Page 8 of Falling for the Firefighter
"Thorough verification is essential for safety." Mac's tone doesn't invite further comment, but several crew members exchange knowing glances.
I focus on my coffee, pretending not to notice the undercurrents. Scout, still plastered to Mac's side, pants happily as if she's orchestrated this entire situation.
The rest of the briefing proceeds with professional focus, though I catch occasional smirks whenever Mac and I disagree, which is often. By noon, we've covered the immediate action plan for fire season preparation, and the crew disperses for equipment checks.
Mac stays behind, studying my map of Lookout Point Trail—the same one his coffee decorated earlier. He leans over it, strong fingers tracing the contours I’ve drawn with such care. The sight of his hands moving over my work sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine.
“This path here.” He traces a thin red line I’ve marked, the pad of his finger dragging slowly across the paper like it’s my skin. “It’s not on any official trail map.”
“Local knowledge.” I step in beside him, closer than I should, but not close enough to flinch. The heat of his body rolls off him like sunbaked rock, all danger and gravity. I point to the junction, refusing to retreat. “It’s a game trail. Links up to the main evac route. Saves twenty minutes.”
His eyes never leave the map, but I feel the weight of him shift—attention sharpening, focus zeroing in. “Show me tomorrow.”
“I need to mark the northern sector first?—”
“And I need to know the most complicated terrain firsthand.” His voice drops, firm and final.
When he turns toward me, it’s a calculated move that closes the space between us. We’re chest to chest. Breath to breath. His body doesn’t touch mine, but it threatens to.
“Lookout Point sees the most foot traffic." He’s close enough that I can feel his breath on my cheek. "If we’re evacuating tourists, I want my boots on that trail.”
He’s not wrong. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.
“Fine.” I snap the map case closed and tuck it under my arm. “Meet me at the visitor center. 0800.”
“I’ll pick you up.” He says it as if it’s not a suggestion, but an order. He straightens, gathering his notes. His fingers brush mine as he takes a map I'm holding, the touch deliberate. "Where do you live?"
“That’s not necessary.” My voice tightens. Too breathy. Too revealing.
His gaze pins me, the corner of his mouth crooking with challenge. “One vehicle’s more efficient, Mackenzie.” Again with the name. His pupils darken, swallowing the blue. As for my name, he says it slow—drawling my last name like it’s something he plans to sink his teeth into. “Unless you’re uncomfortable being alone with me.”
He’s baiting me. Testing. Circling the perimeter of some invisible line I’m too stubborn to draw.
The unspoken dare slices through me like a live wire.
“I’m not uncomfortable,” I bite out. “And my name is Jo.”
The challenge hangs between us—professional on the surface, something else entirely underneath.
He takes a map from my hands, fingers brushing deliberately over mine. Slow. Possessive.
“Mackenzie,” he repeats, soft but loaded. “You sent me on a wild goose chase this morning. Told me to ask for Jo, like some joke.” His grin turns predatory. “I hope you’re done with such antics."
He steps closer, close enough that I can feel the promise of what he isn’t touching. The pressure of withheld contact. My body buzzes with the nearness of him, with the way his voice curls into places it doesn’t belong.
“You want to lead me in circles, Mackenzie?” His voice is all smoke and heat. “Go ahead. But remember…” His breath grazes my ear. “I like the chase.”
The words strike like a flint spark, igniting something reckless and hot beneath my ribs. I should walk away. I should remind him—and myself—that this is business.
There are boundaries. Structure.
Instead, I stare him down. “It’s the cabin at the end of Spruce Lane.”
He leans back enough to meet my eyes, satisfaction gleaming. “Sending me on another scenic route?”
“No.” I meet his gaze steadily, refusing to back down. “That’s where I live, but I’ll drive.”
"No. I’ll pick you up.” He moves like a man staking a claim. “And I’ll drive. You don’t set the pace here, Mackenzie. Not with me.”
