by Anne Marsh
“That bag.” She nodded toward a jute bag in the corner.
“Got it.” He grabbed the bag and strode toward his truck. “Jesus. What are you packing, rocks?”
She choked. Yeah, actually she was. The bag held a collection of sticks, rocks, and leaves that she’d use to make the custom wallpaper prints she flogged on Etsy. Business wasn’t booming, but she had hopes. Big, tall financial pie-in-the-sky hopes. Letting them go up in flames wasn’t happening.
“Seat belt,” he grunted when she got in his truck.
Right. Like she was worried about dying in a car crash? Another ember landed two feet away, and a little flame shot up.
“The grass is on fire,” she volunteered. “Maybe now would be a good time for you to start driving.”
“In a moment.” He handed her two wet towels. “Hold this over your mouth.” He pointed to Vicious. “See if you can do the same for baby doll.”
Then he put the truck into drive, and holy moly, he had a powerful engine. The truck leapt forward, gunning up the road. She slammed a hand against the dash, steadying herself. No wonder he’d recommended a seat belt. She snuck a peak at him.
His face was intent, focused on the road, strong hands gripping the wheel as he guided them over the dirt surface. She bounced as he hit a pothole, her butt slapping the seat.
“You know how to show a girl one hell of a Friday night.” The next bounce drove her breath out of her. Vicious curled up on her feet, whimpering.
He gave her a small grin. “At least I’m taking you home.”
“Right.” She chewed on her lower lip. Nope. No need to tell him that she had nowhere to go. It just figured that she’d end up on a wild truck ride wearing only Monday panties (on a Friday, no less), a man’s flannel shirt, and a wifebeater. Unfortunately, when she checked the side mirror, it became horribly, pressingly clear that her wardrobe limitations weren’t her biggest problem. That honor went to the wall of flame moving down the hill toward them.
Did he realize that they were about to be baked alive in his truck? Because she had to believe he could drive faster. Fly. Levitate. Hell, she’d take any bone Karma chose to toss her at this point.
“Luke?” Shoot. She sounded scared and she hated that.
He took one hand off the wheel—so not his best idea—and squeezed her thigh gently. Her bare thigh. She wasn’t sure he’d even intended to get so personal—based on their track history tonight, the man had terrible aim—but her hormones gave a happy squeal anyway. She should take him home. Make him hers for the night. Or better yet, since she didn’t currently have a place of her own and she didn’t want to think about what might be happening to her Caddy, he could take her to his place and that would kill two birds with one stone.
“We’re good,” he said gruffly.
“I’d feel better if you said that when we didn’t have a twenty-foot wall of flame riding our butts.”
He looked. She’d give him that. “Good thing you weren’t any further down the road,” was all he said.
She gaped at him. “Do I want to know why?”
He removed his hand and put it back on the wheel. “Because then we would have had to shelter in place, and neither of us would have enjoyed that.”
She didn’t want to know. “Tell me later.”
The next ten minutes were the longest of her life. Then the wall of flame filling up the rear view mirror fell away and the temperature in the cab dropped. He slowed down a little as they approached a roadblock. When the cop waved them down, he brought the truck to a stop, which didn’t seem like the best idea because she’d have been happy to gun the motor all the way to Canada or, better yet, someplace on the ocean where there was unlimited water and no raging inferno.
Leaning out, he exchanged a few words with the guy who came up to them. He wore the matching outfit to Luke’s and, if possible, was even larger and rangier-looking. Apparently, “broad shoulders” and “manners fit for a feral wolf pack” were job requirements for the Black Mountain hotshots crew.
“Okay, here’s the deal,” he said, turning to look at her. “I need to get back to work. We’re hoping to stop the fire here.”
He’d brought her to the front lines? What did that make her campsite—Armageddon?
“Take my truck,” he continued. “Go back to Strong.”
She slid him a look. “You’re going to trust me with your keys?”
He shrugged, like it was no big deal. “You need a ride to town. I can’t leave right now, but I can catch a ride back with one of the other hotshots. It’s only logical.”
Trust wasn’t something she had too much of. She was the rule-breaker and the wild child, which generally made people distrust her. They certainly didn’t loan her pickup trucks without first extorting some kind of collateral like a kidney. The feeling was kind of… nice. She thought about that while she shimmied into a pair of yoga pants. When she looked up from sliding her feet into a pair of bedazzled flip-flops, he was staring at her.
“Pants,” he said. “Nice touch.”
She rolled her eyes. “You really trust me with your truck?”
He gave her an unreadable look. “I know you.”
Her lips curved up in a grin, and his eyes dropped to her mouth. That was familiar territory. Her firefighter was more than a little interested in her body. That, or he was remembering where she’d had her mouth the last time they’d met. Memories were a fantastic thing.
“Do you?”
He shrugged again and popped the door to the truck, swinging down effortlessly. While he rummaged in the back for his stuff, she climbed over the gear shift and into the driver’s seat. He had a really nice truck. Vicious promptly hopped up into the spot Deelie had vacated. She hoped he was okay with a little dog hair.
She leaned out the window. “Stop by Ma’s, and I’ll return your keys and buy you a drink.”
The flirtatious smile was automatic. She looked him over while she waited for his answer. God, he was gorgeous. Absolutely beautiful. She didn’t usually go back for seconds, but since she hadn’t really had him, that rule didn’t apply, did it?
Plus she lived to break the rules.
He gave her a small smile. “I don’t drink.”
And wasn’t he just a boy scout? He hadn’t always been that way. “Come by the bar anyhow.”
He nodded and then proceeded to go over where the registration and insurance papers were and the major safety features of the truck. She got it. Don’t speed. Don’t ding it up. Try to avoid firestorms. Shockingly, she was on board with that plan.
Leaning out the window, she blew him a kiss and hit the road.
Then she fishtailed the backend, spitting a little gravel as she hit the gas just because she could. Too bad she couldn’t see his pretty face.
2
Ma’s was hopping. It was Friday night, the place was the only bar in town, and the entire firefighting population had just wrapped off the ten-thousand-acre fire that had swallowed up Deelie’s campground. Luke had blown off steam with the guys many times in the past, celebrating another mission won or—more often—another mission survived. Recognizing that he was alive and mostly in one piece was a good thing, but it wasn’t the reason he was here.
There was only one thing he wanted, and that was Deelie herself. He didn’t think she’d gotten the memo though. He’d have to be clearer. She was cute and a total flirt, but he got the feeling she used her looks as a way of keeping people at a distance.
He pushed open the door and stepped inside. A blast of country music hit him. A line formed out on the teeny tiny square of hardwood that doubled as a dance floor as what seemed like half Strong put their dancing shoes on. He recognized several hotshots from the Black Mountain crew, along with at least half the local smoke-jumping team whooping it up. Since he didn’t dance, he looked around the crowded bar for Deelie.
Working hard, Deelie slung drinks onto a tray. Even from twenty feet away, he could see the cherry-red lines of her bra throug
h the tight T-shirt with the bar’s logo on her chest. She wore a short black skirt and cowboy boots that showed off her long bare legs. She’d piled her hair up on top of her head in sexy, loose curls. The only thing prettier had been the sight of her waking up at the campground, all sleepy-eyed and relaxed. Even better, as soon as she spotted him, she came over. Something warm uncurled inside him.
“Hey, soldier.” For a moment, he thought she’d lean up and plant a kiss on his mouth, but at the last moment she settled for patting him on the chest. Deelie wasn’t predictable. He had no idea what kind of man appealed to her, although clearly she liked variety. She attacked dating with the same kind of glee his sisters pawed through a chocolate box. A bite here, a bite there.
“I guess you came for that drink or something.” She smiled at him, a sexy grin that lit her eyes up with mischief and made his fingers itch to touch her.
“Or something,” he agreed. Christ, she was pretty.
“What’ll it be? We’ve got all the usual frozen things—piña coladas, margaritas—but Mimi has some excellent single-malt whiskeys. I’m guessing that’s more your kind of thing.”
It had been, right after he’d landed stateside after his last tour. Hanging out with the guys, knocking back a few beers, had become a few Jack and Cokes, a little whiskey to put him out at night because the nightmares sucked. He’d come home, but his head had stayed behind in Afghanistan. A few had become more, and the more had changed into many.
“I don’t drink.”
“Bad night last night?” She nodded sagely. “Mimi has some awesome hangover cures.”
“I don’t drink anymore. Ever. I did too much of that after my last tour of duty, and it needed to stop.”
“So you stopped.”
He had no idea how to interpret the look on her face, but thank Jesus, it didn’t look like pity. He’d had more pity tossed his way than he cared to remember.
Sobering up had been harder than he liked to admit.
“Do you do meetings?” The question was one hundred percent genuine curiosity. She’d probably met every kind of alcoholic working here. No judgment though, which he appreciated. He’d made plenty of mistakes, but he should have known better than to pickle himself in whiskey. He’d done high school health class—and he’d seen his fellow SEALs make the same mistake of drinking too much in too many bars.
“Sometimes,” he said, and she nodded.
“We have soda,” she said after a pause.
“That works.”
She brought him the soda—with a pink-and-white umbrella and four bonus neon-red cherries—but then she got back to work. He watched her for the next hour, making plans. At some point, she’d take a break, and then he’d be ready. He had no idea for what, but he’d be ready. Having a good plan was essential.
Eventually, she hollered something about taking her break over to Mimi, who was working the bar. The redhead nodded, and then Deelie laid in a course for him. Of course, she didn’t sit down in his booth. Nope. She planted herself right on his lap.
“Hi,” she said, grinning at him. She clearly didn’t have an inhibited bone in her body, and he loved that about her. “Can I convince you to take me out to my car tomorrow?”
He had a bad feeling about her car, but if nothing else, he could get her to the spot and help her get the insurance going. “Sure. I’m off tomorrow. Are you free?”
She patted his chest. “I can be for you.”
Damned if he could tell if she meant her playful words, if flirting was simply a habit, or if it was part of the armor she wore for the world. He’d heard plenty of stories about Deelie when they’d been in high school, but it had been hard to make that talk jive with his memory of their night by the waterfall and skinny-dipping. That was a good memory, one of his best right up until the moment when she’d walked away from him. When he was around Deelie, he liked how he felt. She made him feel… right.
And it was probably wrong to go after her. He was a former SEAL and no prize. His head wasn’t screwed on straight and liked to take unpleasant detours down some real ugly memory lanes. He’d never been a Boy Scout, Captain America, or any kind of hero. Deelie deserved the best, and he knew that even as he wrapped an arm around her. If she wanted to get close again, he’d take whatever she offered and push for more.
~*~
Luke Dawson made one hot firefighter. The years had been kind to him. Where she’d gotten softer on the outside—and harder on the inside, a small voice said—he’d just gotten tougher in the sexiest possible way. Faint lines from squinting into the sun or laughing fanned out from the corner of his eyes, and from there it was a short delicious drop to the rough stubble on his jaw. The hands on her waist were banged up, nicked, and scarred. He’d left Strong, been places, and done important stuff, and he wore those memories on his body.
Funny how she liked everything about him.
Of course, the man was only here at Ma’s because he needed his car keys back. As long as she had those, he was all hers, and she wasn’t in any rush to let him go. He was like a bag of chips that she’d regret in the morning but that she absolutely, positively needed to devour now.
“You want to dance?” She really should get off his lap, because she was tempted to scoot closer, park her butt right over his crotch, and find out if he was as turned on by their proximity as she was. On the other hand, on the off chance that he wasn’t, she really didn’t want to know. She’d enjoy her hot firefighter SEAL fantasy without a dose of reality, thank you very much.
“I’m not much of a dancer,” he said, his voice a low, rough growl. She could probably come if he recited the alphabet in bed. Or maybe he’d be up for reading aloud from some of her favorite books. She could definitely go for that.
“Deelie?” He sounded amused. Right. She was stuck in fantasyland.
“Come on.” She jumped off his lap and grabbed his hand. His palms were callused, probably from all that digging he did on the fire lines, brushing against her skin with an intensity that was unexpectedly erotic. Plus, bonus, he held on, didn’t pull away or leave his fingers loose in hers. Great. That was commitment enough.
“I promise you’ll have a good time,” she said and towed him toward the crowded dance floor. She loved dancing, always had. She’d cheered in high school and had been on the dance team. On a good day, if she inhaled and held her breath, she could even still squeeze into the uniform.
His mouth brushed his ear. “I’m not worried about me, but I’d hate to put you off by my lack of dance skills.”
“It wouldn’t be fair if you were perfect.” She grinned up at him.
A new line was already forming, and she maneuvered him into the middle. There was no point in dancing on the edge, not when they could be front and center. As soon as the music started, she lost herself to the beat and the rhythm. She loved this, loved feeling like part of the group, the way the line took off, everyone moving together. Luke danced beside her, following her lead, and she’d bet this dance floor it was the first and last time he’d let her be in charge.
Not that he was actually much of a dancer. Ma’s offered line dancing, which wasn’t all that hard, provided a person could move in a relatively straight line and copycat the other dancers. Luke did so methodically, his movements holding strength and confidence, but not an ounce of rhythm. If the apocalypse started while they were at Ma’s, he’d be able to singlehandedly decimate a flood of zombies while she hightailed it to safety, but he definitely would be the first guy eliminated on Dancing with the Stars.
She only had twenty minutes, so she’d make the most of it. Not that her boss, Mimi, would mind if she took twenty-two minutes or even an entire hour, but the place was packed and there was only one other server working that night. The girls would be run off their feet if Deelie didn’t pull her weight. Plus if she didn’t work, she didn’t earn tips, and her checking account was on its last gasp.
She could afford five more minutes. Luke’s hand rested on her waist as the
song came to an end, the heavy weight almost possessive. His fingertips stroked back and forth, working their way beneath the hem of her T-shirt.
His mouth brushed her ear. “Happy?”
Especially if you do that again. She shivered, wondering if she really wanted to go for the sexual repeat with Luke. Yeah, she decided. She did. It got old being alone, and she didn’t think he’d mind either. It wasn’t like she could take him back to her place—since she didn’t have one at the moment. She was couch surfing until she could get back to her car. Plus without her car, her Etsy business was going to be in the toilet. She needed to be able to get to the post office to mail her handmade wallpapers.
“You bet.” She pulled him outside and headed across the parking lot. “Your truck’s parked right over there. Follow me, soldier, and I’ll give you what you came for.”
~*~
“Sailor,” he muttered, wondering how he’d lost control of the conversation so fast. “US Navy SEALs belong to the Navy. That makes us sailors, not soldiers.”
“Uh-huh.” She bounced along by his side, her shoulder bumping his with each step she took. Since she’d been walking for a few years, he figured the touch wasn’t accidental. He could feel the warmth of her, smell the strawberry of her shampoo. Too bad the parking lot was only about a hundred yards long, because he’d have been happy to walk to China and back with Deelie.
“Safe and sound.” She patted the side of the truck and then opened the driver-side door (having apparently skipped his lock-the-truck-up instructions), hopped up, and stared down assessingly at him. She looked good in his truck. He caught a flash of something in her eyes, but then she patted the wide seat. “I’ve got an excellent imagination, fifteen minutes left of my break, and a spot with your name on it.”
Except… that wasn’t the seat she was pointing to. He closed his mouth. Deelie just wanted to rile him up, and she was doing an outstanding job, because the way she rubbed a finger down her front, over her stomach, and the top of her pussy got him hotter than any forest fire ever had.
