Page 12 of Tasting Fire
Oliver hated it when people stated the obvious.
“Where are you?”
It was becoming abundantly clear to Emmy why her family had never warmed to Oliver the couple of times they met him. She should’ve seen it earlier, like when he’d never had time to come to North Carolina for visits and booked back-to-back hospital meetings when her mom and Kris traveled up to Baltimore. “Where areyou?”
“At the hospital, of course.” His impatience was made clear by the passive-aggressive sigh on the other end of the line. “I need you to come in and cover for Dr. Seviers.”
Emmy pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at it. If it wasn’t new, she might consider dropping it on the floor and grinding it with her heel. “Oliver, I don’t work there anymore, remember? In fact, I haven’t walked through the hospital’s doors in two weeks. Because you fired me.”
“Two weeks means you’ve had time to cool down from your little tantrum.”
Herlittle tantrum? She’d always known Oliver saw things his own way, but she hadn’t realized he was a delusional dickhead. She hadn’t lost her temper or, as her mom would say, thrown a hissy fit. She’d simply said no to a passionless marriage proposal. “I’m no longer under contract with Baltimore General. Besides, I’m not even in the city.”
“Thenexactlywhereare you?”
Something about the chill—approximately January in Vermont—in Oliver’s voice made the hair on Emmy’s arms stand up. Hadn’t he noticed that he’dfiredher? That she’d moved all her belongings out of their apartment?
Suddenly, she didn’t want him to know she was in Steele Ridge.
“You’ll have to find someone else to cover for Dr. Seviers because I don’t live in Baltimore anymore.”
Emmy thought she couldn’t get any colder, but Oliver’s laugh from the other end shot icicles straight into her heart. “Oh, Emerson, you didn’t think I was actually going to let you leave me, did you?”
This time, when the call came through from dispatch, Cash was in his bed at home having a particularly hot dream about a woman he hadn’t touched in over a decade. Soft skin, hot kisses, and even hotter pillow talk.
His heart still banging against his ribs like a wrongfully jailed prisoner, he used the bedsheet to wipe the sweat from his skin as he reached for his clothes. But there wasn’t a damn thing to be done about his dick except stuff it in his pants and remind it that the dream about Emmy wasn’t real.
He rolled over and grabbed his radio and phone from the bedside table.
The text read:Hostage situation at 4182 Hemphill Road.
4182 Hemphill Road.
What the hell?
That was the address for the land Jonah owned and where several of the Steele family members lived and worked.
He loved his Steele cousins, admired the crap out of every one of them, and he adored his aunt Joan, but he couldn’t afford to let any personal feelings come into play here. He had to do his job regardless of who might be in danger because he knew everyone in this county in one way or another.
Next text:Two reported hostages. No known injuries. Staging area on property in wooded area near bunkhouse.
On instinct, Cash’s mind went clear and cool. He turned on his radio and dialed in to the encrypted channel. “Kingston on SWAT One.”
Based on the staging area, so close to where the hostages were being held, there was a good chance this was an unscheduled training exercise.
As other team members continued to check in via radio, he quickly pulled on his clothes and was out the front door. Outside, he double-checked the tactical equipment he kept stowed in a go-bag under his truck’s backseat. Body armor, check. Radio and earpiece, check. Helmet, check. Med bag, check.
Within ten minutes, he turned in at Tupelo Hill. A dirt road wound around from the main house to where the bunkhouse sat in a secluded area with woods on one side and open land on the other. Cash pulled up behind a cluster of personal vehicles within sight of the bunkhouse where Reid used to live. The little cabin was closed up tight and even the metal roof looked as if it was hiding something.
The BearCat and an ambulance arrived right on Cash’s tail. Per protocol, he geared up immediately and jogged toward the meeting point, where the SWAT and TMT members were already gathered. Although he tried not to notice, Emmy’s presence was clear since she was at least five inches shorter than anyone else in the group.
She should’ve looked small or silly geared up the same way everyone else was, but truth was, in her own body armor, she looked like she belonged. Like she knew her shit. Like a warrior.
A sexy warrior.
Unfortunately, even with that scowl on her pretty face, she did it for him in a way she shouldn’t. Displeasure clear, she pulled out her phone and said, “Response time was too slow. I know this is a semi-rural area, but I expect my team to do better than this.” She shot a cutting glance toward Stan Jackson. “And we wear protective equipment for a reason, Jackson. Either put your helmet on correctly or you’ll be asked to pass it on to someone else.”
Jackson adjusted his helmet so it didn’t look as if he was starring in some spaghetti western. But he clearly didn’t appreciate being dressed down publicly because when Emmy looked away, he silently mouthed the wordbitch.
