Hot Stuff

I smile so big, my cheeks hurt. I can’t help it. This should be awkward and weird, but fuck, I’m just happy to see her face again after having to rush out so quickly this morning.

And Lord Almighty, she’s beautiful. Beyond beautiful. If it’s possible, it seems like she got even prettier since we parted ways an hour ago.

Not that that’s a frightening thought or anything, I laugh to myself.

Hayden looks at Lauren with his mouth agape. Sarah studies her closely, but I have a sneaking suspicion I’m not the only one who realizes just how pretty she is.

Holley looks at Jake’s face, clearly noticing something of interest on it, but he pats her hand and squeezes it. I can only assume it’s a secret love language pat, meant to symbolize I’ll tell you later.

“It’s really good to see you again, Dr. Lauren,” I find myself saying, and she shivers like a jolt has just run down her spine.

“Hi, Garrett.”

God, I want to reach out and touch her so badly.

“Well, we’re all about to head out of here, but it was good seeing you guys,” Shell says, interrupting whatever private moment Lauren and I might have been having and shuffling her toward the back.

I try to keep eye contact, but it’s pretty quickly lost.

They’re already leaving? My mind is instantly blown.

I mean, how in the hell long have they been here? And more than that, how in the fuck didn’t I know Lauren was sitting in this very diner?

“It was good to see you too, Shell,” Jake responds. “Good to see all of you, actually.”

Like a unit, Cara and Shell swarm and carry Lauren away without eye contact.

My legs bounce, toes tapping against the tile floor as I consider my choices.

Do I try to talk to her in private somewhere here? Follow her to the parking lot like some kind of stalker? Let her go and give her a call? I’m not sure what would embarrass her less or what would make her feel better. But I know for my sake, I’d like to be able to see her—talk to her and make sure it’s clear where I stand—as soon as possible.

I start to shove back in my chair, intent to do just that and make some kind of excuse for the other members of my table, but my phone rings in my pocket before I can even start to make a statement.

I pull it out quickly—as I’m always challenged to do with my profession—and read the caller ID as it flashes across the screen.

It’s Captain Carroll. Shit. I’m technically on call, which means there’s only one reason he’s calling me right now…

I hit the button to answer and put the phone to my ear. “Alexander.”

“Get your shit and get to the station. We’re rolling out in forty-five minutes. Got a call out in the county. Lightning strike’s got 4,000 acres started and approaching structure in the southwest corner.”

Fuck. Talk about horrible timing.

“Got it.”

And just like that, the chance to make a choice is over. My focus has now shifted to making arrangements for my kids because I have a fire to fight.

Duty calls.

Lauren

My hands shake in my pockets as I walk to my car, away from Cara and Shell.

I can still feel the thickness—the throb—of Garrett’s penis between my legs, and yet, we just interacted like two people who barely know each other.

How can that be? How can the most intimate of intense moments span hours last night, and then this morning, it’s like it never happened?

I can feel that it happened. I can feel it.

Hell, I’m so out of my depth here. Until last night, it had been a crazy-long time since I’d had sex with anyone. Sure, I’ve dated…sort of…but doing the actual deed? My dry spell was legit biblical.

Quick as my feet will let me, I finish the long walk to my car, unlock the door, and scoot inside, sweeping my hands across the top of the steering wheel and settling my forehead against them. In hindsight, I’m actually thankful the diner’s lot was full and I had to park half a block away behind the bank. Otherwise, it would feel insanely weird to be sitting here in my car, gently banging my head against the steering wheel, with Garrett right inside the diner.

I’m on the precipice of a tailspin, I can feel it, and to be honest, it has me wondering why in the hell I thought living my life like J.Lo was so bad in the first place. She’s a goddess, for Christ’s sake! I’d be lucky to be her—to emulate her. Or her character in The Wedding Planner. Whatever.

“God!” I shout into the confined space, banging my hands against the wheel and slamming my head back into the headrest of my seat.

How did I spend the last hour with my sisters mining the encouragement I needed to carry, only to ruin it all with one unexpected face-to-face encounter with the topic himself?