Page 11 of Falling for the Firefighter
“How long have you been mapping these mountains, Mackenzie?” His voice is lazy and smooth, as if he already knows the answer but wants to hear me say it.
Mackenzie.
Again.
I’ve corrected him a dozen times. Maybe more. He knows my name. I know he knows. That’s precisely why he keeps saying it—poking at me, testing the perimeter, watching to see when I’ll snap.
I won’t.
Not today.
“Officially? Five years.” I hop over a twisted root, jaw tight. “Unofficially, since I could walk.”
I shove the tip of my trekking pole toward a narrow fissure in the granite. “See that? Spring bubbles up from between those rocks. Cleanest water on the south ridge.”
He makes an appreciative sound low in his throat, crouching to study it, all muscle and casual grace.
Don’t look at his arms.
Don’t look at the stretch of his back under that snug shirt.
Do not, under any circumstances, imagine what he’d look like without it.
Too late.
A flash of stubbled jaw, dark hair tousled from the wind, and a body that screams Thunder From Down Under, he’s walking kryptonite.
God. He even walks like he owns a stage. All slow swagger and sinful confidence, like he’d be just as comfortable holding a chainsaw as he would a woman against the wall.
Nope. No. Absolutely not. Donotthink of him taking you against a wall. Thrusting hard. Hands bruising. Lips weaponized to undo me…
Shit. He’s in my head.
Stay professional.
Mac rises to his full, infuriating height, glancing at me with that trademark smirk—the one that says he sees right through the tight coil of control I’m clinging to.
“Your dad teach you how to read terrain that young?” he asks, tone deceptively casual.
I nod. Short. Sharp. Refusing to give him more than that.
He lets the silence stretch, eyes glittering beneath the brim of his cap.
Mackenzie.
He hasn’t said it again, but the word hangs there, pulsing between us like static before a lightning strike.
I won’t take the bait.
Won’t correct him.
Won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s getting under my skin.
Because he is.
Every inch of me feels flayed open beneath his gaze—and he knows it.
And the worst part?
