Page 10 of Ignited By My Mate

Harris is already waiting by his truck.

He looks… edible.

Fitted jeans. A dark button-down that stretches slightly across his broad chest. His hair freshly tousled like he ran his fingers through it a hundred times while pacing.

He takes one look at me and freezes like he did last night, his golden eyes dragging down my body so slowly it makes my skin tingle. “You look”—his voice is hoarse—“incredible.”

My cheeks heat, but I smile. “Thanks. You don’t look too bad yourself.”

He opens the truck door for me, and when our fingers brush, something sparks between us—hot and electric, like static and sunshine and a little bit of danger. My heart races, and I try to breathe past the way my body seems to come alive around him.

I enjoy the scenery as we make the short drive to his cabin. “It’s lovely here. I bet there’s never any traffic here,” I say, hearing the wistful note in my voice.

“Nope, never. You thinking about moving?” he asks with a hopeful smirk.

“I can’t. You know my job is back in New York.”

Harris nods. “That’s right. Marketing executive. Sounds fancy.”

“It’s not,” I assure him as he opens the front door and waves for me to go in ahead of him.

“You don’t like it?”

“It’s fine. It pays the bills, and I’m good at it. I like being creative.”

His house is just as I remember: crisp white walls and dark hardwood floors. A comfy-looking sectional couch curves along the living room wall, and a large TV hangs above the fireplace.

I smile as I take in the wooden carved creatures and photos lining the mantle. “I love your place. It’s very inviting.”

“Thanks,” he says as he leads me into the kitchen. “What’s your place in New York like?”

“Small. Cramped. Bare.”

“Really? You haven’t decorated?” he asks, sounding surprised.

“No. I rent, and it seems like they raise the price every few years, so I move somewhere else. I painted the first apartment, but then it became a headache. I was so busy with work and climbing the corporate ladder. I don’t know; there just never seemed to be time.”

“I get that,” Harris says as he opens the oven door to check on our dinner.

“That smells so good,” I say, changing the subject.

“Thanks. I hope you like roast chicken and vegetables.”

“Love them. You’re spoiling me with these amazing meals.”

I watch him move around the kitchen. It’s obvious he’s used to cooking, and I briefly wonder if his parents taught him. I picture a younger Harris helping his mom make dinner in the kitchen.

“Who taught you to cook?” I ask as I sit on a barstool and kick off my shoes.

“The old chief at the station. Everyone at the firehouse takes turns cooking dinner or lunch, so I’ve had a lot of practice.”

“I bet. Did you cook with your parents?”

“Fuck, no,” he says, shaking his head. “No, my parents were… busy. Too busy to teach me things like that.”

“Oh.”

“They were under a lot of pressure. Made some bad choices. Got in a lot of debt so they were always working, struggling to pay it back.”

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