Page 2 of The Blaze Between Us

I know these facts not because I'm a stalker, but because Ellie talks about her father constantly. The hero worship in her voice whenever she mentions him is evident.

"My dad says..." is how she starts at least a quarter of her sentences. I've learned about Brock through her stories, through the photos she's shared, through the occasional background appearance in her video calls.

The distant sound of tires on gravel yanks me from my thoughts. A dark blue pickup truck appears at the end of the long driveway, dust billowing behind it as it approaches. I stand, wiping suddenly damp palms on my shorts, and try to remember how normal human beings compose themselves.

The truck pulls to a stop, and the engine cuts off. For one terrifying moment, I consider hiding in the bushes. Then the driver's door opens, and a pair of well-worn work boots hit the ground.

My heart skips a beat as Brock Sullivan unfolds himself from the truck.

The photos didn't do him justice.

He's tall—taller than I imagined—with broad shoulders that fill out his simple gray t-shirt in a way that should be illegal. His dark hair has more silver at the temples than in Ellie's most recent photos, and the stubble along his strong jawline catches the late afternoon sunlight. He moves with the easy confidence of a man accustomed to command, to being respected.

As he walks toward me, I notice the slight crinkles around his eyes—laugh lines that somehow make him even more attractive. His expression is polite but reserved, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"You must be Tasha," he says when he reaches the bottom of the porch steps, and oh god, his voice. Deep and warm with just a hint of roughness around the edges.

I realize I've been staring silently for far too long.

"Hi," I manage, mentally kicking myself for the breathless quality of my voice. "Yes, that's me. Tasha. Ellie's friend. From college. You must be Chief Sullivan. Thanks for coming to my rescue."

So much for being normal.

Chapter 2 - Brock

I've rescued people from burning buildings, pulled drivers from wrecked cars, and once even saved a litter of puppies from a storm drain. But standing at the bottom of these porch steps, looking up at the woman who just introduced herself as my daughter's best friend, I'm suddenly feeling completely unprepared for this particular rescue mission.

"Chief Sullivan is a bit formal," I manage to say, grateful that decades of emergency response have trained me to speak even when my brain temporarily shorts out. "Brock is fine."

She's not what I expected.

Ellie has mentioned Tasha countless times over the years—her brilliant accounting major friend, her confidante, the level-headed one who kept her from making some questionable college decisions. I've seen her in photos, of course, usually blurry group shots where she's partially obscured or squished between other students at parties or graduation. Nothing that prepared me for... this.

She stands at the top of the porch steps, backlit by the late afternoon sun, which creates a golden halo around her curls. She's wearing hiking clothes—practical shorts and a simple tank top—but there's nothing simple about the way they fit her. Her ample curves are the kind that would make Renaissance painters weep, all soft, feminine perfection that my hands itch to—

I clear my throat, cutting off that dangerous train of thought. "Ellie said you locked yourself out?"

"Yes," she says, "It's completely embarrassing. I went hiking and must have lost the key somewhere on the trail." She runs her hand through her hair, "Thank you for coming to my rescue."

"No problem at all." I climb the first step, then pause, suddenly aware of how small the porch is, how close we'll be when I reach the top. "I keep spares for all the rentals. Just part of the job."

"Still, I appreciate it. I was having visions of sleeping on the porch with melting ice cream for dinner."

I smile at that and climb another step. "Can't have that. Ice cream should be enjoyed properly frozen."

That earns me a laugh. I've spent years not reacting to women—not since Claire died. Sure, I've dated occasionally, had a few pleasant but forgettable relationships that Ellie barely even registered. But nothing that made me feel like this, like I'm suddenly twenty years younger and experiencing attraction for the first time.

I reach the top step and now we're standing just a few feet apart. Up close, her eyes are even more striking—a warm amber color with flecks of gold that catch the light. Her lips are full, slightly parted, and I force myself to look away before I start imagining how they might feel against mine.

"I brought the master set," I say, fishing the key ring from my pocket. "I’ll get you back inside quickly."

I move toward the door, grateful for the excuse to put some distance between us. My body is reacting in ways that are entirely inappropriate given who she is.

Twenty-something. My daughter's best friend. A visitor I'm supposed to be helping, not mentally undressing.

The lock turns easily, and I push the door open, stepping back to let her enter first. "There you go."

"My hero," she says with a smile that's likely meant to be playful, but has me wondering how she must look like when she’s moani... I need to stop.

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