Flashpoint. Jill Shalvis
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with the job?”
“Besides crazy twelve-hour shifts for the glory of low pay and little or no recognition?” He let out a low laugh, and she found that the butterflies in her belly were dancing to a new tune now. Not nerves, but something far earthier.
“No one mentioned that I’m the seventh temp, or that they’d had any problem filling the position.”
“Did I scare you off?”
“Did you want to?”
He lifted a shoulder, not breaking eye contact. “If you scare easily, then it’d be nice to know now.”
A challenge, and more of that shocking, undeniable sexual zing.
Did he feel it? “I don’t scare at all.”
At that, something new came into his gaze. Approval, which she didn’t need, to go along with that undeniable awareness of her as a woman.
She didn’t need that, either, but damn, it was good to know she wasn’t alone in this. Whatever this was. Since she wasn’t ready to put a finger on it, she forced herself to stop looking at him. “I don’t actually officially start until tomorrow, but the chief suggested that I come by, check the place out.” And, she supposed, meet the crew, who, it sounded like, were tired of meeting people who didn’t stick.
But she’d stick. At least for the six weeks she’d been hired for, because if she was anything, it was reliable.
“Would you like the tour?”
Yes, please, of your body. “No, don’t get up,” she said quickly when he started to do just that. “Really. I’ll manage.”
“Door’s unlocked,” he said, watching her, gaze steady.
“Great. I’ll just…” Try to stop staring at you. Jeez, it’d been too long since she’d had sex. Waaaay too long. “Nice meeting you.”
“How about I say the same if you’re at work tomorrow?”
“I’ll be here.” She might be nearly drunk with lust but she knew that much. She would be there.
“Hope so.” His light eyes held hers for another beat, and more uncomfortable little zings of heat ping-ponged through her.
Whew. Any more of this and she was going to need another application of deodorant this morning. “I will,” she insisted. “I always follow through.” She just didn’t always grow roots. Okay, she never grew roots. Turning away, she let out a long breath and, hopefully, some of the sexual tension with it, and headed toward the door, which stood ajar. “Hello?”
Utter silence, broken only by a gurgling sound. The front room looked like a grown-up version of a frat house, not quite as neat and organized as the garage, but clean. There were two long comfy-looking sofas and several cushy chairs in beach colors that were well lived in. Shelves lined one wall, piled and stacked with a wide assortment of books, magazines and DVDs. On the floor sat a huge basket filled with flip-flops and bottles of suntan lotion. Another wall was lined with hooks, from which hung individual firefighter gear bags.
She could see the kitchen off to the right and a hallway to the left, but still no sign of life, which was odd—they couldn’t all be off on calls, not with the rigs still out front. “Hello?”
Still nothing.
With a shrug, she headed toward the gurgling sound, which took her into the kitchen, and a coffeemaker, making away. “Who’d want coffee on a hot day?” she asked herself.
“A crew who’s been up all night.”
Turning around, she faced sexy firefighter Zach Thomas, and as potent as he’d been lying down, his hotness factor shot up exponentially now that he was standing, even with bed-head—or hammock-head—which was good news for him…and bad news for her.
Letting out a huge yawn, he covered his mouth, then grimaced. “Sorry.”
He looked good even when yawning. She was so screwed. “Don’t be.”
He set down his boots and shirt and stretched. His T-shirt rose, giving her a quick peek at a set of lickable abs. He ran a hand over his hair, which only encouraged the short strands to riot in an effortlessly sexy way that might have been amusing if she hadn’t been in danger of drooling.
She’d never been one to lose it for a guy in uniform, so she had no idea why now was any different, but oh my.
“We had seven calls last night,” he explained. “Fires, an explosion in the sugar factory, a toxic-waste spill at the gas station on Fifth. You name it, we were at it, all night. None of us got more than an hour.” Again he ran his hand over his already-standing-on-end hair. “We’re wiped. Everyone’s sleeping.”
Beneath all that gorgeousness, true exhaustion lined his face, and suddenly Brooke saw him as a flesh-and-blood man. “I’m sorry I woke you. Especially after such a rough night.”
He lifted another shoulder, not anywhere close to how irritated and frustrated she’d be if she’d had only an hour of sleep. “That’s the way this job works. You wanted to meet the crew?”
“I’ll come back.”
“You want coffee first?”
She opened her mouth to say no thanks, but then she saw it in his gaze. His guard coming up. Here he was, overworked, the place obviously short-staffed, and in his eyes, she was just one in a long line of people that had flaked. That would flake. “You know, coffee would be great.”
He turned to the cupboards while she took in the kitchen. The table was huge, with at least twelve chairs scattered around it. On the counter ran a line of mugs the length of the tile. “How many of you are stationed here?”
“We’re on three rotating shifts, with only six firefighters and two EMTs each, which makes us…twenty-four? Down from thirty, thanks to some nasty cutbacks.”
A medium-size station, then, but huge compared to the private ambulance company she’d last worked for, where there’d been only four on at all times.
She’d have to be far more social here than she was used to. The firefighters worked twenty-four-hour shifts to the EMTs’ twelve, but it was still a lot of time together. She told herself that was a bonus, but really it just drove home that, once again, she was the new kid in class.
Zach eased over to the coffeepot. “Black, or jacked up?”
“Jacked up, please.”
He reached for the sugar. Without her permission, her eyes took themselves on a little tour, starting with those wide shoulders, that long, rangy torso, and a set of buns that—
He turned and, oh perfect, caught her staring.
At his butt.
Arching a brow, he leaned back against the counter while she did her best imitation of a ceiling tile. When she couldn’t stand the silence and finally took a peek at him, he was handing her the mug of coffee, his eyes amused.
“Thanks,” she managed.
“You’re not from around here.” He poured another mug for himself.
All her life she hadn’t been “from around here,” so that was nothing new. Getting caught staring at a guy’s ass? That was new. New and very uncomfortable. “Is that a requirement?”
“Ah, and a little defensive,” he said easily. “You look new to Santa Rey, that’s all.”
“And you know that because…?”
“Because of your skin.” Reaching out, he stroked a finger over her cheek, and instantly she felt as if all her happy spots sparked to life. She sucked in a breath.
So did he.
After a pause, he pulled his finger back. “Huh.”