by Nicole Snow
“Can you see the town from where you are?” he asks.
I turn slowly, scanning. Just sky, forest, road, and a break in the trees, but no lights of the town. “Nope.”
“What can you see?”
I step closer to the edge of the trees, pulling my thickly felted peacoat tighter, my breaths icy on my tongue and puffing out in front of me. I squint through the narrow trunks, the spindly leafless branches.
“Through the trees...there’s a valley.” I squint, looking down at dry slopes of red earth dotted with half-dead scrub and a dark chunk of rocky slope with what looks like the remnants of a pretty big building in front of it. “And what looks like some old, damaged abandoned place. Ruins?”
“Paradise Hotel. Gotcha. Direction?” he barks.
That I can answer a bit more confidently, looking up and scanning the sky. The North Star twinkles just bright past the building clouds that are gathering way too fast for my liking. But it’s still there, brilliant and white against the deep blue.
“East,” I say.
“Any other nearby landmarks?”
I rack my brain, trying to remember the things I’d passed by in the shadows. “Yeah, think I passed a hunting shack on the side of the road, about a mile and a half back?”
“I know where you are.” I can hear rapid movement both on the radio and over the phone, and on the line he goes a little distant with a murmur. “Take over, Mario. I’m heading out.”
Then his voice growls stronger again, aimed at me. “Stay put, lady. I’m coming. Keep your distance from the vehicle in case a gas line catches.”
I nod as if he can see me.
Then curse myself for being an idiot.
I bite my lip, stuffing the hand not holding my cell into my pocket, curling it together for warmth. I hadn’t brought gloves since I hadn’t expected to be outside. “Blake? That’s your name, right?”
There’s a pause, then an oddly quiet, “...Yep. How’d you know?”
I smile faintly. “I was listening to you on the radio before my van went boom. I just...I think it’s going to start snowing soon.”
Another long silence passes before his crisp tone gentles. His voice is so expressive, and I get why anyone in town would tune in to listen to him. It’s like he can lead you with his voice, this slow, rolling cadence of baritone roughness that wraps you up like velvet and carries you in and out of whatever feeling infuses those rich words.
I’m a music nerd; it’s in my bones.
And his voice is like music, even when he says something as simple as, “What’s your name?”
“Peace,” I answer. “Peace Rabe.”
He lets out a soft, husky laugh, and something tightens in my chest. “Rabe? Like a rabe of broccoli?”
“Don’t,” I groan around a laugh. “I had to deal with that in high school.”
“Okay, Little Miss Broccoli. I won’t.”
“You just did.”
“Maybe,” he says, and my gut clutches up at the soft edge in that single word, almost like a sigh. “But you’re not worrying about the snow anymore, are ya?” He stops, then adds gently, “You’re gonna be okay, Peace. I’m on the way.”
“Okay, Blake,” I answer, and even though I’m so cold my toes feel like frozen nubs, I’m freaky warm all over, too. “I’ll be waiting.”
The line goes dead.
I pull the phone back and stare at the screen, running my tongue over my teeth, pulling my collar up around my mouth and nose to trap in the warmth of my breath.
My chest’s all fluttery as I listen to the last murmur of Blake’s voice on the radio. He says something unintelligible before he fades out. The other man’s voice takes over, laughing.
I guess help’s on the way.
And I shouldn’t be hoping the man coming to rescue me is as intense as that rolling, lyrical, perfect lion voice.
Oh, God.
So he’s not just intense.
He’s...
No.
Nope.
Nada.
I totally shouldn’t be staring at the tall man climbing out of the fire truck the way I am. Not when I’m so cold I feel like I must be blue from head to toe, and it’s starting to make me feel sick to my stomach.
Maybe I’m just light-headed from impending hypothermia.
I think I could live with that excuse for this indecent freaking gawking.
It must be the real reason why I can’t take my eyes off Blake as he and two other men swing down from the fire truck with lithe, easy movements, strength in every line of them, their fire-retardant coveralls sitting on their frames with rakish ease, outlining their every movement.
I don’t know how I’m sure the man with the dark rusty-brown hair must be Blake.
One of them, handsome with a thick head of black Grecian curls, seems far too young to go with that voice. The other guy, sandy-haired and serious-looking and old enough to be my dad, just...doesn’t fit.
But the tall man with the thick, gruff beard and the streaks of silver in his hair, with the blue eyes so dark they make the night look bright, with the brisk moves and the quiet confidence in every step...
That’s got to be him.
That’s so Blake.
He’s out here with his coveralls rolled down around his waist and tied, his tight black t-shirt straining against his chest, his biceps bulging in hard knots. He roars something to his men.
They swing into action—hauling the heavy hose down from the side of the truck like it weighs nothing, turning the watery blast on the hood of my van. I guess it’s a good thing it’s a small fire. That heavy jet of hissing water has to come out of the truck’s reserves instead of a hydrant, but honestly I’m not thinking about logistics right now.
I’m listening to Blake’s voice—calm, commanding, rough—as he directs his men to douse my poor rickety van until the fire simmers down into damp smoke, and sad, quiet metal.
It’s almost like I’m not even here.
He’s so focused on what he’s doing. Exactly why I nearly jump out of my skin when he turns his head.
And those dark-blue eyes lock right on, capturing me in their hold like beaming spotlights.
The red and gold flashing emergency lights of the truck play over his profile, highlighting how weathered his tanned skin is.
Lines of age and maybe frowns, maybe laughter, trace wild history around his mouth, his eyes. He’s got cheekbones for days, a mouth like a cruel kiss, and his pulse ticks in stark highlight against his strong, firm throat as the light glides over him.
Oh. My. God.
He’s grimmer than I expected.
Harder.
An absolute stone of a man.
That softness I’d heard in his voice isn’t there in his face. Almost like his body’s a granite vault for holding the gentleness hidden away inside.
Why, Blake? I can’t help wondering.
But I think I get a little hint of an answer as he turns, striding toward me.
He moves like a man who knows how powerful he is.
Slow and controlled, smooth ripples of chiseled musculature trailing down from broad shoulders, over the sweat-darkened pull of pecs against his clinging black shirt. The tight line of his abs and narrow hips switch in a rhythm that’s as sensuous as a hunting panther’s slink.
But he also moves like a man who knows what hell is.
Somehow, I don’t think it’s just firefighting that taught him.
He’s favoring his left leg. Some kind of injury, the kind of walk that says he’s learned how to hide it, but he can’t always keep it down.
His strength fights against his own weight. He’s built to support that wall of a body, but every ounce of well-crafted muscle is also another ounce of pressure crushing down on the invisible wound, making him list just slightly to the left with every stride.
I probably wouldn’t notice if I wasn’t used to searching for pain.
That’s what massage therapists do.
Learn people’s pain, so they can tame it and chase it away.
But he’s stoic, withdrawn, as he stops in front of me, scanning my body with a critical eye that makes me feel kind of like one of those dummies they teach you first aid on.
Eep. So much for all those flutters. My butterflies just iced over.
“You Peace?” he growls.
I smile faintly, pulling my frozen fingers from my pocket to wiggle them at him in a little wave. “Only person out here with a burning wreck. Blake, right?”
He only grunts, giving me another one of those looks. “You’re not hurt?”
“No.” I shake my head. “I jumped out and got away as soon as I had the van parked on the side of the road. I’m just cold.”
“Lucky it’s not quite cold enough tonight for hypothermia, but you’ll still catch a chill.”
He takes a step back then, retreating to the fire truck, and digs out one of those massive, thick fire jackets from a side compartment. It’s deep grey with reflective yellow and orange bands on the sleeves and back.
Slowly, he returns to me and swings it around my shoulders.
For a moment, I’m almost wrapped up in his arms. He reaches around me to pull the jacket tight, draping it over my shoulders and then drawing it in to bundle me up.
Now, my butterflies are thawed.
And it’s definitely not the jacket leaving my face so hot my ears burn against the cold, the contrast bordering on painful.
Oh, no.
Why did he have to be so...so...
That.
All of that, including the faint whiff of cologne and Goliath I get as he straightens, still looking at me with this fierce, unmovable gaze.
“Thanks,” I say faintly, curling my fingers in the jacket, drawing it closer. “For coming out here.”
“It’s my job.”
“Right.” I’m really playing it smooth here.
So I bite my lip, searching for something to say, then glance past him at the other two men who have shut the hose off and lifted the hood of my van to see inside. “You doused it out fast. I’m a little amazed. It’s not every day I see—”
“A dude with a leg as fucked as mine doin’ this kind of work?” he cuts me off. “Heard it a thousand times, darlin’.”
Oh, crap city!
Wrong tack.
Absolutely the wrong tack.
He can’t possibly think I meant—
Ugh. He caught me staring like a deer in the headlights.
I realize it the instant his eyes go practically black, savage and dark, and his mouth tightens. There’s no other hint I’ve hit the wrong button, but it’s enough when the air around us drops a hundred degrees as he turns away, giving me his broad back.
The lines of his shoulders, his trapezius, are so tense.
Like he’s carrying boulders around inside him.
“Blake, I’m sorry,” I fumble out. “I didn’t mean—”
“Forget it. Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says flatly, and that empty, detached voice sounds nothing like the gentle man who’d reassured me over the phone.
He stalks over to my van, reaches in the open driver’s side window, and snaps off the radio that’s been babbling in the background the entire time.
I trail after him.
I feel lost, unsure what to say. This is definitely in the top ten most surreal nights of my life.
“Hey, I’m sorry,” I offer again to his back. “I wasn’t trying to be rude or nosy. I’m just—you know, I’m a massage therapist and—”
“I heard about you!” One of the other men—the one with the mess of dark Grecian curls—looks up from under the hood with a grin. “You set up shop at the inn, right? Trying to get the snowbird crowd?”
I smile slightly. “Yep. Figured if I was going to put down roots for winter, settling in with the tourists wouldn’t be a bad way to make a living.”
He laughs, straightening and pulling one of his big bulky gloves off to offer me his hand. “Not just the tourists. We get more stress in this town than we have any right to. Hell, we’ve probably got collective PTSD by now after all that Galentron—”
“Justin,” Blake growls, snapping a look at him, dark with warning.
“Sorry, Chief.” Justin winces, but he keeps grinning, his big hand still outstretched. “I’m being unprofessional.”
“It’s fine.” I shake his hand, quickly and warmly. “I’m not real big on professional. Most hippie kids aren’t.”
“Figured you had some punk in you. Nice hair, by the way.”
He’s talking about the ombre purple tips dyed in my hair. Most people usually are. It gets me looks in small towns like this, but I’m used to it and don’t mind when it’s a good icebreaker.
I smile at Justin. “Thanks, dude.”
Then his grin broadens.
“Hey, you mind if I snap a few photos? I like keeping albums, and uh...this is my first burning van in the middle of the night around these parts. It’s not too far from the old Paradise Hotel ruins, might even be able to get them in the same shot off in the distance...”
Hotel ruins? Hmm.
I groan out a laugh but wave toward the van. “Knock yourself out. Just promise you’ll send me the pics for insurance purposes. I’ll even trade you a massage.”
Justin laughs, already pulling his other glove off and fishing in his pocket for his phone.
While Justin lines up shots on his screen, the flash snapping in sharp bursts over the night, I glance at Blake.
He’s ducked under the hood of the van, glaring, but he doesn’t really look like he’s seeing much of anything. I shuffle my feet together.
“So, if anybody on the fire crew wants to stop by, I’m happy to give a big discount for my daring rescuers.”
Blake might as well not have even heard me.
Justin perks, saying, “Yeah? Sweet.”
Meanwhile, the other guy, the sandy-haired one, lifts his head, his expression clearing to focus on me.
“What kind of discount do you give for vehicle repairs?”
I laugh. “Why? Think you can get me a lower rate?”
“I’m only a part-timer on the fire crew. Rest of the time I work at Mitch’s Autobody.” He grins. “Just ask for Rich.”
“Will do.”
For some reason, that seems to get under Blake’s skin.
His shoulders ripple, and his hands go hard against the edge of the hood, knuckles ridged. He pushes himself up, flinging me a look. “Get anything you need out of your van. We’ll give you a lift back to town and send a tow truck for the van in the morning.”
I blink.
I don’t know why I feel so oddly deflated.
Maybe because for a few seconds I’d built up a schoolgirl fantasy around that coaxing, growling voice, the feelies it gave me, wondering how it might feel to have that voice purring against my ear, sweet and dark and jagged.
Meh.
Gruff Jerk: 1.
Lonely Girl: 0.
You win this round, Blake.
My name may be Peace, but I don’t go down without a fight.
If Mr. Snarly-saurus doesn’t want to play, it’s his loss.
I’m less thinking about fighting and more about sleep by the time I dig my stuff out of my van.
I keep a lot of supplies in there since I often use my van to travel to clients, instead of them coming to me. Justin, Rich, and Blake help, though. It’s a pretty weird look with my folding tables and gear and crates of massage oils stacked on the back of the fire truck by the ladders, but it works.
No obvious smoke damage to my stuff, thank gawd.
The whole time Rich and Justin gab at each other and me, warm and friendly and joking, and it’s not hard to tell they’re trying to make sure I stay calm.
Blake, on the other hand, is completely silent.
It feels almost like he’s trying to disappear.
But I can’t help watching him.
Except for the one
time he catches my eye, I linger on the way his limp grows deeper while he hauls my stuff, and a pang of guilt builds inside me when it’s my fault he’s out here hauling my junk.
Another dark flash goes through his gaze again, as if I’d done something wrong by seeing his weakness, and I look away quickly.
It’s not hard to see he’s one of those men who builds walls out of pride.
It’s only my own pride that keeps me awake, though, as the three men bundle me into the front cab of the fire truck. Good thing I’m small, or it’d be a snug fit with all of us.
Rich has me sandwiched up against the door, and it’s hard for me not to fall asleep against his warmth while the cab’s heater melts the icicles under my skin. He kind of reminds me of my dad, especially when he talks about getting home to read his kids a bedtime story, words traded in murmurs with Justin while they leave me to drowse.
It’s like they’re a sandwich of good company, caught between the silence of me against one door and Blake behind the wheel.
But it’s kind of endearing.
Honestly, it’s the first time I feel like I’m close to a group like family, ever since I cast myself into the wind.
I’m nice and toasty, almost asleep, by the time the fire truck pulls up outside the Charming Inn—this quaint touristy spot I really love—with its white-columned plantation house for the main hotel and a field full of cottages leading off to the gorgeous cliff-front views.
I perk up as the fire truck eases to a halt, the engine still running, all three men looking at me in silent question.
“That way,” I say, pointing to a side lane that runs along the fence enclosing one side of the property. “I’m staying in one of the cottages back there. I don’t want to wake anybody up at the main house. I think the owners have a kid.”
“Warren and Haley,” Blake grunts softly. “They’ll have just put their kids down.”
Oh.
Oh, no.
I don’t know how I developed a crush this hard, this fast.
Maybe it’s damsel in distress syndrome.
But there’s that tick of warm, husky affection in his voice when he says Warren and Haley.
