let go.

Does it sound like I’m a whiney bitch to complain about her take-charge attitude in bed? Because it’s not that I didn’t love fucking her and being fucked by her. I loved it. Think all the moaning and groaning I did proved that. It’s just that she’s busy taking charge because then she can keep me out of the important parts of her. And I don’t know how to fix that, because although I enjoyed the hell out of our night together, I do want more than acrobatics and a mind-blowing orgasm that still has me seeing stars and tenting the front of my running shorts.

Chapter Twelve

Pick

Sarah Jo, me, and a Saturday night. If I want to be more than her midnight hook up, I need to make a move. And this way I get a two-for-one. I show her a good time, treat her like a queen, and let the whole world—my world—see that we’re together and not just making my RV rock. This is the civilized version of jizzing on her tits and inviting everyone to look at what I’ve done. When I pull my bike into the parking lot of Drink Up, I’m congratulating myself on my genius. Since I picked Sarah Jo up at her place and we rode here together, I’ve had her arms wrapped around me, hugging me. Holding me close. For fucking miles.

Tell me that’s not genius.

She pops off my bike, balancing herself with a hand on my shoulder as she shucks the helmet I bought for her. I like the way she leans on me, the way she’s letting me take care of her. Not like she can’t do for herself, but it’s that caveman of mine. He wants to beat his chest and bring down a mastodon and BBQ its ass for her.

She grins at me. “It’s not the titty bar. You think you’ll survive?”

Fuck, I love the way she laughs, the giggle-snort that starts somewhere near her belly and just flies out her mouth. And I love that we’re starting to have couple jokes, a history. Pretty soon I’ll fucking be calling her bunny and I’ll be a boo.

“I’m taking a rain check,” I say, saluting her.

She laughs and tugs on my hand. “Come on, or your friends will drink the place dry.”

It’s a distinct possibility. Drink Up is beery, dark, and absolutely rocking. The décor is mostly neon beer sign and dust, with a side of old, bad paneling and vinyl seating. Some of my boys are already doing the conga on the small dance floor, shaking their asses to the country music belting out of the antiquated jukebox. I hacked that shit once, made it play Handel’s Messiah at top volume. Colt and I waltzed. It was an epic night, but I sense tonight will be even better.

“Beer?” I grin at my soon-to-be-girl. This hotshot has a plan.

She beams back at me. “And if I say no?”

“Got water. Might have pop.” I drop a kiss on her nose and amble toward the bar. Drink Up is famous (or notorious) for its lack of variety. Your choices are beer—or beer. Regular or light. On a good day, it comes in a bottle.

“Beer,” she says mock-solemnly. “Would be lovely.”

Sarah Jo tags along behind me, her fingers tucked into the back of my belt. Her fingertips brush the sensitive spot at the top of my ass, and I think she knows exactly what she’s doing to me. She keeps it up, I’m gonna ink her name right there.

Lola’s already present, holding court in a corner booth. She alternates between shouting with laughter and working her phone. Think she must have misplaced Hunter because he’s just about the only hotshot not here. By the time I have our beers, Olivia’s dragged Lola out onto the dance floor. Lola’s skirt is so short that I’m ready to take bets on a wardrobe malfunction.

Sarah Jo’s a little more covered up, which shouldn’t surprise anyone. In deference to the whole Saturday-night and ride-on-my-bike thing, she’s wriggled into a pair of jeans that hug her ass and her legs before flaring out around her ankles into some kind of embroidered thing that almost cover her cowboy boots. The top probably has some kind of name, but let’s just call it gorgeous. It ties around her neck and then skims her tits before flaring out like a tent or a pretty white cloud or some poetic shit. When she moves, she flashes me hints of her stomach and waist, so I’m definitely a fan. I sit myself down in a corner booth and pull her onto my lap. This way I can hold her close and make room for other people. I’m a total fucking Boy Scout.

Out on the floor, Lola launches into a wild, arm-swinging, hip-rocking dance. Her ponytail threatens a couple of nearby hotshots with whiplash, but she looks happy. Her short denim skirt bounces up and down, the ruffles on her red-and-white polka dot blouse taking flight. It’s fucking mesmerizing.

“You need a shirt like that.” The din in Drink Up has achieved deafening levels, so I whisper the words into her ear because communication’s important in a relationship. As punctuation on that sentence, I nip her ear. Gently because my caveman’s still out in the parking lot. Don’t worry. He’ll catch up.

A grin lights up Sarah Jo’s face. “You like it?”

“Yours is better.”

That goes for everything about Sarah Jo. Fucking lucky Hunter didn’t figure that out for himself and try to take my girl. Sarah Jo wriggles around on my lap like she’s trying to get comfortable. Probably should lend her a hand since it’s my dick that’s spearing her in the ass in an excellent imitation of an iron bar. On the other hand, since it’s her fault that I’m currently in this condition…

She wriggles some more and I bite back a groan.

“Is that for me?”

“Always.”

I mean it too.

All these feelings are new. They distract me. And that is why I don’t realize that Sarah Jo’s up to something until her hand squeezes my dick through my jeans.

“I don’t like to share,” she says as if we’re talking about a beer or an order of fries.

“There’s plenty of me to go around.” She squeezes, her hand working dirty, dirty magic on me, and I growl. “But no sharing.”

“All mine.” A smile curves her mouth. She twists her head so she can see my face, and I can’t stop touching her, too. I’m running my hands up her thighs, over her waist, just barely staying out of triple-X filthy territory. Sarah Jo’s spent the summer hiding in plain sight, so I don’t think she wants to get arrested for public indecency now.

She cups the back of my head with one hand, shutting me up with her mouth. And I’m not complaining. I kiss her back, my hands going wild, pulling her closer, tugging at every dirty, fabulous, amazing inch of my Sarah Jo. Fucking gonna come in a corner booth at a dive bar, and I love it. I love…

Nope. Not going there.

A whoop from the dance floor breaks up our kiss. Sarah Jo jumps like she’s forgotten we’re not alone in bed. She instinctively turns her attention back to the dance floor, and I watch with her.

Buttoned up, starchy, rule-following Olivia shocks the heck out of me. Pretty sure she also gives the bar a collective heart attack as she launches into a slow, dirty grind, working her ass in her neat pencil skirt. When she drags her fingers down the front of her blouse, tongues start hanging out. She’s gorgeous and happy and ten bucks says one of my teammates makes a move on her tonight.

Sarah Jo bounces off my lap with enough vigor that I grunt. I’ve got plans for my balls and my dick later tonight, but she’s oblivious to using them as a launching pad. I’ll let her kiss everything better when we’re alone.

She’s practically vibrating. “Dance with me.”

I’m built like a bear, not Baryshnikov. I glance around the bar, taking in the guys crowding the space. Most of them are a little rough around the edges, a jeans-wearing, T-shirt-sporting crew. A lot of them are built because you don’t dig line for eight hours a day and not gain muscle. A few are wearing shirts with actual buttons and something besides steel-toed boots. Fucking Colt looks like Mr. GQ in something that even I know cost the sun, moon, and a half-dozen pricey constellations. The man is not a cheap date.

None of us, however, are wearing tutus. Or dancing shoes.

“I don’t dance.” I hang onto my beer like it’s gonna anchor me to our booth. “Come back over here and let me kiss you some more.”

I watch as she makes this twisty-face with her mouth, thinking about my offer. The jukebox segues into something slow and extra achy-breaky-heartish and the dance floor rapidly empties out except for Lola and Olivia semi-groping and grinding. Colt commandeers the waitress; Adrian produces a little blonde from somewhere and they start making tidy, awkward circles in place on the dance floor.

“Dance,” Sarah Jo decides. She waggles her fingers at me.

I look down. I’m still not wearing a tutu.

I can’t remember the last time I danced for anything other than a joke. My waltz with Colt, a drunken conga line with my boys—these things were just for fun and some laughs. It’s not that I don’t fucking love music or that I mind getting up in front of a crowd; it’s that my body never got the rhythm memo. I can’t dance for shit.

“I don’t dance,” I repeat.

Sarah Jo tugs the empty beer out of my hand and sets it on the table. “Can’t or won’t?”

“Both,” I grumble.

She waves her hand in the air. “You don’t have to be good at it. Just look at Lola.”

Lola has tits to distract the rest of the bar, plus I don’t really care what she thinks. Sarah Jo is different. I’d rather not make a public display of my inadequacies.

But she’s sneaking wistful looks at the dance floor and the song has to be half fucking over, right? If she wants to do this, I’ll just have to man up and hope it doesn’t go too badly.

“Come on.” I stand up, grabbing her hand and towing her after me. She doesn’t hesitate. She follows my lead, and I find myself pressed against her curvy body as we gyrate stiffly in place. I have no idea what she thought we’d do out here, but I wrap my arms around her loosely, tucking my hands on the top of her ass, and breathe her in. She smells so fucking good, like a strawberry Sarah Jo piña colada, and I’m buzzing on just her. Doesn’t help my dancing any, but I like it.

Sarah Jo slides her arms around me, her fingertips toying with the hem of my T-shirt and making little raids on the skin beneath. My only plan was to get her out here and make her happy. She rests her head against my chest, exhales, and then she just kind of melts into the music. She’s fucking gorgeous, swaying, and dipping, and lighting up the floor. Me? Not so much. I step awkwardly from foot to foot like some kind of bear-loon hybrid. Colt actually winces as he slowly two-steps around us.

Fuck that noise. Because Sarah Jo’s smiling at me, happiness and amusement lighting up her eyes, and I don’t think she minds that I’m shit in the dancing department. She moves her hips slowly to the music, her top bouncing and floating and generally driving me crazy because I know how easy it would be to get my hands underneath it again and pet her tits more.

This is when Hunter shows up and sets off a cataclysmic chain reaction. Lola spots him, her face lighting up.

Sarah Jo shifts nervously. “I think I need to stage an intervention.”

But it’s too late.

Lola’s pretty fucking unstoppable. Under other circumstances, she’d make an awesome hotshot. She heads straight for Hunter, breaking stride just once to grab a beer from the tray of a passing waitress. Maybe she’s thirsty? Fuck if I know what she’s doing. Lola chugs her stolen booty and tears off the tab. Her belch is loud enough that I hear it over all of the goddamned country music. And then she rubs the stupid purple rabbit’s foot hanging off her purse and makes for Hunter.

I’ve spent hundreds of hours with the man. I’ve had his back, and he’s had mine. You learn a few things about danger when it’s you, Mother Nature, and a shit-ton of flames. You learn to trust your instincts, when to advance, and when to back the hell up and retreat. Hunter needs to run. Instead, the idiot stands there and smiles as Lola charges toward him. He’s in the hot zone with the mother of all fires coming for him and he doesn’t seem to realize it.

She leans into him.

They kiss (Sarah Jo and I do it much better).

She drops to her knees.

Sarah Jo curses and starts steering us toward the happy couple. “She’s all in.”

I’ll admit it. My first thought? That Lola’s about to deliver a world-class blow job right here, right now. Her mouth’s on the level of Hunter’s dick, and while there are things I’m happy to watch on the big screen, there are also things I don’t want to see in real life.

“What is she doing?”

I sound like an idiot, but Lola can’t be doing this, can she?

“It’s so romantic.”

Does Sarah Jo sound… wistful?

“Hunter Black.” Lola holds up the beer can tab. “Will you marry me?”

“No,” I say before my brain catches up with my mouth.

Hunter looks stunned. He didn’t see this coming. Weeks of hanging around Lola, and she still manages to surprise him. He blinks at her, hands opening and closing by his side. She could be explaining quantum physics in Hindu for all he gets it. Drink Up holds its collective breath. Well, all except Colt, who yells out something congratulatory. Hunter looks like he just got brained by a falling snag.

Maybe the good folks in charge of the forestry department are fucking with us. Maybe we’re on one of those reality TV shows that sends in hidden cameras and then stages some drama. Because naturally this is the moment a gorgeous woman in a short, tight, black cocktail dress marches into the bar and right up to Hunter, and shit gets weird. Because that’s his ex.

The woman who couldn’t dump his ass fast enough.

The woman who sure looks like she’s entertaining some hotshot-sized regrets—and itching to rumble with Lola.

And rather than take Lola’s side, Hunter just makes it worse. Not only does he deny an engagement with Lola, but he tells her to stop being so dramatic. As if all this—her feelings, her proposal, her sharing air space with the ex—is her fault. As if it’s not what he wants. At all.

“Way to fuck things up,” I observe.

Lola must agree because a few painful, loud seconds later she gives Hunter the bird and runs out of the bar.

Chapter Thirteen

Sarah Jo

After the drama with Lola and Hunter went down, I line-danced with several smoke jumpers and at least half the Rogues. The guys are smoky, tired—and exhilarated, swapping war stories and bad jokes. An honest-to-God jukebox belts out country tunes, and some super energetic dancing is reflected in the big glass mirror behind the bar. When Colt approaches me, hands out, I beg off. There’s no way I dance another step until I’ve had a beer—and possibly an entire pitcher of water. I collapse, flushed and laughing, at our table.

Pick grins at me. He’d laid down the law, going all gruff and stern on me, insisting we date. Okay. So he claims tonight’s a hostage exchange and that he plans to swap my panties for his T-shirt. Yes, I slunk away from his RV panty-less. Apparently, he did some housecleaning after I left, and now said AWOL panties are in his possession. As long as he doesn’t fly them from the roof of the RV or run them up the camp’s flagpole, I’ll live.

He doesn’t seem to mind my dancing with his teammates. I mean, it’s not like I’m suggesting we have group sex right here on the dance floor, but it’s a refreshing change to hang out with a guy who trusts me to respect the boundaries we’ve laid down. Thad always acted like I’d turn into Super Ho if he turned his back for even a second.

Pick claims he’s not much of a dancer, but he led me out for that one turn at the beginning of the night, and then he did it a second time. Pick’s strong hands guided me down the line, and then he watched with a smile on his face as the other men twirled me enthusiastically. Honestly? None of them can dance for shit. It’s more like happy stomping, but I guess I shouldn’t have expected Fred Astaire to be putting out forest fires.

The fresh air that hits me when we finally leave the bar sometime well after midnight is a welcome wake-up call. It’s been a weird night, but a good one (at least for everyone but Lola). The gravel parking lot is still plenty full of cars and beat-up trucks that reflect the vivid colors of the neon beer signs in the bar’s window. I’m tipsy. Again, something I don’t do. Drunk girls aren’t in control girls. I suck in cool air, putting a hand on Pick’s arm to steady myself. Heels are also a mistake tonight.

“You okay?” His amused laughter floats over my head. “I got you.”

Does he? I guess he does.

“I’m worried about Lola,” I announce to the rows of cars. It’s true. She’s not answering her phone, and Olivia says she’s not at the cabins. I think she needs us, or needs some moral support and someone to tell her just how much of an asshole Hunter is. For a moment, though, I concentrate on just breathing, in and then out. I’m not, I tell myself, enjoying the feel of Pick’s rock-hard muscles beneath my hand. I’m not copping a bonus feel of what I saw naked the other night. Nope. That’s not why I’m standing here in the parking lot at all. I’m just getting my head on straight, clearing my mind before I do something insanely, publicly stupid like Lola.

Nothing more.

Unfortunately, no amount of fresh air or breathing time seems to undo the effect my hotshot has on me. His concern is seductive. And although I’ve stood on my own two feet for years, I know that in no way is he suggesting that I’m not capable. He’s simply offering to help. Letting me know that he has my back, no strings attached.

The 64-thousand-dollar question is why.

It’s not that I’m not feeling it. Him. Us. Sure, we had an amazing hook up, but we’ve managed to share air space at camp this week without ripping each other’s clothes off. There have been looks, and I’ve been tempted. It turns out that Pick is a dirty texter. He’s full of “thoughtful” suggestions for ways he can make me feel better. He convinced me to FaceTime the other night and let’s just say the man talked me through an amazing orgasm. And yet I have a feeling that he’s not just interested in having more in-person sex with me. It’s ridiculous, right? He may have had his face buried in my hoohah—twice—but he barely knows me. I, on the other hand, have had enough relationships in my twenty-five years to know that the secrets I’m keeping are deal breakers. I screwed up badly, while Pick is a man who does everything the right way. He’s a bona fide hero who goes out to battle wildland fires every day of the summer.

He wouldn’t really want a woman like me.

Not if he knew.

We reach his bike before I can figure out if I really want to tell him and spoil this. Whatever this is. Staying silent isn’t a great idea, but neither is confession. I’m not sure what to do, but then my past picks this moment to step out from between two parked trucks.

Thad Hill looks every bit as determined and confident as I remember him being. He also looks extremely pissed as he moves forward and blocks our path. No end run around him, even if I had somewhere to run. I’ve all but gone to the ends of the earth, and he can’t let me go?

“Thad.” My lips are dry and stick to my teeth, but I get his name out.

“Sarah Jo.” His hands shift to his hips and the black utility belt there. For a heart-stopping moment, his fingers brush over the gun in its holster before he reaches for the cuffs. Would he actually kill me? I’ve never worried about that before—there are so many other ways to be at his mercy. The soft clink as he pulls the cuffs free almost gets lost in the sounds of doors slamming and men calling good-byes. “You’re under arrest.”

Thad takes another step forward, but then Pick’s somehow between us. He moves quickly for a big man, fast and silent. As the two men lock eyes in a silent stare-down, I become aware of the other men in the parking lot closing in.

I’ve dreaded this moment for so long that it’s almost anticlimactic. Thad wins. I lose. There’s nowhere left to run unless I can somehow board a plane to Bora Bora and throw myself on the mercy of the Tahitians. It’s almost a relief to know that the worst has happened. He’ll put me in the back of his car, and, if I’m lucky, he’ll settle for simply running me in to the station. The station that’s at least a six-hour drive from here. I’m not thinking about the worst-case scenario—the one that involves me, the cuffs, and the backseat of Thad’s car. He’s hinted more than once that I have some making up to do, and that I’d be starting on my knees.

“You got a warrant for that arrest?” Pick growls.

Someone else—Colt—steps up next to Pick. Now I’ve got a hotshot wall between me and Thad. When we danced earlier, Colt was a shameless flirt. Now he looks lethally mean. The two men make an impressive wall of shoulders, four hundred pounds of pure muscle and all on my side.

“What are the charges?” Colt adds his own question, the note of skepticism in his voice overt.

“Arson. And theft.” Thad tries to advance. Maybe he expects Pick and Colt to back down or pull a Red Sea and open up a passage straight to me. They don’t. I blink. Hard. I’m supposed to be handling this. Instead, they’re handling Thad for me. He isn’t their problem, though. I can do whatever I have to do.

“Pick . . .” That’s my hand on his back. I don’t remember putting it there. Even through the cotton T-shirt, I can feel the heat of him and the way the muscles in his back flex as he crosses his arms, sending Thad one of those silent male messages. Probably telegraphing mine. There’s silence for a minute as Thad digests their opposition to his plans for me.

“You want to go with him?” Pick asks the question without turning his head.

“Not particularly,” I admit, “but—”

“You got a warrant?” He addresses Thad again.

Thad blusters a bit and then starts spouting excuses. “On me? No. But Sarah Jo’s got some answering to do. I’m running her in.”

He sounds like a cross between a pissed-off parent and… I don’t know what. But he’s in his uniform, a small arsenal hanging off his belt. He’s bigger than me, stronger, and he has a serious issue with my attempting to blow the whistle on what went down with Mrs. Joan. I know this is supposed to be the moment when I turn into some kind of caped crusader, eager to see justice done and scream my story to the world, but I’m a realist. Thad is a deputy sheriff, and I’m not. He has a sterling reputation, and I’m a little tarnished. There’s zero reason for anyone to believe him over me, and I’d rather not pick a fight I can’t win. Arguing with him isn’t a great idea.

Apparently, I’m the only one who thinks this, however.

“No.” Pick didn’t waste words.

Pick, of course, loves confrontation. I’m sure it has something to do with the whole hotshot thing. If he were the kind of guy who preferred to hang back and watch shit happen, he’d make a terrible firefighter. I’ve seen enough of what they do to know that not only do the hotshots happily launch themselves into the middle of do-or-die situations, but they come out on top. They don’t hesitate, and they win. There’s probably a lesson in that for me, but I can’t help but notice that most of them end up singed a little at one point or another.

“You stopping me?” This time, Thad’s hand goes straight to his gun. He keeps the piece holstered, but the threat is unmistakable. He’d actually shoot Pick for standing in the way, and that is why I’ve spent so much time running instead of standing my ground.

My body and my head are in full agreement, too. The world goes icy cold, my vision narrowing to a cold, dark tunnel that drills in on the source of my current unhappiness. Thad. I’m not supposed to let him scare me like this, but he’s unmistakably in charge. He has a gun, for God’s sake. What else am I supposed to do?

Pick knows, of course. In fact, he’s already talking.

“You produce a warrant, you can take Sarah Jo with you. Until then, I figure she decides when she goes and when she stays.”

Around me, the other hotshots and jumpers nod, all on the same page as Pick. Thad curses (which is entirely unprofessional and deeply satisfying), clearly weighing the odds of shooting Pick and getting away with it. I think this may be the first time in a long time that he hasn’t been able to bully his way to what he wants. Fortunately, he’s also a coward, which is something I should have realized earlier. His hand slides away from the gun.

“I’ll get the warrant,” he threatens, fingers tapping his belt. “I’ll be back. Don’t run, Sarah Jo. Don’t make me chase you again.”

Have I mentioned that when I’m nervous, I tend to indulge in inappropriate humor? I’m the girl who giggles when she’s sad or scared, too, so what happens next really shouldn’t come as a surprise. Despite my panty-pissing terror, I flip Thad a jaunty, two-fingered salute because that’s the perfect cover up for my insides, which are doing an excellent imitation of Jello. Someone laughs and Thad gets back into his car, closing the door far harder than is strictly necessary. I guess he feels he has a point to make. Seconds later, the car peels out of the parking lot, spitting gravel.

Mission accomplished, the other men slowly drift away, truck doors slamming.

“You ready to head on back to camp?” Pick keeps his gaze steady on mine. He doesn’t look pissed, or disappointed, or even curious. He just looks like he did yesterday. He looks like Pick.

I suck in one breath. Two. “You’re taking my word over his?”

“Of course.” He straddles his bike and offers me a helmet. Here we go. Once he has me on board, he’ll start with the questions. Still, I take the helmet and jam it on. It’s not like I want to spend the night in the parking lot (right now I feel the need for four walls and a door with a lock—and a fortress and a few cannons wouldn’t come amiss either). Ubers are also in remarkably short supply in Big Bear too, so since I came with Pick, leaving with him just makes sense.

“You still don’t want to know?” I concentrate on getting myself onto Pick’s bike without landing on my butt. What is it with guys and difficult-to-board rides? Is it dick advertising? The bigger the wheels and the greater the distance from the ground to the seat, the bigger the penis?

Pick scrubs a hand over his head. Okay. He’s not quite the Zen-like pool of tranquility he seems. “Not a question of my not wanting to know. When you’re ready to tell, you’ll share. If not, then no worries. I know how to wait. He’s a nasty son-of-a-bitch, though. I’d feel better if I knew whatever you could tell me.”

Such a pretty speech. I successfully lever my way onto the seat behind Pick. Wait for it… he reaches between us and pulls my arms round his waist. Then he turns his head and gives me another look. He seems to have an endless supply—and he’s definitely waiting for an answer.

“He is. Nasty.” I fight the urge to rub my arms. When I’m around Thad now, I feel like the gross slick just flies off him and sticks to me. In comparison, Pick’s warm, solid, and safe.

Sometimes safe.

Right now, heat and danger practically radiate off the man.

“Figured.” Pick does a quick visual check to make sure I’m secure, then backs us out of the parking spot. He drives with the same easy confidence he does everything, and if I want to plant myself in his lap and pretend we’re riding off into the sunset on happy, happy horseback, that’s either temporary weakness on my part or the fact that riding a motorcycle feels like I’ve just shoved the world’s best vibrating dildo between my legs.

“We dated,” I blurt out.

“Doesn’t look like you got a happily-ever-after out of that,” he observes. He doesn’t take his eyes off the road, but I get the sense that he’s entirely focused on me. And somehow, he hears me just fine despite the roar of the bike’s pipes.

“Yeah. You could say that.” Do NOT climb into his lap. I try not to sound pathetic, but I’m unexpectedly hosting a pity party back here, and I think he knows it. He exhales roughly, which seems to be the manly version of the sad panda sigh, and his hands tighten on the handle bars. Hopefully, he’s imagining throttling Thad and not me. Not that I actually think Pick would ever hurt me, but he’s only human despite all those super hero qualities he possesses. And apparently my inner Damsel in Distress thinks we should lean against him, despite the awkward seat set up, and hold on real tight. No, I tell her. This needs to be his call. Odds are good he loses patience with me, because nothing about this relationship will be easy.

And since when do we have a relationship anyhow?

Since you paid him a little midnight visit, the Damsel points out, sounding quite pleased with herself.

And sure he’s rescued me from celibacy and given me my first hands-free orgasm in what feels like forever, but that’s not really a relationship. Like one that involves talking. And feelings.

You’re talking now, Damsel points out.

And you’re feeling shit.

Damn her for being right.

Pick apparently gets tired of waiting for me to finish my internal monologue because he busts in. “There more to it than that?”

“Probably.” Absolutely. I can practically feel Damsel gloating. She thinks this night is going to go her way.

“He going to be trouble?”

“He’ll be back.”

“I like trouble just fine.” The helmet can’t hide the slow grin tugging at the corner of Pick’s mouth. When he looks like that, my panties are in serious jeopardy. Damsel and my inner hussy both urge us to reach on over and reward the man for his help tonight. In fact, I should totally reciprocate, right? Give him a helping hand wherever he’d like it? A roadside blow job?

“No worries there, honey,” he continues. His dark eyes never leave the road, but I know he’s aware of me, of how my fingers pick nervously at his T-shirt because Damsel really is winning and how I can’t stop the betraying gesture. “Now would be a good time to tell me what happened.”

Of course he’s right, but that doesn’t make the confession any easier. Who really likes to air all their sins?

“Let’s just say that Thad and I have a past,” I suggest. Maybe we can go for the simple, not-as-embarrassing executive summary and skimp on the details.

Pick’s not on board with that. “I’m going to need details. This isn’t a game of connect-the-dots where you throw out a few hints and I fill in the lines. Tell me what kind of trouble you’re in.”

“You can’t help.”

Truth, right? I mean, unless I need someone to beat the shit out of Thad and possibly help me hide the body. I let myself enjoy that fantasy for a moment. I know violence doesn’t really solve anything, and I actually don’t condone murder under any circumstances, but it’s been a long night and I’m feeling weak.

“Try me.” Mr. Safety First actually takes his eyes off the road to look back at me. It’s a short glance, but he packs a lot into it. “Give me a chance, Sarah Jo.”

Chances are risky business. I knew riding with Pick was a bad idea. I hate the fear I feel about what Thad might do to me, but that feeling isn’t anywhere near as bad as the uncertainty. Thad Hill has decided to make my life his own personal playground, popping in and out with devastating effect. He won’t just leave me alone. Somehow, I have to defuse the threat he poses, but I’m fresh out of genius plans. I tried going to the authorities and that was an epic disaster. Running was my Hail Mary pass and it failed, and I don’t have much experience with standing my ground.

Pick, on the other hand, knows everything about holding his line. He’s an expert on digging and refusing to be pushed back. One inch at a time, he takes back whatever ground fire has claimed, day in and day out, summer after summer.

“Four months ago.” Start at the beginning, right? “I was living in Auburn, working as an in-home caregiver. There was a fire in my client’s home.”

Thank God, Mrs. Joan hadn’t been home. No, she’d gone off on the bus to Bunco night like she always did on Thursday evenings. At least Thad had waited until the elderly woman was clear. I wasn’t supposed to be there, either, but I’d forgotten my favorite sweater and swung back to get it just in time to catch the rat-thieving bastard pulling away from the curb. In hindsight, I realized that he’d popped the batteries in the smoke detectors during that visit, cracked a gas main, and set the microwave to go off. I’d got in, got out, too excited about my evening to notice the whiff of gas.

Stupid.

The timer went ding and Mrs. Joan’s home blew up, taking most of her possessions with it. All fingers, of course, had pointed my way from the get-go. I was the last one in the house, and no one listened when I insisted that Thad’s car had pulled away as I arrived. He was a deputy sheriff, just out and about doing his job. I got painted as the disgruntled girlfriend, because he immediately claimed we’d been having relationship problems, saying I’d wanted a ring and commitment, but he’d been unsure.

“The fire was suspicious?” Pick asks, proving he can connect the dots just fine without my help.

“I worked there, as a caregiver, and I was the last person in the house before the fire started.”

“Was the owner okay?”

“Yeah. She’d gone to play Bunco over at the senior center. She always did, like clockwork, every Thursday evening.”

“Fires happen. What made this one your problem?”

This would be so much better if he didn’t insist on details. Talking is highly overrated. “Because some diamond jewelry was missing, and the police report suggested someone had turned on the gas and then used the microwave to blow the place sky high.”

I’m just grateful that the house was somewhat isolated from its neighbors. In a more crowded subdivision, there could have been collateral damage.

“I told the police about how I saw Thad that night,” I admit “I ran back for a sweater I’d forgotten, and I saw him pulling away from the curb.”

Pick doesn’t interrupt me. And he’s really listening, I realize. He hasn’t dismissed my explanation. Yet. That focus is damned sexy, too. He’s not handsome in a polished GQ kind of way. Instead, he’s all rough, hard angles, from the strong line of his jaw to the small scars and burn marks scattered over his forearms and throat. He’s not afraid to put his body on the line and that’s better than a suit and a billion dollars any day. He doesn’t even need a cape to be a hero, although my inner hussy promptly suggests that we should buy him one. He could wear it naked. I promise fun things would ensue. Personally, I think my inner hussy just doesn’t want to finish this conversation.

“Coincidences happen,” he suggests, sounding reluctant. That’s Pick, though. He’s fair and balanced. “Hell, I don’t like the man, Sarah Jo. He’s a bully and he’s clearly jonesing for some revenge, but that doesn’t make him an arsonist. You got some proof that we can use?”

“It doesn’t. I confronted him.”

Pick swears.

“And he threatened me,” I continue. “No matter what I thought I knew, he said, no one would believe me. After all, he’s the local deputy and I’m a recent arrival. One year doesn’t count for much when most everyone has known Thad since he was a baby. I’m just the newbie on the block, fresh from San Francisco with my degree in hand and willing to do anything to earn a living because I have bills to pay and college wasn’t cheap.”

“When he comes back,” Pick says, and I can’t help but note his use of when, “that will make holding him off harder, if it’s his word against yours. Have you considered lawyering up?”

“That takes money.” Pick opens his mouth and wisely closes it when I shake my head. I’m so not taking his money. “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”

He snorts. “Honey, you’re already standing midstream. A bridge might be a blessing.”

“I’ll handle this.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“You know that if you need help, all you got to do is ask.”

“Thanks,” I say way too awkwardly. This is my business, not his, but this are-we-in-a-relationship thing (yes Damsel in Distress and Inner Hussy scream in tandem) complicates everything.

“Uh-huh.” He shakes his head, and the bike begins the familiar ascent to Baby Bear Lodge. “Well, you change your mind, you know where to find me, okay? There’s no expiration date on that offer.”

Chapter Fourteen

Sarah Jo

I hear Pick humming before I see him. Okay, so I actually ogle his feet and not the entire man, but details. I can say with great authority that The Voice will not be beating down his door anytime soon—he may be super hot in the looks department, but he’s spectacularly untalented in all things musical. If I’m not mistaken, he’s performing an off-key version of “99 Bottles of Beer.” The fire camp boasts a block of plumbed showers, which puts the place in luxury territory as far as the hotshots go. Personally, I’m much more particular. Running water—particularly hot water—isn’t optional in my book. Which is yet another reason I’m clearly a city kind of girl and entirely fish out of water here. The showers are very utilitarian, all get-in and get-out, which makes it easy to spot Pick. In case I need more clues, he’s tossed his towel over the shower rod and left his clothes neatly folded on a nearby lawn chair.

All evidence points to Pick being naked, so I take a brief moment to enjoy the mental image and some favorite memories. He has a spectacular body, undoubtedly from all that firefighting he does. When you drag heavy equipment all over a mountain, you develop yummy muscles. I guess it’s Karma’s way of making up for the whole daily risking-of-lives thing. I may also imagine grabbing that neat stack and running. He’ll laugh. And then he’ll get even. It might even include naked pursuit through the camp because I’m fast discovering that Pick doesn’t care what other people think. I don’t mean that in a selfish way, either. It’s just that he has strong ideas of right and wrong, and doesn’t deviate from them because of a little crowd-sourcing or negative public opinion. And honestly? I wouldn’t mind if Pick pursued me.

Yay cheers Inner Hussy.

This gives me an idea, and I’m out of my shorts and tank top in under two minutes. A quick shimmy takes care of my panties as well. The summer heat makes a bra pure torture, so I skipped it. It’s thunderstorm weather, or so I’ve been warned, and each breath I take is sticky and heavy. There’ll be lightning later, white bolts that slice down from the sky and strike the trees. The entire camp will be searching for smokes where the lightning’s strike has smoldered long enough to flare up into flames.

I’m working on some lightning of my own.

Pulling back the shower curtain far enough to slip through, I step into the shower. Pick is soaping up, back to the door, and for just a minute I stand there and admire my view. Soap and water slick the powerful muscles of his shoulders as he ducks his head beneath the spray.

Showtime.

“You got room for one more?”

I barely get the words out, before he turns in a smooth, powerful move that leaves me up against the wall, his arm over my throat. Pick would never hurt me, but this rougher side of him is kind of (really super) sexy. He can and will take care of himself in a fight or a tight spot, and I like that. Unfortunately, I seem to like everything about him.

  He blinks down at me, looking a little dazed. I guess he’s not so good with surprises. I make a mental note to cross the surprise birthday party off my list. There might be accidental casualties.

“Hell.” He doesn’t sound upset, just taken aback.

“Surprise?” I offer. Thanks to his ninja warrior move, my breasts are squashed against his chest. When I exhale, my nipples rub against the rough dusting of hair on his forearms. This little accident feels so good that I do it again on purpose. His eyes darken, which I take as a sign of approval.

“Did I miss the memo about water conservation?” A smile tugs at his lips.

“Conservation is very important,” I agree, tilting my head back to see his face better. When I draw a leg up his, part of him makes it clear that surprise shower intrusions aren’t all bad, because he’s now sporting one very impressive erection. He’s hot and slick, so I just have to angle myself against him for an even better fit. We’re kind of perfect together.

“Yeah.” He whips his arm away from my throat, as if he’s only just realized he’s on me like a caveman, but he doesn’t move away. Instead, he leans in closer, planting his arms on either side of my head. “You in the mood for a shower or something?”

“Can I vote for or something?”

When he smiles, he gets this little crinkle around the edges of his eyes. Probably from the sun—or from laughter. I like that about him. He enjoys life. The same way he enjoys my body. Wholeheartedly, rolling with whatever punches life tosses him. Too bad I can’t be more like that. I’ve just never been a particularly laid back kind of person—I’m more of a worry wart, although it seems like Pick can work with that.

“You planning on starting something right here in the shower?”

Sometimes the doing is even better than the planning. I press my mouth against the firm line of his jaw, loving the rasp of his ten-o’clock shadow against my lips. That has to be why I’m practically humming with pleasure (and not “99 Bottles of Beer”). It has to explain why I shamelessly run my fingers over his skin wherever I can reach. There’s just so much Pick to love that I’m not sure where to start.

“I won’t start anything I can’t finish,” I promise, tracing my lips over his throat and down his chest. He tastes like soap and man, which are now officially my favorite flavors. He’s feeling cooperative too because he holds still for me, letting me touch him however I want. So I do because this man totally deserves a reward. I lick away the water from the shower, swirling my tongue over his stiff nipples before I head lower. My body tightens with anticipation because this is going to be good.

“Sarah Jo—” He tugs on my hair, a little rougher than is strictly necessary because the man already has my full attention.

“Uh-uh.” I reach up and circle his nipple with my finger before pinching lightly. It’s not much as far as kinky sex acts go because the sad truth is, I’m a pretty vanilla person. He doesn’t seem to mind, though. He groans, his fingers flexing in my hair. My clit gives a little pulse in time to the sound. I don’t know why working him up gets me going too, but it does. I want to do him in the shower even though there’s an entire camp outside and someone’s going to know.

His stomach definitely qualifies as a work of art. It’s all hard ridges and sexy muscle. Usually I’d be busy comparing his and hers—and I definitely sport more of a beer keg than a six-pack myself—but right now I’m just letting myself enjoy. Who wouldn’t like having a big, sexy, hung hotshot at her mercy? So I take full advantage, running my hands down all those gorgeous muscles and nipping lightly, although it’s harder than you’d think because there’s not an inch of give in his abdomen.

And speaking of inches… there’s a whole lot of inches going on down below. The man’s practically packing a yardstick, and I’ve got a ringside seat. His dick is huge, and I have some dirty, dirty plans for it. I wrap a hand around the hard length, and miracle of miracles, my fingers can’t meet. He’s such a keeper. His groan gets a little deeper, a little rougher. Somebody’s feeling impatient. I pull my hand away for a second, lick the palm, and wrap my present back up. I’d go for the soap, but that would make stage two in this plan less fun for me.

I work his dick, sliding my palm up and down. At some point, I add my other hand because it wants in on the action, too. And there’s something about choosing to go down on my knees, about just taking my time and getting lost in the moment, a decadent rhythm that’s in no rush and yet headed only one place. Eventually he tugs on my hair again, trying to pull me up. I think he might be worried he’ll come on my face, which is sweet but I’m nowhere near done with him.

“This is my turn.” I look up at him. “You’re just going to have to stand there and take it, big guy.”

His laughter rumbles over my head as his hands stop their tugging. He braces himself against the wall, palms flat against the tile. “Now there’s a hard thing.”

The muscles of his abdomen demand more attention. The shiny scar from a burn is impossible to miss, a visible reminder of the risks he takes each day of the summer. I’ll just have to kiss what I can better.

“You didn’t win that fight.” I press my mouth against the mark while my hands keep using his dick as my own personal slip-and-slide. I kiss over his ribs and down his stomach. Kiss lower, brushing my cheek against the tip of his dick.

“Can’t win them all.” The words come out hoarse and needy. “Sarah Jo—”

“Shhhh.” I rub my cheek against him again. He’s all hard wrapped up in velvety goodness. “I’m not done here.”

He can’t say I didn’t warn him, right? I suck him into my mouth, wrapping my lips around the thick, slick head. His hips shift hard when I start sucking. His head hits the side of the shower, and his fingers find my hair again. I kiss and suck, swirling my tongue around his enormous cock like I’m inking his skin with our own design. He wraps me up, pulling me closer with his arms and legs, covering me with his big body. It’s almost overwhelming, but this is Pick. I need him close.

I need all of him.

I take as much of him in my mouth as I can, wrapping a hand around the inches I can’t cover. There’s a whole lot of Pick, and it’s hard to choose my favorite spot. So I explore. I run my tongue up the bulging vein, pressing against the spot beneath the head. The hands in my hair tense.

Definitely mine right now.

“Sarah Jo,” he bites out.

I pop off just long enough to answer him. “Yeah, baby?”

It takes him a few minutes to answer the question because I part my lips and go right back to sucking him. I work him with my tongue, moving from the tip to the base and then back up again. He’s so hard and getting harder with each stroke. He’s exactly what I need to hold onto, someone solid in the shit storm that is my life. And maybe not just in the stormy parts, something whispers in my head. I don’t think that’s my inner Damsel in Distress, either. It might be my heart, but I’m not listening.

Pick groans something that sounds like a curse. “Tell me you’re stopping, because I’m not.”

Nope. No intention of stopping here.

And then he totally loses control. He pushes through the tight ring of my lips before popping back out again. I take him as deep as I can, not wanting this to end.

I need this.

I need him.

Pick

I fuck her mouth. Not sure what else to call it, but the sight of my dick sliding in and out of Sarah Jo’s pretty pink mouth makes me feel dirty as sin and twice as blissful as heaven. Sarah Jo on her knees, wrapped around me like I’m her favorite flavor of sweet, is the most erotic sight I’ve ever seen. Her water-slicked hair makes her look like a naughty mermaid, naked, kneeling. Needing.

She moans, and the sound starts in my dick and plays straight up to my heart. She doesn’t seem to mind that I’m driving faster and harder, hammering in and out of her mouth like it’s her pussy. It feels so goddamned good. Better than anything anyone’s ever done for me before, which is why I’m seconds away from blowing down her throat and then yanking out and painting her tits with my jizz. Watching her take me isn’t helping me hold back any, either. We need to slow this down before I disgust her.

“Christ, Sarah Jo. You want to pull back? I’m not going to last.”

Her eyes twinkle up at me, and fuck me, but she doesn’t let go. Not one inch.

Instead, she sucks me back in deep, her tongue rubbing my dick until I can’t take it, and I blow up harder than a goddamned forest fire. There’s a fucking inferno in my balls, and Sarah Jo is the only cure. I come, hard and fast, and she swallows me down. She’s not letting go, not now, and my whole world is nothing and no one but Sarah Jo, right there on her knees, giving me something I hadn’t known I needed.

“Fuck me,” I grit out. Those aren’t the poetic words she deserves. They’re not the pretty words that would tell her how much I enjoyed what she just did. But I’ve got nothing. She smiles and swallows, and I shudder and curse and try to pretend that she hasn’t completely undone me. She reaches around me and flips off the water, which is already running lukewarm. The next Rogue into the shower is gonna curse me.

Or cheer.

There should definitely be cheering.

With a small smile, Sarah Jo pulls my towel off the rod, wipes her mouth, and hands it to me. Holy. FUCK.

And then she says the only thing that could make today better. Well, other than maybe three little words that I’ve previously thought belonged on a candy heart, but that I’m starting to want to hear from her.

“You want to go make that RV of yours rock?”

“Hell, yeah.” I drag on my shorts, wrap the towel around her, and pull her up into my arms. “You’ve got a turn coming to you, honey.”

Chapter Fifteen

Sarah Jo

After too many hours on my feet, I’m glad to curl up for my dinner break and hold a book instead of a spatula. The way I see it, I have forty-five perfect alone-time minutes until I have to return to the cafeteria, and I plan to maximize each and every one of them. Because fire camp tends toward the primitive and there’s not a whole lot of places to go to get away from everyone on your break unless you’re partial to trees and bushes, the cooks have rigged up an impromptu break room in the small building that doubles as a pantry. In addition to a stunning quantity of industrial-grade metal shelving holding a lifetime supply of tomato sauce and syrup, there are two bright green plastic lawn chairs, plenty of pillows, a small TV, and whatever else the girls have left behind over years of stolen breaks. We’ve nicknamed our hidey hole the Chateau du Nap, and while I suspect it’s not quite so secret, it’s still pretty sweet.

Since I’m the only one on break right now, no one will bother me, and I’ve got my butt planted on a chair and a mountain of pillows at my back. I’ve also got a drink, a snack, and the book. Right now, however, the story in my hands isn’t working its usual magic. Instead of losing myself in the world of Highlanders, I’m thinking about making a field trip to camp and finding Pick’s RV.

Again.

For the third time this week.

We’d made a mad dash to his RV after I heated him up in the shower. He’d shoved open the door and all but scooped me up in his arms, his hands on my butt as he’d carried me over to his big bed. Then, he’d proceeded to reclaim his towel, kissing every inch he’d uncovered. I’m pretty sure half the camp heard me shrieking his name, but no one said anything. Even Rosalie hadn’t done much more than smile and high-five me. She’s still convinced that fire camp is a synonym for matchmaking service.

But cozying up here alone is, well, alone. I have a serious Pick addiction, and hooking up with him isn’t curing me. If anything, I’m getting worse. Now I want to spend the entire night wrapped up in his arms, whether we’re banging like crazed bunnies or sleeping. Or talking. So far, the only F-word we’ve exchanged has been fuck, but I’m sensing that feelings aren’t far behind. I’m not sure what to do.

I turn the page. Nope. The Highlander in my book isn’t doing it for me tonight, no matter how hot he is in his kilt. I’m apparently Team Pick, and right now I can’t think of a single good reason why I shouldn’t head on over in his direction after I finish work and make myself at home with his big body.

I’m still thinking that through (and coming up empty on the reasons to-not-to) when the lights flicker and then go out. Crap. Closing the book, I set it gently on the bed. Even Mother Nature and the local electric company think I should Pick over print, so who am I to argue?

Sliding off the lawn chair, I feel my way over to the window. Power outages aren’t uncommon, and the average age of a building in the fire camp is downright geriatric. When I look out, though, the rest of the buildings still shine with light. I jiggle the light switch by the door, but no dice. Maybe I’ve blown a fuse.

The door opens behind me, and I turn with a smile. We cooks stick together. Rosalie has likely sent a rescue party. Or an electrician. Either one works for me since I’m standing in the dark. There’s just enough light from the window to let me see the shadow of a man stepping inside. It’s probably Hunter, Lola’s main squeeze. He’s handy and extremely useful to have around, so I’m not above borrowing him to handle my electrical emergency.

“Fuse box?” I ask.

“That’s one way of looking at it.” Thad’s voice is an unfortunate cold dose of reality. He shuts the door carefully behind him, and I hear the snick of the lock as he flips the deadbolt.

“You got a warrant this time?” My voice doesn’t shake. That makes me proud, because I have a feeling my knees are shaking visibly. Being locked up anywhere with Thad is a recipe for disaster. I don’t need the light to know there’s a whole lot of ugly written on his face. For a long moment, he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. The bastard’s spinning out the sickening anticipation and it’s working.

“That’s a real nice getup.” He gestures toward my shorts and tank top with his service weapon. Which is drawn. I rub suddenly clammy palms on said shorts. He’s between me and the door. The window isn’t much of a possibility, either, too small for a quick exit. I’d never kick out the screen before he was on me. He stares, thinking God knows what (but the gun’s a bad sign as is the lack of a warrant) and I panic. The soft whup-whup of the slowing overhead fan is the only thing filling in the silence.

Think. I need a plan.

My inner Damsel in Distress is praying for a miracle and a white knight, my inner hussy is all no freaking way, and my bad ass side seems to have gone on vacation or perhaps she’s run for help. All I can do is stall for more time because I don’t think I really want to find out why he’s here. “What do you want, Thad?”

He flashes me his crooked smile. Once upon a time, I thought that smile charming, which just goes to show that appearances are deceiving. His answer does nothing to reassure me, either.

“We’ve gone over this before. You need to come back with me.”

“So you do have a warrant?” I’m betting that’s a no. And it’s interesting, too, because if he could, he’d get one just to rub my face in it.

“Not yet,” he spat. “But I will. And it doesn’t matter anyhow. You’re going back with me, Sarah Jo.”

His thumb, stroking the barrel of his gun, makes a compelling case. Warrant or no warrant, he holds all the cards right now, and my options are decidedly limited. Problem is, the fire camp isn’t exactly teeming with life right now. The hotshots are all out in the field, eating dinner, or in town getting their fun on. And even if I scream, how do I know any big, burly guys in the vicinity correctly interpret my desperate screech as call 911 and send an army of vengeful giants armed for bear as opposed to ooh itsy bitsy spider sighting? (they’ve stopped running to the rescue after a few false alarms). I’m on my own here, and while that’s usually how I prefer my life, I’d like to make an exception tonight.

“You’ve got to pay the piper, Sarah Jo,” he says as if we’re discussing a five-dollar bet or a dare and not my life. Because I suspect he’s all in. He wants me to pay, and he’s not going to shortchange his revenge.

I take a shot at the truth. “I did nothing wrong.”

“You shouldn’t have run and tattled,” he accuses. “You said things.”

“Nobody believed me.” This is, most unfortunately, also the truth.

“Maybe. Maybe not. Eventually, someone might. You should have been on my side.”

There’s zero reason for me to side with him, but I don’t thinking pointing that out would be prudent. Instead, I go for wishful thinking. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

In answer, he unhooks a pair of handcuffs from his utility belt. “You’re not the one in charge here. I am. Turn around and face the wall. Put your hands behind you.”

I let Pick do things to me last night. Sensual, playful, demanding things. He turned me inside out and reduced me to a quivering, compliant puddle. I still haven’t quite figured out how I feel about that, but I know this is wrong. Giving up control to Thad isn’t some kind of dirty game, and I don’t trust him.

Not like I trust Pick.

I take a deep breath (because if it’s my last one, I want to make it a good one) and flip him off.

“What the hell is wrong with you? You want me to shoot you?”

Absolutely not. I back the hell up, but he’s already coming for me. At least he shoves the gun back into its holster, so he’s either given up on shooting me or he’s decided to do it by hand. And then he lunges, fists shooting toward my face, and I retreat as fast and as far as I can. Of course, it’s not enough. His fist clips my jaw, sending me crashing to the floor. Pain blazes across my cheek, but I’m not dead and this is no time to stop. I scramble up.

He shakes his head, hooks his leg around mine, and yanks. I promptly end up back on the floor.

“Gotcha.” I can hear the smile in his voice as he pins me down with his weight. If I can just get him off, I can make the door . . . I buck, trying to knock him off balance, but he rolls me easily, jamming a knee into the small of my back. Then he pulls back hard on my arms, and my back bows helplessly.

“Stop fighting,” he demands, “and you’ll be happier.”

Is he freaking crazy? I mean, the answer, obviously, is yes, but what makes him think I’ll just give in now and let him do whatever it is that he’s planning? Because I don’t think he’s about to give me a free vacation to some lovely tropical destination with unlimited margaritas.

“Bite me.” He’s bigger and better trained, and apparently that whole thing about people performing superhuman feats because of adrenaline-fueled desperation? That’s not happening here. I end up stuck on the floor, panting as I gaze longingly at the enormous tin cans of tomatoes so tantalizingly close. I totally bet I could bash Thad’s head in with one of those if he would just hold still.

“There’s a good girl.” Thad’s satisfied voice fills my ear. God. It’s so gross. His erection presses into my lower back. I buck again, but he’s still bigger and stronger. My shoulders burn as he jerks my arms toward him.

The zip-ties tighten around my wrists.

Pick

I need to find Sarah Jo. I don’t know if it’s because I’m desperate to see her, or because I miss her, or just because somehow she’s a part of my life now—a part that matters a whole lot. I’m not a relationship Einstein, but even I know that we’ve got something going on. We may not be labeling shit, but we’re still feeling it.

Okay. I’m feeling it. Who the hell knows what’s going on in Sarah Jo’s head? I spend most of the drive back to fire camp trying to figure it out, but give it up when I run out of road and hit the parking lot. I could drive to Timbuktu and still not find the answers I’m looking for. So I’ll just have to ask.

Words.

Words suck.

I should have swung by the Hallmark store instead of the florist. Tonight could be my lucky night, though. Perhaps when she gets off work, Sarah Jo will be in the mood to play show instead of tell, and she’ll get my message. I glance across at the passenger side seat. So I brought flowers. A dozen red roses because the Internet claims nothing says I love you like red roses. Or a big fucking diamond, but I’m trying to do the woo—not scare my girl off. And while I’m not a flowers kind of guy, I’d like to think I can change for Sarah Jo. Or if I can’t change, I can at least polish up the rough edges a little.

  She deserves white picket fences and happily-ever-after. Part of me wants to give her the big-ass diamond and a five-bedroom McMansion in the suburbs. The other, wiser part of me knows I can’t. Sure I’ve got more than enough money to live, but no one gets rich working fire crews, and I’ve always been a simple man with simple tastes. Fire camp has been enough for me.

  Until now.

I pull in as quietly as I can because I don’t really want an audience for my flower-toting self. I’d never live it down, and if I crash and burn, I’m gonna need some alone time to lick my wounds. The place seems pretty much deserted, however. There’s a handful of familiar trucks, a couple of beat-up sedans that belong to the cooks, and Sarah Jo’s POS car. The damn grin is back on my face. Just the thought of seeing her, even at the other end of a plate of food, makes me smile.

That’s when I realize that there’s a patrol car tucked in the darkest corner of the makeshift parking lot. Fuck. I don’t need spidey senses to know that something’s wrong. Sarah Jo attracts trouble like nobody’s business, and Thad Hill made his intentions perfectly clear. I’m betting that car belongs to Deputy Douche.

Sarah Jo

Thad drags me to my feet, pulling his gun from its holster and pressing the barrel against my side. “We’re walking out of here.”

I’d like to say Like hell, but he’s won this round. The pain in my face fades some, leaving me clearheaded. He can’t keep me here, not for what he intends. He wants the glory of bringing me in. The pleasure of punishing me for defying him. None of that counts for shit if he can’t get me out the door and into his car. I guess preventing that is my new, best plan.

He gives me a small shake. “You got that?”

“Yeah.” I really, really do.

“Then shut up and start walking.” He wraps an arm around me, dragging me up against his side. The feel of his body touching mine makes me want to gag. I’ve touched him before, although never the way I’ve touched Pick, but this is wrong on so many levels. Ironically, though, Thad and I actually want the same thing at this moment. My only chance lies outside, in the four hundred yards of opportunity on the way to his car.

Plus, would he really shoot me? Right outside where everyone can see? He plans on forcing me to go with him, but that requires a degree of cooperation from me, and he’s definitely counting on me being scared. 

And on the handcuffs.

When I flex my wrists, the plastic digs into my skin. There’s zero give, so whatever I do next, I do it bound and trussed. I decide it’s probably best if I don’t worry overmuch about that. One step at a time, right?

Thad flips the lock, opens the door, and steps out like he’s got no worries. With the electricity out, the light over the door is out, too, leaving us in the shadows. Plus, most folks are now focused on getting the lights back on—and so they’re not going to worry when a cook doesn’t show up promptly after her break. I could be asleep, trapped in the loo, or any one of a dozen other things.

The gun digs into my rib cage, a not-so-subtle reminder that right now he’s very much the one in charge. Have I mentioned how much I hate losing control? It’s not like this is a revelation, but my current lack of choices just reinforces what I’ve known all along. Men suck, being powerless sucks, and sometimes life serves up an enormous bowl of suck and all you can do is wait for a chance to trade up to something better. Which also sucks.

“Nice and easy,” Thad cautions, as if sticking his gun in my ribs hasn’t already made his point. I think he’s just rubbing it in at this point, which fits with what I know about him. He guides me down the porch, all faux solicitousness, and along the edge of the camp, sticking to the shadows and the trees. Well, I didn’t expect him to march me straight down the middle, right? I’ll just have to watch a little more closely for my opportunity.

He monologues like a bad villain, too. It’s all you’re going to be sorry blah fucking blah I’ve got you now. I get it, and yes, I’m sorry. Sorry I ever fell for his charm. Sorry I didn’t do things differently with Mrs. Joan. Sorry I didn’t take a chance on Pick and me. There’s this weird ache in my chest that I can’t even rub because I’m trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey. It’s not a heart attack, though, or even heartburn. It takes me half the distance to the parking lot to realize the sad truth. It’s heartache, and how stupid is that to only figure out now that I want things with Pick? Things like feelings and emotions and maybe possibly spending a whole lot of time with him? I’m not sure how that would work since we both like to be in charge, but now it looks like I’ll never know. I add that to my list of things that suck.

In a moment, I’m sure I’ll come up with an awesome, super successful plan to get away from Thad, march my butt to the nearest police station and try—again—to get someone to listen to me. The only way to fix that, though, is to deal with Thad, and that means somehow getting away from him. Or I can sell a kidney and lawyer up. Or… I could ask Pick for help. He has ideas. He wants to help. And I think I might be okay with letting him, as long as I can choose the plan and can return the favor some day. I don’t have to make him the boss of me—just take turns standing watch with him. And that seems like another relationship thing, me guarding his back and him guarding mine. It’s like the emotional equivalent of soaping each other’s back in the shower. Some spots are hard to reach or feel better when someone else gets them.

Halfway to the parking lot, I lunge. It’s not my best idea, because he immediately gets an arm around my throat. Two hundred yards has done nothing to change the weight/height ratio between us any—he’s still taller and stronger. Pulling my head into his shoulder, he squeezes until breathing becomes my primary focus. God. In and out, little shallow pants, until he eases up because he’s made his point, and no, apparently he doesn’t want to kill me in the fire camp.

“Don’t,” he snarls. “Be smart about this.”

There’s no answer for that kind of demand, and it doesn’t matter. The boom that shakes the ground around us swallows up anything I might have said. The camp lights up like the Fourth of July, flames shooting into the sky from the direction where we’re headed.

“Flammables shed,” Thad observes. He’s practically cackling, he’s so gleeful. “They really should have had someone watching that.”

He’s crazy. This is a fire camp full of firefighters—not a military compound. The shed was pointed out to me when I first came up here to cook—it’s a definite no smoking zone—and it’s where the hotshots lock up their fusees and flamethrowers. It also houses a small arsenal of drip torches, gas cans, and a dozen different kinds of oil.

“That’s my insurance, right there,” Thad continues, towing me along faster. Behind us, shouts and curses ring out as the hotshots spring into action, everyone running toward the flames and away from Thad and me.

I definitely need help. I’m not getting out of this on my own. Just to prove the point, the parking lot looms up before us and I spot Thad’s patrol car. Once he gets me in that backseat, it’s game over. He’ll drive; I’ll lose. I’ll be nothing more than a footnote in the morning paper.

Scream for help.

Thoughts flash through my head, lightning-bug fast, but none of them prevent the patrol car from getting closer. I don’t want to do it. I don’t like doing it. Asking for help—and trusting someone else to provide it—isn’t how I live. Of course, changing up how I do things—since right now all that’s managed to do is to get me dragged forcibly across a fire camp—is just smart. I realize Pick did a whole lot of offering, while I did my best to push him away except when we were having sex. Then I stuck close, but I’m not sure that counts. He could have given up on me, but he hasn’t. He stuck up for me when Thad made his previous appearances. So it shouldn’t be so hard to ask for his help now, to be smart about this.

I hate doing the smart thing.

The good thing, though, is that Thad Hill clearly thinks he has me all figured out—and that I’ll go quietly into that good night (or really freaking awful nightmare—you guess which one it’s going to be). Dragging my heels, maybe, but he doesn’t expect me to want to draw attention to myself or to pull in anyone else. Not really. If he had, he’d have knocked me unconscious or figured out a different exit strategy.

Pick’s been on me to change, so here goes nothing. I open my mouth and bellow.

“Pick Revere, get your ass over here now.”

Simple. Clear. Always in control. That’s me.

Okay, so I’m not totally in control of this Thad thing (at all), but I’m bringing Pick in on my terms.

“Fu—” Thad slams a hand over my mouth and picks up the pace… and cue step two in my impromptu break-free-and-live-happily-ever-after plan. I dig my heels into the gravel, go limp as a pissed-off toddler—and bite his hand. Hard.

He tastes every bit as bad as I feared.

Pick

Sarah Jo hollers my name like a drill sergeant barking orders. I’ve learned a few critical lessons during our fuckfests. First, while naked is fun with Sarah Jo and I love making her come, our time spent out of bed is pretty amazing, too. She’s slowly letting me in, and I’ve been careful not to spook her. She’ll let me finger her clit, shove my face into her pussy and eat her until she screams, but opening up her head or letting me in on what she’s thinking doesn’t happen as fast. So I’ve made getting to know her my new mission.

One of the things I’ve learned? Sarah Jo doesn’t like asking for—or accepting—help. She’s a DIY queen when it comes to her life, so her urgent summons is out of character. She’s working tonight and it’s the right time for her to be on her break, but the girls’ impromptu breakroom is empty and dark, the lights out of order. I’m still recovering from my mad sprint over there when a summer’s worth of fusees explode and suddenly we’ve got fire in our own backyard.

Exploding fusees.

Unexpected patrol car.

You see where I’m headed with this?

Why I need to see for myself that she’s safe?

After I hold and squeeze her and probably say plenty of stupid shit, she can retreat back to Emotionarctica and I’ll try to respect those boundaries. So I reverse my mad dash and head toward her voice. It’s never a good sign when Sarah Jo asks for help. I think. Because it’s never fucking happened before, and I don’t want to think it’s in any way connected to the sheriff’s cruiser and the explosion.

I tear toward the parking lot, fielding strange looks and what-the-fucks from the guys on my team. Who are all running the other way, toward the fire that needs putting out ASAP. Something smaller goes up, lending another snap, crackle, and boom to the night and drowning out Sarah Jo’s follow-up demand.

Three hundred yards. Two. There.

Thad Hill has definitely paid a return visit, the son-of-a-bitch. I should have followed up and made sure that Hill’s superiors knew exactly what their deputy was up to, but I didn’t. Sarah Jo clearly hadn’t wanted the attention that kind of complaint would get, and I’d gone along with her wishes. I won’t make that mistake again. Safety first, feelings second.

Thad wrestles with Sarah Jo, trying to open his car door and keep her under control. She’s putting up one hell of a fight, making Thad’s job as difficult as possible. It’s probably weird that I want to be the only one she gives a hard time. The only one who’s special. The worry and anger erases that strange feeling.

Fortunately, I have a ready-made target for my aggression. I launch myself at Thad, fists flying. He doesn’t see me coming, which is also satisfying. Sarah Jo has him distracted, which just goes to show that she and I make a good team. If I’m lucky, I’ll be able to convince her to pick my side permanently when all this is over. My fist connects with Thad’s jaw, snapping his head back with a satisfying crack.

Unfortunately, I don’t knock his head off his neck. He drops Sarah Jo—a plus, because she promptly scrambles out of reach. The downside is that this frees up Thad’s hands to pull his gun. Guns always make things messy.

We’ve got five feet between us, and Thad has the gun’s business end pointing straight at my stomach. He’s too close to miss, and I like my insides exactly as God made them. I don’t need Thad redecorating or rearranging. He might not pull the trigger, but I can’t take the chance. If I go down, Thad will just go after Sarah Jo again. When she inches away from us, Thad pans the gun between us, so encouraging her to run away isn’t going to work, either.

“Let’s talk,” I suggest. Not that I think using my words is going to resolve this particular situation, but it will buy me some time to come up with a better plan.

“I’m voting I get in the car and take Sarah Jo with me.”

See? I don’t like that plan.

“I can’t let you do that.” I decide it’s probably best if I keep up my side of the conversation. Hopefully, Thad isn’t the kind of guy who can shoot, talk, and cover my girl at the same time. Keeping my hands relaxed on my thighs, I assess the situation. Sarah Jo is still too close to Thad. The best option is for me to go in hard and fast. I’m pretty sure I can kill him before his bullets do for me, but I’d rather keep this as my backup plan because it definitely means I don’t get a happily-ever-after with Sarah Jo.

“I don’t see how you’re stopping me.” A mean smile cracks Hill’s face. “Seeing as how I have the gun and you don’t.”

He doesn’t get that if only one person walks away from this shit, it’s Sarah Jo. Sure, I’d rather be walking with her, but that’s not the only option I’m okay with. If I have to let her go and send her on ahead of me, she walks free. It’s that simple.

I’ve never learned how to give up. It’s been pointed out to me that a great many people would consider this to be a major character flaw. Fuck them. I’ve spent years fighting fires that are bigger, stronger, and more stubborn than me. And I’ve won. Even when I’ve had to temporarily step back and let the fire burn for a bit, the fire always, always goes out. Hill is simply a different kind of fire, and I’m going to shut him down, too.

I test the waters, easing my foot forward an inch. Hill shakes his head. “Uh-uh. Stay right where you are.”

Gotcha. If I roll, it has to be a fast rush. On the other hand, that’s definitely a Glock in Hill’s hand. That means there’s no safety standing between me and the first shot. If Hill has a full chamber, he’ll have multiple opportunities to hurt someone.

“No worries,” I say easily. Like we’re having a fucking picnic or we just ran out of cold beer.

“Sarah Jo—” Thad doesn’t take his eyes off me, which is too bad. “You get your ass in that car now. We’re out of here. You move again, hotshot, and I’ll drop you.”

The nickname is endearing, but I need to wrap this up and get my girl out of here. I need her safe.

“Nope,” she blurts out.

Seriously? I add paddling her cute ass to my to do list. When a deranged maniac is holding you at gunpoint, you give him the words he wants. And then you go with your boyfriend’s secret escape plan. She and I need to get on the same page ASAP. Plus, I want her inside the car. Those patrol cars have bulletproof glass, and, even if the door stays open, she’ll have more cover there.

Thad can’t cover both of us if she moves as he’s ordered. I think Sarah Jo must have figured that out for herself, because she springs into action. Jesus. Fucking. Christ. I’m supposed to be the one rescuing her, but she sweeps her leg out in a solid roundhouse and nails Thad in the back of his knees. Thad staggers, gun waving wildly, but he doesn’t go down. Good. She’s left something for me to do here. I move, going in fast and hard.

“Bitch.” Thad screams the word like it’s a bad thing, and points the gun in Sarah Jo’s direction. Or tries to. I bitchslap that sucker, slamming my palm into the barrel and pushing up. That puts Thad’s first shot up into the trees.

I hug Thad’s arm tight, throwing all my weight into it as I bring my knee up and my head forward like I’m speeding down the fucking highway in all kinds of rush. My head smashes into Hill’s forehead at the same moment I drive my knee into his groin. What happens next is a whole lot of screaming as I put the other man on the ground, twisting his wrist and taking possession of the gun.

“Told you, you wanted to be talking.” I remove the chamber and pocket it, tossing the gun behind me.

Emptying the gun is as much for Thad’s protection as it is Sarah Jo’s. I want to kill this fucker so badly. He hurt my girl. He terrorized her. I don’t think he deserves do-overs, second chances, or even a nice, comfy jail cell and decades of alone time, do you? I might also be headed straight for caveman territory because I also want to pick Sarah Jo up, toss her over my shoulder, and hole up somewhere with her. She could have been hurt. Hurt more than she already has been. Tearing Thad apart with my utility knife or just stomping the ever living fuck out of him with my steel-toes both seem like fair options. Sarah Jo will probably want to weigh in on Thad’s future, however, so I need to dial my caveman back.

When I look away from Thad, I find her fast enough. Of course she hasn’t taken advantage of the opportunity to run, fall back, or make a strategic retreat. She looks pissed, so maybe she’s over being scared. That’s good. I do a quick visual inventory since my hands are busy mauling Thad, but she looks okay. No blood or visible puncture wounds, although she’s definitely mussed up, and Thad has zip-tied her hands behind her back. Once I’ve handed Thad off, I’ll strip her down and check every inch. Kiss her better too, if she’ll let me.

“You okay?”

While she thinks over her answer, I flip Hill over and plant my knee in his back harder than is strictly necessary. And wouldn’t you know it? A quick rummage through the man’s utility belt reveals a lifetime supply of zip-ties. I suspect he likes tying people up more than he should. I’m all for kink, but I’m also a fan of consenting, adult partners. I secure his wrists with a pair, and then add a second for good measure.

“Sarah Jo?” I prompt. I still need a verbal on that question of mine.

“I’m fine,” she says, twisting to look at her wrists.

“I’m holding you to that.”

That’s all I have time to say because the noise approaching us says that our backup has arrived. Four hotshots have peeled off from the group effort to extinguish our supply shed. They’re big-ass, mean sons-of-bitches, which fits the bill nicely. Deputy Douche won’t pass Go and won’t collect two hundred dollars or my girl—he’s headed straight for jail unless my boys kill him first.

“You need a hand? Or just help burying the body?” Colt’s gaze flicks between Hill and Sarah Jo. As a former race car driver, he’s used to making split-second decisions and I’m pretty sure he’s figured out the situation here. He certainly doesn’t question why I have an officer of the law pinned and cuffed.

I fucking love my team.

That’s when I realize that I’m including Sarah Jo in that number. She and I, we make a good team. We have each other’s backs, and I respect the fuck out of her. And yeah, I love her, too. It’s not something I’ve tried before, loving my woman, but I’m eager to get started.

“I’m betting Hill here is responsible for our latest fire.”

“You think?” Hunter moves in casually. The hard look in his eyes bodes badly for Hill. Hunter gets cranky as shit when you blow up his fire camp. “Let’s play Twenty Questions.”

A subtle flick of Hunter’s wrist, and the rest of our team surrounds Hill.

Thad pants, clearly realizing that he’s outnumbered. Still, he manages to sneer, and my knuckles itch to be re-introduced to his face.

“You can’t do this,” Thad whines.

“Looks like I can.” Hunter steps in closer, conveniently blocking Sarah Jo’s view. Did I mention that I love this guy?

“You stole from an old lady,” I drawl. I’d make an awesome detective.

“Prove it.” Thad stares up at me defiantly. He’s gonna make this hard.

“Not sure I have to. When we all go back to Auburn and turn your sorry ass in for stalking and kidnapping, you don’t think the good folks there are going to ask why you went after Sarah Jo? They’re going to turn you inside out, Hill. Wherever you hid the shit you stole, they’ll find it.”

“Will not.” Hill’s eyes flicker. Gotcha.

“Let me give you a couple of tips about confessing,” Hunter offers, leaning down. He gets his mouth real near Hill’s ear and whispers something that makes the other man turn pale.

“You can’t do that.”

“Try me.” Hunter shrugs and then he smiles. A slow, cold smile that’s one hundred percent mean. I’m glad I’m not the one on my knees.

“That old lady didn’t need that stuff,” Hill protests like the dumbass he is. He tries to struggle up, but surrounded as he is by hotshots, he goes straight back down again.

“You did this just for the money?” Sarah Jo’s voice shakes, and then she gets it under control. That’s my girl. “That was her home, and you torched it.”

“That true, Hill?” I move in. “You add arson to your résumé?”

“It was just a house. And it wasn’t like she needed that stuff. I did.”

Deputy Douche sounds like he actually believes the crap he’s spouting off. I can only imagine how Sarah Jo feels hearing this. That’s her vindication, right here, but she cares for her client. You can’t miss the concern and affection in her voice, and I know how my own elderly aunties and mother would feel about having a houseful of memories burned down around their ears. Violated, pissed off, and ready to rip the offender a new one before starting over, making new memories in a new place.

“You hear that?” Hunter makes a point of looking around. I spot a couple of phones up, out, and recording as Deputy Douche spills his secrets.

“Uh-huh. That’s ten to twenty right there, for attempted kidnapping. And we’ve got ourselves an arson.”

That’s one problem sorted.

I turn to look for Sarah Jo. She’s making a break for it.

Again.

Chapter Sixteen

Pick

I’m not the kind of person who sits around and waits. I don’t need closure. I don’t need to rehash what’s happened or how I feel about it. Apparently, that’s something Sarah Jo and I have in common because she starts moving away from our showdown with the good deputy. She’s an amazing woman, and she’s got grit. Brains. Beauty. The whole package, if I’m being honest. But I really don’t want her to walk out on me now. I want her to talk to with me. To walk into my arms and let me wrap her up and love her. I hook a thumb in her zip-ties and gently swing her to a halt.

She stops since she has no choice and my heart falls. I’ve always thought that was some kind of expression, but I swear I feel the stupid, hopeful thing plummet from my ribs to my steel-toes. I have a moment of sheer panic as I consider the odds of her sticking out the summer.

She shifts her gaze from my face to the point where we’re connected, the tied up, plastic, not-so-kinky point. The moment is far less romantic than I’d been hoping for. “What?”

“You don’t think we should talk now? Or maybe you should offer up a thank-you?”

I have other suggestions, but I don’t think she’s in the mood to jump my bones right now.

“Okay.” She looks cautious about the two of us having a conversation. I’ll cut her some slack, seeing as how she’s just had a really bad day. I’m no psychologist, but getting assaulted at work and then forcibly dragged away has to leave a mark. She seems okay, but Sarah Jo generally acts like showing any kind of vulnerability is a crime.

“Thank you,” she continues in a prissy voice that makes me want to kiss her. Or paddle her butt. Choosing between the two right now is difficult. “Cut me loose.”

She shoves her wrists at me, and I discover I have a mean side. I’m not in the mood for her orders. In fact, I think it’s my turn to do some order-giving.

“Mmmm,” I say. “I don’t think so. Not yet.”

“Pick—”

It’s so cute the way she thinks she’s in a position to demand things. The way I see it, her wrists may be tied up, but so is my heart. My head. Pick an organ and it’s one hundred percent team Make This Woman Love Me.

“No.” I repeat my refusal just so we’re clear and run my hand down her arm. I might need to touch her for another century or six, just to make sure she’s in one piece. She’s not the only one who’s had a bad day.

She frowns. “Is that the only word you know tonight?”

“Probably not.” I can’t hold back the smile tugging at my mouth. Her answering glare informs me in no uncertain terms that grinning is just fuel for the fire as far as she’s concerned. “I’d like to hear that you’re okay. Maybe you could tell me that.”

She starts walking, and I fall into step beside her. The boys don’t need my help babysitting Hill while they wait for a bona fide law enforcement official to show up.

She shakes her wrists at me. “I’d be better if you untied me.”

She really doesn’t like those ties. I’ll bet she’s running options in her head. In another two minutes, she’ll have a Plan A, a Plan B, and possibly a Plan C for getting shed of them. I have to act fast.

“Maybe.” I throw an arm around her, pulling her into my side. I think she fits perfectly.

She gives, just a little. “I’m okay.”

“I’d like to see that for myself, honey.”

When her feet slow down, because her stubborn side is clearly kicking in again, I swing her up into my arms. This feels right, having her cozied up against my chest. The way she wriggles, though, she doesn’t share my opinion. I tighten my hold because I’ll never drop her.

“Put me down,” she snaps.

See? We’re back to orders yet again. Sarah Jo loves orders—as long as she’s the one giving them.

“You know how many years you took off my life tonight, Sarah Jo? When I heard you hollering, all I could think was that maybe I’d be too late. That maybe I wouldn’t get there in time.”

She shoots me a dirty look. “Believe me, I had the same concern.”

“And that’s another problem,” I continue, my arms tightening briefly. “I’ll always come when you need me, but you don’t believe that. You want to handle everything on your own. What’s wrong with letting someone else have your back?”

“I like standing on my own two feet,” she shoots right back.

“You don’t trust me,” I counter.

She shakes her head. “That’s not it.”

“Really?” I look down at her and her pretty, stubborn face. “Because I practically had to pull the details about Hill from you.”

She sucks in a breath. Exhales noisily. “I don’t like not being in control.”

“We could practice,” I suggest. “Or take turns. Every other day could be Sarah Jo Day. You could think about staying.”

Here. With me.

Does that sound stupid? God, she’s everything I never knew I needed, and the way she stares up at me makes me want to beat my chest and swear I can be whoever and whatever she needs. As long as she takes a chance. On me.

On us.

She bites her lip, but she doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t deny that she’s got every intention of leaving. Now that she’s not starring front and center on Thad’s most wanted list, she’ll pack up and go.

And take my heart with her.

I do some fast thinking while I carry her to my RV. When we reach the trailer, I shift her in my arms and reach for the door. Hesitate.

“I need to tell you something.” She rolls her eyes, but I keep talking. Sometimes, all you can do is dig a line in the ground and hope like hell the fire doesn’t jump it. Sometimes, all you have is hope. “I love you, and I’d like to take you inside and show you. Or talk about it. Or just make plans for what we’re going to do together for the next sixty years or so.”

I’m holding my breath, waiting for her response. Just standing here on the steps to my RV, holding her tight in my arms, is about as close to heaven as I’m ever getting.

She chews on her lower lip. “You want to talk?”

“Sure.” I drop a kiss on her forehead. Now I’m hoping that’s a down payment on about a million more kisses. “If you’re ready to listen to me. But I’d also like to show you that loaning someone else some of your self-control doesn’t have to suck.”

She looks at the closed door. “Take me inside,” she says. That’s not a yes—but it’s not a no, either. I’ll take what I can get.

I carry her inside the RV and kick the door shut behind us. It’ll take a moment for my eyes to adjust, but I can find the bed with my eyes closed, even carrying precious cargo. I’ve walked this path hundreds of times, half-dead on my feet after days in the field. I set her down in the center of the mattress and flip on a light.

She promptly rolls over, shoving her wrists up at me. “Now untie me.”

She’s sprawled on my bed, on her knees, hands bound behind her. My head can’t decide if I should try for a romantic heart-to-heart or just skip ahead to a very filthy happily-ever-after. I have such a dirty mind. Her mussed-up, trussed-up look is the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen. She’s all long legs, her shorts riding up her ass and her hair tumbled around her face. She looks like she’s just got out of bed, and it’s a good look for her.

“Give me a minute.” I sound hoarse. “You don’t think you could enjoy this some? Because it’s really, really working for me.”

She wiggles her wrists at me. “You like having me tied up?”

“I like having you trust me,” I say. “The tied-up thing is just an added bonus.”

“Does this mean I get to tie you up tomorrow?”

I should have raided Deputy Douche’s supply of zip-ties. How come I’ve never bought a silk necktie?

“If you promise to be very, very nice to me.”

She giggles. She actually fucking giggles.

I think… she might like me. This. Us.

I gently press her down on her stomach. “You’re making it damned hard to behave.”

I press against her back, giving her a taste of my weight. The move traps her wrists between us, and her fingers brush first my stomach and then my dick as she wriggles. Not a no kind of wriggle, but a yes let me get closer move.

  I don’t have any fancy words. I haven’t planned for this. I don’t have roses, a Hallmark verse, or even a plan. “Stay with me? I’m a hotshot when you deserve a prince, but I’m good at my job. I’ll always be able to take care of you.”

“Idiot,” she whispers. I believe that could be interpreted as sexist, stupid guy who thinks I’ll be his Suzy Homemaker. She doesn’t get it. I just want her to be Sarah Jo—but with me.

“You might want to be careful,” I whisper, “passing out insults when you’re the one with your hands tied behind your back.”

I brush my mouth against her neck, giving her a series of little kisses. My dick is doing an excellent imitation of an iron bar, but he’ll have to wait. I’m just hoping it’s not forever.

“I don’t need anyone to take care of me,” she says slowly.

“True,” I agree, and kiss her ear. She makes that husky, moaning gasp I love so much. “But will you let me?”

Sarah Jo being Sarah Jo, she promptly counters. She should have been a lawyer instead of a camp cook. “You going to let me take care of you?”

I think about that for a moment, while I kiss my way down her neck again.

“Sure,” I say finally, nipping lightly at her shoulder. “Why wouldn’t I want that? That’s what partners do, Sarah Jo. They look out for each other. It’s not a question of you can’t. It’s about I want to.”

Convince her.

“You know what a hot zone is?” I trace my fingers along her neck and do a little more kissing while I wait for her answer. When she shakes her head, I explain. “When a fire really gets going, you can only get so close before someone gets burned. We keep the firefighters out of that zone so they all stay safe.”

“Are you saying you want to cool things down?”

“No, honey. I’m saying I want to stand between you and the flames. Let go of your control, just for me. Let me do this for you.”

“Let go,” she repeats cautiously. Her fingers flex between us, and it’s my turn to bite back a groan as her fingertips swipe over my dick. She could be clueless about what she’s touching. Knowing my Sarah Jo, however, it’s probably part of a devious master plan. That teasing brush of her, just a light caress against my jeans, makes me hard. Hungry. I want this woman something fierce, but I also want more than one more night of hot sex. I want all of Sarah Jo.

“Let me show you,” I suggest. “Let me take charge tonight.”

Sarah Jo

Pick is a big, sexy, stubborn bastard. I flex my wrists, but the plastic ties have even less give than the man wrapped around me. He wants something from me. He wants love. He wants to love me and be loved in return. It’s a sweet, sweet idea, this possibility of Pick caring for me like that. He’d make one hell of a partner.

If I’m honest, it would be easy to love him back.

It would also be scary as hell. I don’t like being tied up or tied down. I definitely don’t like not being in control. Loving this man would be like putting zip-ties on my heart, and it would be so easy for him to hurt me.

“Let’s try this, honey.” I don’t miss the rough need in his voice. This apparently being sex while I’m tied up. I’ve never done kink before because it’s never been my thing. I wriggle, trying to find some room to think that’s not full of sexy hotshot, but he’s not letting me put any space between us. Evidently, he’s serious about this whole opening up and trusting thing.

One quick, hard tug of his hands, and my shorts and panties fly down my legs. He steps away from the bed for a moment, and then the rustle of clothing hitting the floor is followed by the dip of the mattress as he climbs right back beside me. That handful of seconds is enough for me to decide that I don’t like waiting for him to decide what comes next; this is definitely not my kind of game.

When I try to roll over, however, a firm hand at the small of my back holds me in place.

“Stay put,” he growls. “Right where you are.”

Should I? Can I? I haven’t been given the rulebook for this game, but it doesn’t seem to matter. His hands arrange me gently, on my knees, facedown. Kinky sex it is.

Kinky sex with Pick, I remind myself.

“Yes,” I say out loud. Yes to everything, yes to Pick.

He groans. “You know how pretty you look?”

I look exposed. I’m pretty darn sure of that. It’s not enough for him, though. He parts my thighs, one big hand on each, gently pressing me further open. All the way, no holding back. Just me, him, the bed, and way too many emotions.

He touches me. No warning, just one thick finger sliding through my folds from bottom to top. All the way up my soaked slit until he finds my clit and pinches lightly.

I moan. Oh, God.

“You got something you want to say to me?”

“More?”

He repeats the caress, drawing his fingers through my slickness again. “That, too.”

“Untie me? I want to get my arms around you,” I admit. “Maybe we can take turns having kinky sex tomorrow and just go for the vanilla, face-to-face stuff tonight?”

He swipes his pants from the floor, fishing for his utility knife. “Don’t move.”

I lie there, blinking a little because I’m finally right where I want to be. I don’t want to leave. A quick slice of the blade, and my wrists pop apart. I roll, taking in the intent look on his face. His big hands rub at the red marks from the ties. 

“Shit.” He frowns. “I should have cut you free sooner.”

“It’s all right.” And it is. I sort of want to cry and to yell and to climb all over that big body of his and make him feel the pleasure, too. Pick is my hot zone and my safety zone, and I’m more than ready to spend fire season—and forever—in his arms. We’ll take turns being in control—or letting go. It’s going to be okay, even if I don’t get it right the first time. All I have to is practice—and trust Pick.

And I do. I trust him with every tied up, too scared, not quite sure enough inch of me, starting with me head and ending with my heart. I love him, and he loves me.

“I’m okay,” I repeat.

He frames my face with his hands and kisses me, a hot, sweet kiss that makes me heat up. “In that case—”

“Yeah,” I say, laughing. “You’ve got something to finish.”

“One thing first.” His face, watching mine, is suddenly serious. “I don’t want to be finished here. I just want you to know that. Stay or go, that’s your call, but you should know that I’ll be here waiting for you. You don’t need to say anything, but I needed you to hear that.”

“You don’t mind? If I’m not in the mood for talking?”

“Honey”—he eases his hand along my shoulder—“this isn’t about what I want. You say what you need to say. Whatever you’ve got, you give it to me.”

“That’s it?”

He slides his fingers into the tangled hair at the back of my neck, urging me forward for another kiss. It’s a fabulous idea—one of the best he’s had all night.

“Probably not,” he admits. “We’re going to fight. Kiss and make up.”

I walk my fingers up his chest. “Maybe it’s time for that kissing part.”

“Uh-huh.” I can feel the low rumble of his laughter beneath my cheek. “I could do that.”

“I love you.” I say the words quietly, but I know he hears me.

“Say you’ll stay the summer. The fall. I’ve got four seasons, and every one of them is for you.”

“I could do that.” I pull his head toward mine, wanting his kiss. “You still looking for that hot zone, hotshot?”

He smiles slowly. “Could be.”

“Then sign me up. I’m all yours.”

THE END

Hard Riders MC

Jaxon Brady of the Hard Riders MC has sworn to protect Evie Kent from a rival gang. His hard muscles and black leather motorcycle boots are a sharp contrast to the girlie dresses Evie wears for her successful party-planning business. Their instant attraction is magnetic, and their lust keeps them glued to each other’s side…but is it a dangerous distraction?

FIND IT: Amazon

Bankers and bad boys don’t mix

So why is she getting under his skin?

Harper, a buttoned-up banker, is a tattoo virgin before Vik draws her first ink. And once the bad-boy biker lays his hands on the beautiful canvas of her body, he’s addicted! Harper says the two of them could never mix outside of the bedroom—but she’s finding that she wants the feeling of Vik’s touch to last forever.

FIND IT: Amazon