Page 15 of The Smokejumper's Lady
My moan is definitely not subtle. “Okay, I hate how good this is.”
He smirks. “Hate it all you want. You’re eating every bite.”
“I would lick the bowl if it wouldn’t ruin the whole ‘dignity’ thing I’ve got going.”
That earns a low chuckle. “You think you’ve got dignity left after earlier?”
I flush, heat rising to my face. “Fair point.”
We eat in companionable silence, exchanging the occasional glance, a smirk, the soft clink of cutlery against our bowls. I feel…soft. Warm in a way that has nothing to do with the food.
At some point someone from the medic team drops by with a cooler of ice and some extra emergency supplies, and when we’re left alone again, the silence is sharper. More potent.
We take turns washing up at the tiny bathroom sink, using a shared bottle of soap and a couple towels that have clearly seen better days. As I remove the soot and ash from my skin as best I can, my mind drifts to the way Ryan made me feel with his fingers on that medical gurney. I find myself excited for whatever happens next.
After taking care to clean myself…everywhere, so I’ll be ready for anything, I put on a pair of flannel pants and an oversize T-shirt from the emergency supply packs.
As Ryan freshens up in the bathroom, I hang my smoky clothes over the back of a chair to air out and then tug a blanket around my shoulders as I settle onto the couch, legs tucked under me. My hair is damp, but I don’t think that’s what’s making me shiver. It’s anticipation.
Ryan comes out of the bathroom a moment later, shirtless now, a pair of sweatpants sitting low on his hips. For a moment, I forget how to breathe.
Holy cow.
I’ve seen him, touched him…but now that there’s no adrenaline, no chaos, no urgent threat to occupy my brain, it hits differently.
His chest is broad, sculpted with years of labor, his skin tan and marked with a few scars that hint at stories I’m dying to hear. His dog tags rest against his collarbone, and his golden brownhair, damp and curling slightly at the ends, makes him look younger. More real.
Moremine, even if he’s not.
He drops onto the couch beside me, our thighs touching. His warmth sinks into me immediately.
We don’t talk at first. We just sit there, staring at the last rays of sunlight through the dusty window, listening to the crickets and the occasional crackle of embers somewhere far away.
Eventually, I speak. Quietly. “My parents own a chain of hotels.”
I don’t know why I say it. It just feels right telling him something about me, even if it’s something I don’t care about much. It feels…intimate.
He glances at me, brows raised. “Fancy.”
I shrug. “More like exhausting. They’ve been grooming me to take over since I could walk. I had to take business classes all through high school. They mapped out my college track before I turned sixteen.”
“You didn’t want that?”
“I wanted to breathe.” I lean my head against the back of the couch. “They think being successful means being in control of every little thing. But that’s not me. I like people. I like language. I like feeling things, not just…managing spreadsheets and holding conference calls.”
Ryan is quiet for a moment. Then he reaches over and gently tugs a strand of my damp hair between his fingers.
“I like that you’re doing your own thing,” he murmurs. “Takes guts.”
I glance over at him. “You don’t think it’s irresponsible?”
“No.” He wraps the strand of hair around his finger, studying it. “I think it’s brave. Letting go of something expected to chase something unknown? That’s not weakness, Clea. That’s bravery.”
Something twists in my chest. His voice is low, steady, full of conviction. Like he means every word.
I lean into him, nestling closer until my shoulder rests against his bare chest. He lets go of my hair and slips his arm around my back, pulling me closer, and I close my eyes, breathing him in.
“What about you?” I ask softly. “Why smoke jumping? You could’ve been anything. A gym god. A wilderness survival TV host. Something less…life-risky.”
