Page 5

CHAPTER FOUR

Brock and I managed to avoid each other for the entire rest of the day. I have a feeling I won’t be so lucky on day two of my job. Trying to focus on the positives, I close the bunk room door, and head into the main part of the station.

The building is elegantly quiet when I take a walk around the trucks. My work boots leave no marks on the spotless, painted concrete floor, but make little squishy sounds with each step.

Early morning sunlight streams in through the tall glass panes of the bay doors, gleaming off the chrome on the equipment.

The sight hits me right in the chest .

I’ve always loved the order and tidiness of a fire department.

The quiet, too, in moments like this. But, I also love the controlled chaos when that alarm sounds.

The desk that Reeves pointed out as mine sits in the corner of a shared office. This morning, no one else is around when I ease into the old wooden office chair and open the center drawer of the desk.

I shudder and make a face as I stare down at the catastrophe of office supplies. What a mess. Pens, pencils, loose thumb tacks, crumpled pads of sticky notes. Dust bunnies fill the corners. The paper clips are dumped out of their tiny cardboard box.

It’s enough to give me sweaty palms. Ick.

First order of the morning, take care of this disaster. I won’t rest until it’s all separated and perfectly arranged.

“You’re at it early.”

Uh oh. I know that voice.

My skin prickles as I glance up and find Chief Mitchell strolling across the tiled floor toward me.

Butterflies lift off in my belly making me inwardly curse. Damn. Damn. Damn.

Thank god, he’s dressed today. I can’t take looking at that perfect Adonis chest of his.

Only problem is he looks just as hot.

Holy smokes, does he look good! The cotton of his navy blue LCFD T-shirt hugs his big shoulders. Down below, he perfectly fills out the navy blue cotton canvas shorts he has on–from the thick bulge behind his zipper to the way the fabric clings to his muscular thighs.

Oh god. This is so not good.

In an instant, I catalog everything about him. I’m a details girl. And Brock has all kinds of details. The kind a woman could look at for years.

His hair is just a little damp, making it darker. The smell of clean laundry and fresh soap surrounds him. The man smells good enough to lick. But I actually miss the natural heated smell of his skin from yesterday.

I try to pull my eyes away, but the edge of his Marine Corps tattoo is like a magnet peeking from beneath his sleeve.

Brock clears his throat.

So busted.

But I’ve done my work. Cataloged a thousand little data points about the man. He shoves a to-go cup at me.

“Hope you like cream and sugar.”

I take the tall, brown, paper cup. Whatever is inside smells divine. “Sure, that works. A girl can’t be picky when someone brings her coffee. Thanks.”

Then he surprises me.

“Truce,” he says as he eases a thigh onto the desk and deposits himself right in my line of view.

As I slip off the to-go lid, I say, “Coffee is a good place to start.”

The worry crease on his brow eases a little. “You know, I’ve been thinking about what happened.”

Trying to sound indifferent, I ask, “What part?”

I sure know what I’ve been thinking about and both halves of it are torture. It’s pretty much a downer to think about the way Brock touches me. But it’s even more of a downer thinking about losing my career over it. And then of course, there’s this whole messed up thing about a sudden case of panic attacks. Let’s just say my mood is as gloomy as a London morning.

Brock’s eyes are far too honed in on me when he says, “I didn’t want you to think that just because I’m going to make you get an eval means you can’t work on the case. I’m sure you’re eager to do something besides cleaning and maintenance.”

I take a slow sip, processing the emotions I’m having over the whole situation. “I was hoping you’d say that. I gave this a lot of thought last night too.” A lot of other things too. “I understand your concern for safety.”

He visibly relaxes, the tension easing in his clean-shaven jaw. “Good. I’m glad you’re able to see my side.”

He nods toward the laptop on the corner of the desk. “Did Reeves get you all set up with passwords and such?”

“Yes, I got in and looked around at some files.”

“Good. Later, I’ll go over some things with you?—”

An ear splitting siren rattles the window. Brock instantly bolts off the desk. Two firefighters storm past the office door, heading toward the truck bays.

Brock shoots out the door like an arrow that’s been let go from a bow.

Clenching the arms of the chair, I fight the deeply rooted habit of sprinting to the truck bay. God help me. I can’t believe I have to sit here!

The siren wails. I start sweating.

Between the cries of the siren, the air quiets enough for me to hear Brock bellowing my name. “Ellis! Get your ass down here!”

Skipping half of the stairs, I fly toward the action. As I round the corner in the lower hallway, I slam right into Brock.

It knocks the air out of me.

The man’s a giant wall of muscle. I bounce off like I’m a rubber ball, sputtering my apology. “Oh crap. So sorry.”

He shakes his head, but can’t hide his grin. “Come on. But you’re not getting out of my truck. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, sir!”

The team has the bay doors up and are piling into the trucks. The chief and I are the first out of the driveway in his department pickup with two fire trucks on our tail. Brock’s in full-on firefighter mode—Face hard as granite, eyes like lasers on the road.

He drives like he was made to be behind the wheel.

I hang onto the oh-shit handle as we hurtle through town with the sirens wailing. My skin is covered in gooseflesh. It’s always that way when I’m going to a fire.

The street address of the fire is a small duplex with street parking. No smoke is visible.

Brock slams the county issued truck in park and leaps out. His eyes are more alive than I’ve ever seen them. His adrenaline is pumping, swirling around him in a shimmering cloud. He leans through the door and points his index finger at me. “I’m dead serious. Not a single toe outside this truck, Ellis!”

“Understood.” We stare at each other for a beat. I hesitate, but can’t hold myself back from saying, “Chief, be careful.”

He nods sharply, and shoves the door closed so hard it rocks the truck. In less than a minute, he’s in his turnout gear, storming toward the fire trucks where his men are hard at work.

A few seconds later, his voice comes through the comms radio on the truck dash. The men chatter back and forth. Brock’s voice rings loud and clear as he commands his team. “Unit Sixteen, Unit Twelve, you are going in.”

“Copy,” they each reply .

I turn up the volume nob. Chew on my nail. By the time this is done, my fingers will be nubs.

I’m practically pressed against the windshield by the time two firefighters enter the house.

Even though I’m banished to the truck, my adrenaline is pumping in gigantic bursts. It’s impossible not to fidget in my seat.

God, this is hard. Back to biting my thumbnail. My eyes are so dry, I realize I haven’t blinked since we arrived.

For the second time, I find my hand on the door handle.

I won’t go. I won’t go.

I promised Brock. Lives are on the line. The last thing he needs is for me to distract him.

I find a pack of gum in a little nook on the dash. “Oh, thank you!” Maybe I will have fingers left. Shoving the stick in my mouth. I go to town on the peppermint-flavored square. Chomp. Chomp. Chomp.

I’m sweating. Chomping. My heart is flying. And I can’t tell whether it’s because I’m so turned on by watching Brock or I’m so in distress about being stuck in the truck.

Watching is way harder than I thought it would be. I’ve always sucked at sitting still.

The only upside is that it does give me time to watch the tall, thoroughly-in-charge chief. He’s incredible in action…

A sight to behold—larger than life in his helmet and turnout gear.

Things inside of me stir to life. Unwelcome feelings. Hot rushes of blood pulse through me, mixing with the adrenaline.

Plucking at my shirt, I try to relieve the burning heat.

Damn him for making me ache.

Tearing my eyes away, I try to focus on the rest of the team. I need to study how they function. Reeves is easily recognizable. He’s taller than the rest, almost as tall as Brock. Frank is square-shouldered and quick on his feet. The others I haven’t spent any time with yet, so it’s hard for me to recognize them.

But one thing is certain, they respect their boss.

Within minutes, the small kitchen fire is extinguished. An easy job, and soon, the team is packing up their gear, sharing good-natured banter.

I’m tempted to get out of the truck but consider the thin ice I’m walking on with him right now. The more I cooperate, hopefully the sooner that he will let me get to work.

When they are nearly finished, Brock walks back toward the truck, watching me through the window.

The big, strong firefighter could be on the front of a magazine… no wait, a calendar. Yes, Firefighter of the Year.

His jacket is open, revealing the sculpted shape of his muscles beneath his T-shirt. He’s got his helmet off now and carries it in his hand. His hair is damp again, and tousled from his fingers running through it. If I had to name his expression, I’d say it was satisfied.

A shiver of awareness skates down my spine and out to my fingertips. He looks good enough to eat, and I’m suddenly ravenous for him.

I have to clear my throat to speak. “Nice job there, bossman.”

He shakes his head once and grins. “They did all the work.”

Pointing toward the radio, I say, “I heard you. You’re good at being in charge.”

I didn’t know Brock Mitchell could blush, but I swear I think that’s what’s happening. Okay, maybe not a blush, but there’s definitely something going on with those angular cheekbones of his.

He makes himself busy reorganizing his equipment in the back floorboard of the truck. “Thanks for staying put.”

“You’re welcome. See, I can listen. I didn’t want to make things any more stressful.”

He’s quiet as he pours a bottle of water over his head and changes his T-shirt for a fresh one. I don’t know who does the man’s laundry, but they must be busy.

I try to keep my eyes ahead. Anywhere but on the contours of his glistening skin. Sunlight loves the man, it seems to worship the angles and dips along his muscles.

My mouth goes dry when I get a glimpse of the water running down the column of his throat.

Good lord. Brock Mitchell is my vagina’s new favorite sight.

This is never going to work. I’m going to be a puddle of incoherent lust every time the man gets near me.

Stifling my groan, I uncurl my fingers from the door handle. How embarrassing would that be if I ripped the thing off?

Frankly, I’ve had enough humiliation for one lifetime.

When Brock climbs behind the wheel, he doesn’t start the truck. He sits there thinking for a moment, staring straight ahead. His eyes are unfocused, but his energy is buzzing.

I’m not sure what he’s doing, but I try not to let him hear my ragged breathing.

As if he’s made some difficult decision, he turns toward me. For a few seconds, his eyes trace over me.

Awareness burns beneath my skin. I’m cold and hot and everything in between, all at one time.

I want to scream, ‘What? ’

His eyes soften, and I’m even more confused. Then he says, “Since we’re out, I’ll take you to show you some of the arson scenes.”

What the heck?

So much for not being alone together.

You could knock me over right now, I’m so surprised. When the fire alarm rang and he asked me to come, I realized we’d be alone, but I thought he’d make a point to get right back to the station where everyone would be around.

I’m beginning to realize that I really have no clue what to expect from Brock. Reading him is like reading a newspaper with half the print missing. And I’m not talking about crossword puzzles, at least those come with clues.

Right now, though, his words are a welcome surprise. The fourteen-year-old inside of me wants to bounce up and down. But I mash my feet against the floorboard and try to retain my composure.

Unfortunately, my voice comes out sounding far too eager. “That would be awesome.”

Hearing my own voice makes me grimace inside. I don’t want to seem like I’m a total kid.

Brock’s so mature, so composed… well, except when he kisses me. I’m guessing that might be the only time the man ever loses his grip on his carefully tended reins.

Truth be told, I’m not sure whether I’m more excited about getting to spend more time with the man that’s going to torture me or that he really is going to include me in the case.

I guess I’ll just take it at face value. I’m dangerously thrilled about both.