Page 127 of Smoke and Fire
Those sapphire eyes turned downright wary. He stepped back and motioned to the table with a nod.
“It will take a while to explain. Have a seat. I’ll buy you a drink.”
4
BASTIAN
As far as first dates went, this wasn’t my least smooth.
Definitely my weirdest.
If you could even call this a date, that is. Dahlia sat across from me with her right shoulder back, her head tilted to the side. The wary purse of her lips made her look like a diva about to pounce, her cheeks tense in warning. What made a girl her age—probably twenty-eight, just a few years younger than me—have that expression?
My plan whirled through my head, but all the meticulous details and pieces fell into a mental heap. For several moments, I could only stare until I managed to wrench three words free.
“I write books.”
Dahlia’s eyebrows rose, but she didn’t comment on the awkward start.
“Books?”
“Books.”
“Okaaaay,” she drawled. “You need help with that?”
I ignored her question—it would be answered in a moment—and stayed on the track that my train of thought barreled down.
“I’m also a wildland firefighter.” A hand rose to gesture vaguely to the plume of smoke that had ebbed in the morning, but would grow as the afternoon progressed. “In a day or two, I will most likely be assigned to work that fire with my crew. We get forty-eight hours off after every two week assignment. That’s why I came back, but I’ll need to leave again soon.”
Her mouth opened, but closed. She gestured for me to continue. This is where things got rocky and would likely go downhill fast.
My mind wandered back to the way she’d blushed and attempted to justify reading a romance novel. Her expression had been open and bright, but now it looked straight suspicious. I tried to explain, but words failed me. Never mind that I could knock out a 10,000 word sprint in two hours when I needed to, but I couldn’t find two words to put together now.
Dahlia took pity on me. “What does writing books have to do with you being a firefighter on an assignment?” she asked.
Her arms folded across her chest, reminding me of a wary cat. Bristled and ready to strike, but not yet threatened.
Back away,common sense stated.This is doomed to fail.
My hastily-scrambled-together plan never had much chance of success, but it gave me a slim margin of hope. I’d lived on thinner chances before. My throat bobbed as I swallowed, my mouth so dry I could have spit cotton.
“I’m a very popular author and I have a book launch coming up in a little over a week. When it launches, I’ll be on a fire and out of reach. I need to be present—or at least appear to be—for the reader’s sake. There’s already been some complaints that I’m not visible enough.”
The edge of her brow lowered. Maybe she understood that whatever came next wouldn’t be normal. I plowed on. No way out but through.
“My agent says that we’re on track to break records for launch numbers and sales, which is . . . whatever. Great. Don’t really care about that as much as I do the income that comes from it. I’m glad for the success, but it’s brought a lot of work with it. Emails, social media posts, interview requests, that kind of thing.” I rushed to add. “I don’t do the interviews, but maybe . . . maybe someone should.”
She grazed right over my last, tentatively-stated line to ask, “Do you write thrillers?”
My stomach clenched. Here is where the downslope began.
“Ah, no.”
“Murder mysteries?”
“Nope.”
Her nose wrinkled. “Don’t tell me you write fantasy.”
