Page 9 of The Smokejumper's Lady
I cross my arms. “Or maybe it knew I wanted to talk to you.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.” I pause, then offer a hand. “Ryan Lewis. In case you missed it during the whole ‘world-on-fire’ thing.”
She chuckles as she takes my hand. Her grip is strong and warm. “Clea McMahon.”
Clea.
The name suits her. Strong, sharp, just a little lyrical. Like the sound of a river sliding over rock.
“Well, Clea McMahon,” I say, “I think you should get a checkup. You took some smoke back there. And a tumble.”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’tknowyou’re fine.”
She eyes me. “Let me guess. You’re one of those men who thinks women always need checking on?”
“I’m one of those men who saw you go through a literal forest fire and thinks maybe it wouldn’t hurt to see a medic.”
She huffs out a reluctant laugh. “Fine. But only because I’m a little dizzy. From the altitude. Not the fire. Or you.”
Oh, she’s a funny one. Damn.
“Definitely not me,” I say, unable to help a grin. “After you, ma’am.”
She rolls her eyes but follows me toward the triage area, walking close enough that our arms almost touch. I can’t help myself—I start to imagine what her skin would feel like under my fingers. But I keep my thoughts and my hands to myself…for now.
At the cabin that’s been set up for use by the medical team, a nurse directs us into one of the two rooms while the Reynolds’s occupy the other. I let Clea in first, gently closing the door behind us as I step in after her.
And suddenly, we’re alone, shut off from the rest of the world. For a moment, we’re just standing there. Just us. Two chairs. A gurney. Medical gear scattered like confetti on the counter.
“You ever get tired of people checking your vitals?” she asks, hopping up on the gurney.
I lean against the wall, slowly crossing my arms without taking my eyes off her. “Only when they get handsy.”
She snorts. “Please. You’d love it.”
She’s not wrong.
The silence stretches, but it’s not awkward. It’s charged. I watch her swing her legs slightly, the tension in her shoulders slowly bleeding out as she relaxes in the stillness. And then it hits me—I don’t want to leave this room. I don’t want to go back to base. I don’t want to be anywhere that isn’t here. With her.
It’s insane.
But it’s real.
I try to stay cool. Professional. Try not to imagine dragging her close and pressing her back against that metal table. Or ravaging her lips while running my hands over her curves…
“Mind if I ask what the hell you were doing up on that ridge today?”
My voice is sharper than I intended. Must be the irrational tightness in my chest.
Her expression shifts slightly. “I was working. Like you.”
“Except I’m trained for that kind of heat,” I say curtly. “That ridge was flagged as unstable two days ago. No tour group should’ve been up there.”
She stiffens. “It was a short route. Nothing out of the ordinary. We’ve hiked it dozens of times without issue.”
