But I’m not supposed to kiss him for real. This is just a hazing rite, a ritual so I can be one of the girls and hide in plain sight just a little more thoroughly. I’m the cook. He’s the firefighter. The only thing we have together should be pancakes—not the extremely thick, most impressive dick that makes its presence known when he tugs the plastic lunch tray from between us and tosses it somewhere. Away. If only his clothes would follow.
Pick’s big, protective, determined, and rough around the edges. So damn sexy. And for the cherry on my hotshot sundae, he’s out there fighting fires to protect homes and lives. That’s hero material right there.
The problem is, I’ve dated heroes before. Sometimes, heroes aren’t all that heroic when they get you alone and the capes come off. And I’m not precisely heroine material, either. Why would anyone want to rescue me? And why would I let them? This time, when I pull back, he lets me. And we both know it’s let. My girl parts sigh in happy protest because they’re really, really enjoying his alpha male lumberjack highhandedness even if my head’s shrieking danger danger.
Chocolate eyes stare at me, probably making connections I don’t need him to make because Pick’s as smart as he is pretty. Looking at him makes me want to do stupid things, like throw myself at him again, or maybe that’s just the rich, warm brown of his steady gaze making me want to lick him. Everywhere.
Pick regards me for another way-too-long minute. I’m not sure what he sees, but he slowly untangles his fingers from my hair. As he steps back with a polite nod of his head and a “Thank you, darling,” whoops and catcalls erupt from the hotshots watching the Pick and Sarah Jo Show. Our audience is clearly jonesing for a sequel.
Is that what I want?
He took charge of our kiss and then he just plain took over. So letting him know that he’s shaken me—woken me—to my very core isn’t an option. I’ll never let him know how close I came to losing control. Men like Pick don’t just take an inch. They take the whole goddamned mile and then some. Putting him in his place suddenly matters a great deal. He’s turned the tables on me and I need to turn them back. Fast.
I saunter back to the laughing, clapping cooks.
Game. On.
Chapter Three
Pick
It takes twenty-four hours for me to get Hunter alone. The four-thousand acre fire blowing up the side of the nearby mountain is partially to blame for the delay. The blaze starts out small enough. The Rogues arrive and scratch out a line, shoveling dirt over the smoldering embers. But as the day goes on, more grass burns and the fire gets happier, although no trees catch. Right about dinnertime, however, Mother Nature picks a side, the wind kicks up, and we end up with flames crossing the line. The scene explodes, flames devouring the dry grasses and rushing upslope. Boxed in by cliffs, the fire’s crackle is overly loud, amplified by the rock walls. The tall, black column punching up into the sky guarantees that every breath I take is thick with smoke and the unmistakable smell of burning. Eventually, the fire’s head hits rocks upstream and dies, a lucky break, leaving only the treetops flaming, along with patches of smoldering grass.
Now, fighting fire becomes a routine mop-up followed by a quick break while we wait for the helicopter to swing by and lift us out and back to base camp before it gets too dark to fly. My teammates pass the time by giving me shit about my having been on the breakfast menu yesterday. Several produce videos shot on their phones, and I’m pretty certain we’re now Facebook stars. I take a bow, pretending that Sarah Jo’s kiss is just a prank. A funny stunt that means nothing.
Maybe it doesn’t.
Maybe I’m crazy for thinking that kiss came with possibilities.
I definitely understand the value of a good joke. I get that the camp cooks were teasing Sarah Jo and that I’d been a convenient bystander with a penis and a set of lips to kiss. Any other summer, any other woman, and I’d laugh it off right along with them. I’m not claiming to have fallen in love on the spot. Nope. Not claiming that at all. It’s just that I felt something when Sarah Jo kissed me, and I’m almost certain she felt that something right back. Maybe I believe in insta-lust. Or sex-ever-after.