Page 14 of The Mountain Man’s Heat (Blue Mountain Burn: The Firefighters of Hartley Ridge #1)
Blue Mountain Burn: The Firefighters of Hartley Ridge, Book Two
Jake
“How’s the hero going?”
Sandwiching my phone between my ear and shoulder, I snort at the chuckled question and search the bowels of my fridge for the block of cheddar I know is in there somewhere. “Yeah, yeah, Gibbo,” I say, moving aside a tub of Greek yoghurt. Nope, no cheese. “You’re a funny bastard.”
Tony Gibson laughs. Through the phone connection, faint beeping mingles with other familiar background sounds. He’s down in the Hartley Ridge station house, most likely with his feet on his work counter, drone or laptop on his lap.
Meanwhile, I’m dripping sweat after finishing a five-mile cross-country run, searching for my normal post-workout snack and wondering when the hell I’ll be able to return to work.
Paid or not, voluntary leave isn’t my idea of fun.
There’s only so much you can do when you’re hiding out in your home on the side of the steepest peak in the Blue Mountains in the dying days of summer, trying to stay out of the public eye.
“If it helps,” Tony says, “only one reporter came looking for you today. And only two, what are they called? Pappo? Pap something. They were hanging around Kelly Park again.”
Scowling, I give up searching for the cheese and close the fridge. “Paparazzi,” I growl. “Fantastic. I can’t believe they haven’t gotten bored of me yet.”
“Well, you did save the world’s most famous actress’s son from drowning in the Kanangra Falls swimming hole.” Tony laughs out a breath. “What did you think was going to happen?”
With a grunt, I snatch up my water bottle and head for my bathroom.
“I thought I’d save a little boy struggling in the water, give his parental units a chat about how fucking icy the Kanangra Falls water is all year round, no matter how hot the day is, and get back to my jog.
It was my day off. I wasn’t being a hero. I was just?—”
“Being who you are,” Tony finishes, the laugh still in his voice. “We know this, mate. But you’re big news. Even more so because apparently, she dedicated the Oscar she won last night to you.”
Stopping mid trek to the bathroom, I drop my head and scrunch up my face. “Wow. Okay, I’m honored, but damn, Hartley Ridge will be inundated with ghouls again now.”
“Reporters, Conroy,” Tony corrects. “They’re not all bad.”
I grimace. “Sorry, mate. I forgot.” His sister is a journalist for one of Australia’s highest-rating current affairs programs. Shaking my head, I claw my hand through my hair and continue to the bathroom. “See? I’m a wanker, not a hero. I’m not worth anyone’s attention, let alone the media.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, you’re a wanker, but you’re a nice wanker, and you never complain when I ask you to swap shifts, so no apologies needed.”
He’s right. The job is what drives me. Which is why being hounded by photographers and journalists is pissing me off.
A clutch of them turned up at a callout last week.
Kept getting in the way. Hence me taking some leave while I wait for some other poor sap to hook their attention.
Surely some other celebrity somewhere will do something stupid soon, right?
“Anyways,” he continues, a wry note entering his voice, “the point of this call is to fill you in on the Oscar shout-out. Riggs mentioned you’re not one for a lot of TV, so I thought I’d give you a warning, just in case you find a stranger or two lurking around your place.”
With my own wry snort, I enter the bathroom and toe off my running shoes. I hope no one is stupid enough to track me down at my home. Nice wanker or not, I’d lose my temper. “All good, mate. Thanks for the heads up. Appreciate it.”
“Yeah, I know you do.” He laughs again. “Y’know, they wouldn’t hound you like this if you weren’t such a pretty boy. The camera loves you.”
“Ha!” I bark out, turning to look at myself in the bathroom mirror. My ex used to say the same. “Now you sound jealous.”
“Not even close, Conroy.” Another laugh. “Take care up there, okay? If the town gets swarmed with ghouls, I’ll let you know. Unless they’re all cute. Then I’m not telling you shit.”
With a snort, I shake my head. “Later, mate. Keep me posted.”
I disconnect the call, toss my phone onto the counter, strip off, and turn on the cold water. It wouldn’t matter if any of them were steal-your-breath stunning, I’m not in the market.
Right now, all I want is to be ignored. It took me long enough to lick my wounds after discovering it wasn’t me my ex was interested in but the Instagram hits of dating “July” from the Firefighter calendar. Dealing with the public attention now is getting on my last nerve.
God help anyone who comes looking for me.