Page 5 of The Smokejumper's Lady
Within seconds, everything about her is etched in my memory…
Her dark hair spills out of a loose ponytail, like some exotic ink, and her eyes flash gold even in the dark. She’s scraped up and sweat-slicked, but her posture is tight, controlled. She’s scared. But she’s holding it together.
Damn.
My chest tightens, but not in any familiar way. This isn’t just adrenaline. It’s something else, something animal and sudden. And I don’t like it.
Focus, Lewis.The world is literally burning around you.
“Everyone okay?” I ask, keeping my voice firm.
She stands, gently peeling the girl off her. “We’re fine for now, but the fire’s coming fast.”
She’s taller than I expected, maybe five-seven. Lean and strong, probably from trekking these trails. Her gorgeous amber eyes meet mine. Not a flinch. Not even a flicker of helplessness.
I feel it again—that strange tug low in my chest.
What the hell is that?
“I’m Ryan Lewis. Smoke jumper. We’ve got evac coming, but we need to move. Stick close and do exactly what I say.”
She nods, no questions, no hesitation.
Good. I don’t have time to drag anyone out.
As they file behind me, I position her in the middle, close enough to reach if she stumbles. I tell myself it’s tactical. Logical. Safer.
But I already know it’s not just that.
As we move, I cast a glance over my shoulder and she’s right there, amber eyes sharp, jaw set. Brave.
I’m impressed by her.
And that scares me more than the damn fire.
Chapter Three
Clea
I’ve always thought of myself as someone who keeps her cool under pressure. I know how to separate business from pleasure and I never let my emotions cloud my judgment while on duty.
But this time…
I’m struggling to hang on to the control I always have so tightly wound around me. And it has nothing to do with the fire burning around me and everything to do with the handsome smoke jumper who came to the rescue.
He rattles me more than I’m willing to admit.
Ryan Lewis.
Even his name sounds like a punch of pine smoke and testosterone.
He moves like a soldier, purposeful and precise. Axe in one hand, shovel strapped to his back, gear molded to his frame like he was carved straight out of the Rockies. He’s tall—at least six-three—with that lean, muscular build that says he doesn’t just lift weights for aesthetics. Everything about him screams rough and ready. Calloused hands. Scruffy jaw. That ridiculous jawline that could probably slice open a fire shelter.
And the eyes. God, those eyes…
Blue, but not like a sky on a clear day. More like glacial melt…sharp, cold, and piercing. Those eyes found mine the moment he stepped into the cave, and something low in my stomach flipped. I might’ve actually swayed. That’s how stupid hot he is.
But I’m a professional. And we’re literally in a wildfire evacuation. Still, it’s hard to focus when every time I glance his way, my brain short-circuits like a busted radio.
