Page 3 of Falling for the Firefighter
I’m Jo, and I’m definitely not helping him.
Something flickers in his expression—amusement? Recognition? But I'm already turning away, whistling for Scout to follow. I don't have time to play tour guide to attractive strangers, no matter how nicely they handle my maps or how betrayingly my dog responds to them.
Or how my body hums with awareness even as I walk away.
Ten minutes later, I push through the visitor center doors, flustered and frazzled. My maps are a disaster—coffee-stained, wrinkled, and in Scout's case, muddy paw-printed. My white shirt now features an impressive coffee tie-dye pattern that no amount of dabbing with paper towels can fix. Sheriff Donovan stands near the large central table, looking pointedly at his watch.
"Sorry I'm late," I mutter, arranging my maps on the conference table. "Had a collision with a tourist."
Eleanor Morgan, Hunter's grandmother and the town's unofficial matriarch, eyes me with knowing amusement. The morning light catches in her crown of silver braids as she pours coffee into mugs for the waiting hot-shot crew.
"Must have been some tourist to get you this flustered, Josephine," she observes, pushing a steaming mug in my direction. "Your cheeks are positively glowing."
I ignore the comment, focusing instead on arranging my materials. "Where's the hotshot crew? I thought they were supposed to be here at nine."
Sheriff Donovan checks his watch again. "Captain Sullivan should be here any?—"
The door swings open behind me, and the temperature in the room seems to spike ten degrees.
“Apologies for my tardiness. Had a bit of trouble finding the place.”
That voice—low, gravel-edged—sends liquid heat sliding straight down my spine. I turn slowly, already knowing.
Blue eyes lock on mine, recognition sparking like dry kindling. The room contracts, the air too thick to breathe.
It’s him.
The sidewalk menace.
The map-wrecker.
The man I sent on a wild goose chase.
Only now he’s in full uniform—flame-resistant yellow shirt rolled to the elbows, green tactical pants slung low on lean hips, and captain’s bars gleaming at his collar like they own the damn room. The wet cotton and mischief from earlier have been replaced by dangerous control.
Authority.
Fire.
So much for him being a tourist.
My stomach plummets somewhere south of reason, taking several vital organs with it, as he steps forward with slow, deliberate confidence, extending his hand like this is a formal introduction and not the start of a war.
Captain Sullivan.
His lips curve into a slow smile that promises retribution as he steps forward, extending his hand formally.
"Captain Marcus Sullivan." His voice carries through the room, but his eyes never leave mine. "Everyone calls me Mac. Sorry I’m late. Took the scenic route,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Got turned around near a gorgeous little aspen grove. Sunlight streaming through the leaves, wind whispering through the branches…” His smile curves, slow and deliberate, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. “Almost made me forget I was looking for someone.”
His gaze drops to my mouth, lingers.
“Asked for Jo.” The way he says it —low and loaded — sends a lick of heat straight through me. He leans in and whispers. "Fair warning…" His voice lowers to a dangerous purr, meant only for me. “I like the chase. You should know that upfront.”
My fingers close around his reflexively. The moment our skin connects, that same electric current zings between us, stronger now, impossible to ignore.
His grip is firm, warm, and entirely too intentional. His thumb brushes over my pulse point, a deliberate caress that makes my breath catch.
He notices. Of course, he notices.
