Page 1 of Falling for the Firefighter
Chapter 1
Collision Course
Late.I'm already fifteen minutes late.
My boots pound against the sidewalk as I clutch an unwieldy stack of topographical maps to my chest. Each step sends them sliding precariously in my arms, threatening to spill onto Angel's Peak's still-damp morning streets. The spring air carries the scent of pine and possibility, but all I can focus on is the impending disaster of keeping twenty out-of-state hotshot firefighters waiting.
Especially their captain.
Captain Sullivan. The infamous "Smokeshow Sullivan" according to Eleanor, who briefed me over drinks at The PickAxe last night. Apparently, he's some kind of wilderness firefighting legend from California with a chest full of medals and an ego to match. Eleanor's friend Ruth googled him after Sheriff Donovan mentioned his crew was coming—former military, spotless record, and, according to Ruth's enthusiastic phone screen display, "criminally good-looking."
Three local departments apparently got into a bidding war for his team's summer contract.
Just what we need—another hero type who thinks a few wildfires make him an expert on our mountains.
"Arrogant, know-it-all flatlanders," I mutter, dodging a woman with a stroller outside the general store. "Coming in here thinking their fancy GPS systems can replace actual knowledge of the terrain."
Scout trots beside me, her German Shepherd alertness taking in everything while somehow managing to look judgmental about my tardiness. She gave me that same look when I overslept, as if she's been punctual her entire life and couldn't understand humans who weren't.
"Don't start with me," I tell her. "You're the one who chewed my alarm clock last month."
The maps shift dangerously in my grip. I stayed up until three in the morning updating trail markings and evacuation routes, determined to prove that my hand-drawn maps show details no satellite imagery could capture.
The morning fog obscured the sunrise I counted on to wake me, and now I'm paying the price.
I round the corner near Maggie's Diner, picking up speed. The scent of fresh coffee and huckleberry pancakes wafts through the air, making my empty stomach clench. No time for breakfast when you've overslept by forty-five minutes.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Again. Probably Sheriff Donovan wondering where the hell I am with the emergency evacuation routes. I quicken my pace, mentally rehearsing my opening remarks to the visiting fire crew.
Welcome to Angel's Peak. I'm Josephine Mackenzie, wilderness safety coordinator. These maps detail...
Scout suddenly veers left, distracted by something I don't see. I'm too focused on my destination to correct her.
One second I'm rushing forward, the next I'm slammed backward by what feels like a brick wall with a heartbeat. My maps explode into the air like startled birds, fluttering downaround me as I land hard on my back, the breath knocked completely from my lungs.
Hot liquid splashes across my chest and onto my precious maps. Coffee. The rich aroma mingles with something else—cedar, smoke, and warm male skin. My body registers the scent before my brain does, sending an unwelcome jolt of awareness through me.
For a moment, I can only stare up at the impossibly blue Colorado sky, stunned.
Then my vision fills with eyes nearly the same shade—piercing, intense, framed by dark lashes and even darker brows. A face hovers above mine, all sharp angles and strong lines. Devastatingly handsome in a rough-hewn way that has no business existing outside of ridiculous romance novels.
The man's body is half-sprawled over mine, one muscled thigh shoved between my legs, his broad chest inches from my face.
"Are you okay?" The voice matches the face—deep, authoritative, with a hint of gravel that scrapes along my nerve endings like a physical touch.
Reality crashes back. I'm flat on my back in the middle of Angel's Peak, my carefully crafted maps scattered like confetti, and some... sometouristis practically on top of me. And my body—traitor that it is—notices exactly how he feels against me before my mind catches up.
"Do I look okay?" I push against his chest, the solid wall of muscle beneath my palms sends another unwanted spark through my fingers. "Get off of me."
He shifts back immediately, but the movement drags his leg against mine, creating friction that makes my breath catch. He notices—of course, he notices—a flicker of something hot and dangerous passing through those blue eyes.
I scramble backward, putting space between us as I push myself to my knees. Coffee drips from my shirt, the once-white fabric now clinging to my skin in a way that draws his eyes before he deliberately looks away.
I look in horror at the nearest map—my detailed rendering of Lookout Point Trail with all its hidden switchbacks and seasonal water sources. The coffee seeps into the paper, turning the blue waterproof ink into a muddy smear. Months of fieldwork are ruined.
"I apologize." He extends a hand. "Let me help you up."
I ignore his offer, rising on my own. "Great. Just great." I survey the disaster around us—maps scattered in a fifteen-foot radius, most damp with coffee, others being stepped on by curious onlookers. "Do you have any idea what you just did? I'm already late for a briefing, and now I have all these ruined maps?—"
