Plain Jane and The Hotshot. Meagan McKinney
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“When you decide to freeze out a man, make sure your shirt’s not wet, because you sure don’t look cold to me.”
Her gaze shot to her chest. Her nipples were like hard buds, completely outlined in the sheer white fabric of her clinging shirt.
In shock, she lost her grip on the heavy water jug. It bounced and poured over her feet while she crossed her arms over her chest in a lame attempt to cover herself.
He laughed out loud.
Furious, she picked up the half-empty jug and made to head for camp. She would just have to make two trips for water. And it would be worth it, because the next trip was definitely not going to include meeting him.
“Hey, come back,” he taunted. “I like a challenge.”
“Then stick to fighting fires because I’m not a challenge—I’m a zero possibility where you’re c-concerned,” she stammered, her teeth gnashing and chattering at the same time.
That goading twist of his mouth was back.
“Now that’s a sure-nuff challenge!” he volleyed.
“No,” she tossed right back, “it’s advance notice to try elsewhere.”
“I’m glad we had this friendly little chat,” he shouted at her retreating back. “And you know what? I still feel the challenge in spite of your generous peep show!”
She almost spit she was so mad.
She hadn’t spent five minutes with the man, and she couldn’t remember being this undone.
So much for controlled and dignified academics.
Three
Jo noticed little of the waning day’s beauty on her way back to the summit campground, for she was too preoccupied with angry resentment directed at Nick Kramer.
Big deal, so he was a smoke jumper—a “Hotshot,” at that. He figured women would be all over him, and perhaps they were.
Her brow furrowed. She didn’t need this. She was still licking her wounds over Ned. It rankled her that she’d even noticed Nick Kramer—and his incredibly piercing eyes and his big athletic body.
His sexy voice, too.
She frowned.
She might as well admit it: she was angrier at herself than at him. At least she was self-aware. Being brutally honest with oneself in the company of the opposite sex was the only way to stay sane, and most of all, safe. And more than anything, she was determined to stay safe.
Her thoughts unwillingly jogged back to Nick. He wasn’t vain but he sure was arrogant. Couldn’t he have faked just a little humility? She felt her own mouth twist cynically. No, he’d probably scored so often he didn’t need it. He struck her as the type who considered himself God’s gift to women.
Just like back there at the pump—he acted as though he was doing her a favor by hitting on her.
The water container was heavy, and the return to camp uphill. She arrived back at the cabins out of breath, wet and out of sorts.
“There’s our water girl,” called Dottie, who had gotten a fire started in the outdoor oven and grill at the center of the clearing. “We were starting to think maybe you skedaddled with that smoke jumper.”
Hazel, busy untangling a length of fishing line, glanced at Jo and immediately recognized the turmoil she was in.
“Here, let me wrangle that, hon,” Hazel offered, and the seventy-five-year-old startled Jo by carrying the water container easily with one strong arm.
“We were just kidding,” Hazel added for her ears only, “about you meeting up with Nick Kramer.”
“Meeting up? Huh! I think the creep followed me to the pump.”
“Creep?” Hazel repeated the word as if it was foreign to her. “Girl, either you need glasses or I do. If he was any better-looking, he’d be a traffic hazard. Here you go, chef.”
She plunked the water down near the fire.
“Where’s everybody else?” Jo asked, glancing quickly around.
As she spoke, Kayla emerged from the younger women’s cabin, carrying a shiny little vinyl shower kit and a fluffy pink towel. She crossed to the big water container and began filling an empty plastic milk bottle, slopping water all over the ground.
“Go easy on that,” Dottie snapped. “Jo didn’t haul it up here so you could pour it on the ground.”
“It’s only water,” Kayla pouted. “Jo, you don’t mind if I take a little, do you?”
“Knock yourself out,” Jo replied, totally uninterested in a clash with Kayla—the conflict with Nick Kramer had been enough for one day.
Dottie noticed Jo’s frown and sent her a sympathetic smile as Kayla walked away. “I know you must be wondering why I brought Kayla. It’s a crying shame, but she deliberately acts dumber than she is because she thinks men find it attractive.”
“She’s right—plenty do,” Hazel cut in. “Hell, I love cowboys, but most of mine care only about boobs, not brains. They get nervous real quick when a gal mentions a book she’s read.”
“Well, anyhow,” Dottie said, “Kayla doesn’t mean to come off as irritating. At heart she’s really a sweet and friendly girl. It’s just that she’s insecure. She works hard to keep all eyes on her. It didn’t sit well to see that gaze go your way.”
“If you mean Nick Kramer’s gaze, believe me, she can have him. I’m not playing the dating game anymore,” Jo said.
“I certainly would be if I were your age,” Hazel assured her. “He’s the bee’s knees, all right.”
“He’s horny, that’s all,” Jo stated bluntly.
“Horny as a funeral in New Orleans, most likely,” Hazel agreed. “So are you, but you won’t admit it.”
Jo flushed.
“Besides,” Hazel went on, “that’s not all. Give the man some credit. He does an incredibly dangerous job that has to be done. He’s not stupid. He knows he can get laid. But I think he actually likes you, Jo.”
“What makes you possibly think that?” Jo asked, incredulous.
“My gosh, hon, it would be obvious to a blind man. The guy’s eyes lit up the moment he saw you.”
“And why not?” Dottie demanded. “A looker like you, he’s just being honest.”
Right, thought Jo, honest—just like Ned Wilson, who praised her looks so much it embarrassed her. But what good was it to be called attractive by men who cared about nothing else but sexual gratification? Men who lied to get what they wanted, then returned to their families or took off for parts unknown? Her answer from now on was always going to be, “No thanks.”
Jo mustered a mechanical smile.
Both older women were only being nice. But no matter how right she knew Hazel was, colorings of insecurity—even of inferiority—often tinged even Jo’s brightest moods.
Plucky but pathetic—that’s how she felt when she tried to act confident. Ever since Ned, trying to start over made her feel like a gunshot victim trying to whistle past a shooting range.
“Well, guess I’ll finish unpacking,” she said, mainly to end the awkward silence. Both older women watched her cross the clearing.
Dottie, who had known Hazel for seven decades, suddenly grinned.
“I’ve seen that look in your eye before, Hazel McCallum. What are you up to now?”
“Who, me?” Hazel feigned the innocence of a cherub. “I’m just happy for Jo, that’s