Page 14 of The Smokejumper's Lady
The cabin is small. One room. A table, a kitchenette tucked in the corner, a couch. A window that barely lets in any light, and a door that looks like it leads to a tiny bathroom. And a bed.
One bed.
Ryan ushers me in, and the second I step inside, he pushes the door shut behind me, caging me against it with his body. His mouth crashes onto mine before I can even speak.
Hot. Hungry. Desperate.
I melt into him, my fingers digging into his shoulders as his hands roam my waist, possessive and sure. He kisses me like he’s starving for me, like he’s been holding back all day and finally can’t anymore. And maybe he has been. I have too.
His thigh slots between mine, his tongue sweeping deep into my mouth. I moan, arching into him, already aching.
Suddenly, my stomach lets out the most humiliating growl known to man. Ryan stills. Pulls back slowly. One brow raised, lips kiss-swollen and eyes gleaming with amusement.
“When was the last time you ate?” he teases, voice husky.
I blink. “I…I don’t remember. Breakfast?”
“That was over twelve hours ago.” He shakes his head like I’ve offended him. “You’re out here running tours through wildfires and not even fueling yourself properly?”
“I was kind of busy not dying.”
He grunts, clearly not satisfied with that answer. Then he grabs my hand again, guiding me toward the little table near the kitchenette.
“Sit,” he says. “Now.”
I sink into the chair with a breathless laugh. “Are you seriously about to scold me into eating?”
“I’m seriously about to feed you. Don’t move.”
He rummages through a supply bin tucked under the counter. Cans, a small bag of rice, some protein bars, a bottle of olive oil. Somehow, he starts pulling it all together like it’s a five-star kitchen.
He even slips on a small apron hanging on a hook.
My mouth falls open. “No way.”
He glances over his shoulder. “What?”
“You’re wearing an apron.”
He shrugs. “Gotta protect the goods.”
I bite back a grin. “Shouldn’t I be the one cooking? You literally saved a family from a wildfire today.”
“I like feeding people,” he says without looking at me. “Always have.”
Something about that—the simple truth of it—makes my chest ache.
I watch him move around the space like he owns it. Confident. Unbothered. His broad back shifts beneath his shirt every time he reaches for something, muscles flexing. His hair’s a mess, still damp from sweat and ash. His jaw is shadowed in stubble, and a bruise is blooming on his forearm where he must’ve taken a hit during the rescue.
He looks like a man forged in fire.
But right now, in this tiny cabin, with an apron tied over his smoke jumper uniform, Ryan Lewis looks like a man I could fall for.
Hard.
The pasta turns out surprisingly good, considering the limited supplies…something with beans, garlic, a bit of canned tomato, and enough seasoning to trick my stomach into believing it’s gourmet. But maybe it’s just the man behind the meal.
Ryan slides a bowl in front of me and sits across the table with his own, watching me with that quiet intensity as I take the first bite.
