Page 3 of The Pilot’s Good Girl (Praise Me Like Fire #3)

Ruby

This day was supposed to be fun. Light. Sweet. I had plans…real plans. A slow afternoon wandering the little shops in town, a pastry I didn’t have to scarf between bug spray duty and snack prep, and maybe, just maybe, a snow globe to add to my collection.

Instead, I’m here. In a plain, too-white, too-sterile room at the firefighters’ lodge. Smelling faintly of smoke and cheap soap. I was lucky that I had an extra skirt in the back of my car to wear instead of my soaked jeans, but my tank top is still damp and I shiver in the chill of the window AC.

I sit stiffly on the edge of the narrow bed, arms crossed, my damp hair curling against my neck as I glare at the towel draped over the back of the chair.

It’s the third one they gave me. The first two were sacrificed to the cause of drying my seat, my sandals, and, humiliatingly, the inside of my purse.

The nerve of that pilot.

There was no reason to drop the water right there. None. Okay, maybe technically the fire was creeping up toward the road, but he could have approached from a different angle, delayed the drop a second. Flown lower. Higher. Something.

Instead, he did a fireman cannonball over the entire bottleneck of cars.

And I just happened to be in the splash zone.

“They’re claiming equipment malfunction,” I mutter bitterly, twisting the ends of my damp hair. “Please. His aim was dead-on. Not a single drop hit the wrong side of the road. Except, oh right, directly into my open sunroof.”

I sigh and flop back on the bed, glaring at the ceiling like it personally offended me.

My mind conjures up the image of the tiny corner shop with crystal figurines and handmade glass ornaments—where I was headed before this whole misadventure—and I feel my heart break all over again.

I was going to pick the prettiest snow globe on the shelf, and maybe chat with someone in town who doesn’t think healing crystals and chakra-infused trail mix are weird.

Instead, I got drop-kicked by Smokey the Helicopter God.

I grit my teeth. Maybe I should find out who he is. March right up to that firehouse, demand to speak to the guy in charge. They owe me more than a complimentary room and a few towels.

I’m actually halfway through mentally composing a blistering speech—complete with dramatic gestures—when a sharp knock sounds at the door.

I freeze, blinking in surprise.

I know that knock.

Or rather, I know exactly what kind of man knocks like that.

I swing my legs down and march over, still wrapped in frustration and slightly damp dignity. The second I crack open the door—

Oh.

Standing there, framed by the last burnished light of evening, is the most devastatingly attractive man I’ve ever seen.

He’s tall. Broad. Built like his job is to lift mountains and drag them out of danger. He’s still in his fire-resistant gear, soot streaked along the curve of his jaw, the top of his uniform unzipped just enough to hint at muscle and sun-kissed skin.

And he’s holding out a cup of coffee.

“Peace offering,” he says, in a voice that’s deep and rough, like gravel and sin. Husky, like smoke has taken up permanent residence in his lungs.

I stare at him, my brain fuzzing into nothingness.

The coffee. The smirk. The voice.

My resolve weakens.

No. No. I should be furious, and I am furious. That doesn’t change just because he looks like someone who stepped out of the front page of some magazine, right onto my doorstep.

I lift my chin, take a breath, and step back stiffly, leaving the door open. And pointedly ignoring the coffee.

“You might as well come in,” I say coolly, folding my arms over my chest.

If this is going to happen, I’m doing it on my own terms. Even if my heart is suddenly pounding like I’ve run uphill in wet shoes.

He steps inside like he owns the place, his boots thudding quietly against the wooden floor as he crosses the room in slow, casual strides, like he’s not the reason I’m still picking twigs out of my damp hair.

I shut the door behind him and lean against it, arms folded tight across my chest. The coffee’s still in his hand, untouched. And he’s still got that smirk—that infuriatingly sexy smirk that’s doing something funny to my stomach.

It’s like he knows I’m mad, but isn’t bothered.

“Let me guess,” I say, keeping my voice cool. “You’re the one who gave me the world’s most dramatic shower.”

His expression is unreadable, but his eyes glint with a deep, amused spark that gives him away.

“You had your sunroof open,” he says, not even bothering to deny it.

“You dropped a bucket of water on a line of traffic,” I snap, pushing off the door. “Was that part of your training? Soaking civilians for sport?”

His lips twitch. Just slightly. Like he’s trying not to laugh.

Oh, he thinks this is funny.

“Wasn’t exactly the plan,” he says, holding the coffee out again. “Tricky drop zone. Wind shifted.”

I give the cup a single glance and then a long, pointed stare. “You think coffee is going to fix my car? My purse? My clothes?”

“No,” he says, his voice ringing with amusement. “But it might improve your mood.”

My jaw drops slightly. The nerve.

“I’m sorry, did you just say—”

“Name’s Jake, by the way,” he cuts in smoothly. “Jake Pearson.”

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” I ask with a stinky glare.

His grin widens. “No. But you’ll remember it.”

I let out a sharp laugh, partly in disbelief. “Oh, I’ll remember it, alright. You’re the guy who turned my peaceful day off into a soggy disaster.”

Jake just stands there, completely unbothered, looking like a walking fire hazard with that square jaw and the way his arms flex every time he shifts. He finally sets the coffee down on the dresser and turns to face me fully.

“You always this fired up?” he asks, voice low and teasing. “Or is it just me?”

I narrow my eyes. “Do you usually drop your water buckets with that much enthusiasm, or is it just me?”

His gaze flicks down briefly to my damp tank top, still clinging in places it shouldn’t, and then back to my face, eyes glinting with something dark. Something that sends tingles shooting through my body.

“I’m sorry.”

Oh, he looks anything but sorry.

Definitely not sorry.

I shiver slightly, maybe from the cold creeping in, or from the intensity in his striking blue eyes. He’s just standing there, looking at me like I’m some spark he wouldn’t mind letting catch fire.

Snap out of it, Ruby!

“You don’t seem sorry,” I accuse with an exasperated sigh. “You’re not taking this seriously, are you?”

“Oh, I am,” he says, finally ditching the smirk for something…mellow. “Just maybe not in the way you think.”

That heat in his eyes? It’s not polite. It’s not apologetic. It’s flaming with interest. Bold, unapologetic, masculine interest that feels like a hand wrapping around my throat from across the room.

I try to rally. “You know, I was going to report this. File a complaint. Raise hell.”

He steps closer. Just one step, but it’s enough to remind me how much bigger he is. How the air feels tighter when he’s in it.

“You still can,” he says. “But first, maybe take the coffee. Hear the apology. Then decide if you still want to fight me.”

The audacity.

But also…the challenge in his voice makes my stomach twist in a not-unpleasant way.

I square my shoulders. “Oh, I can multitask.”

Jake laughs. It’s a low, gravelly sound that does unspeakable things to my pulse.

“Something tells me you can,” he murmurs.

And damn it, I can’t decide if I want to slap him or kiss him.

Maybe both.