Firefighter Phoenix (Fire & Rescue Shifters 7)

Rose knew the old wolf well enough not to pry any further. At least, not right now. He was a proud, stubborn man, and a hard life had taught him to lash out rather than admit weakness. Whatever trouble he was in now, she’d only be able to help him if she was patient enough to let him come to her in his own time.

“Got a question I have to ask you, though,” Wayne continued. “What are you doing here, Rose?”

“Looking for a date, obviously.” Rose raised her eyebrows at him. “And please don’t be offended, Wayne, but I’m not interested in getting involved with a shifter.”

“Specially not me, huh?” Wayne let out a growling laugh. “It’s all right. You’re not my type either.” He eyed her sidelong. “Thought there was one shifter you were interested in, though.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Rose said, in the chilling voice she normally reserved for aggressive drunks.

Wayne should have known better than to mess with her in that mood. Nonetheless, to her surprise, he persisted. “Thought you were sweet on the Phoenix.”

Rose narrowed her eyes at him. “I’ve told you before to mind your own business, Wayne. Keep your nose out of other people’s private matters.”

If Wayne had been in wolf form, she was sure that his ears would have been flat against his skull and his tail plastered between his legs. “Can’t. Have to ask.” Wayne’s bloodshot eyes fixed on hers, oddly pleading. “Rose. Is there anything between you and Fire Commander Ash?”

“No,” Rose bit off, curtly. “And if you ever want to drink in my pub again, Wayne, you’ll drop this at once.”

Some of the tension drained out of his lean shoulders. “Good. Good. That’s good. Don’t…” He twitched, his hand tightening on his wrist. “Don’t—just don’t. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” Rose said, utterly baffled. “Wayne, what’s going—Wayne?”

She was talking to his retreating back. Rose started to get up to follow him, but the speed-dating organizer was already chasing Wayne herself, waving her clipboard.

“Sir? Sir! Time isn’t up yet, and you need to hand in your—”

The old wolf rounded on the blonde human, snarling something. Rose couldn’t see his face, but the organizer recoiled, clutching her clipboard like a shield. Without a backward glance, Wayne stalked out, slamming the bar door behind him.

White-faced, the organizer fumbled for her whistle, raising it to her lips. The shrill noise was rather shakier than it had been previously.

“Th-that’s the end of the evening, ladies and gentlemen!” The organizer cleared her throat, rallying herself. “I hope you’ve all enjoyed your dates. Now it’s time to make your final decisions. Gentlemen, if you could come to the bar to hand me your forms. Ladies, please remain at your tables. I’ll come to each of you in turn after I’ve collected the men’s data. I’m sure you’re all eager to discover who you’ve matched with!”

Rose sank back into her chair. She was still half-minded to go after Wayne, but she’d have to push her way through the crowd of men congregating at the bar in order to reach the door. She didn’t want to reject Jim-not-Tim or any of the other perfectly nice men that obviously.

I’ll find out what’s wrong with Wayne tomorrow night, she decided. No matter what was troubling him, she was sure he’d still come to the Full Moon as usual. Chasing madly after someone usually only made them run away faster, after all.

Ash was certainly proof of that.

She was thinking about him again.

Rose stared determinedly down at her form. Her pen hovered over the empty checkbox next to Jim-not-Tim’s name. He had been very nice. Exactly the sort of man she should want. Undemanding. Uncomplicated.

Uninteresting.

“Are you all done with that, Ms. Swanmay, or do you want me to come back in a few minutes?” The organizer had come over to her table, smiling brightly. “There are so many wonderful men here tonight, I know it’s difficult to choose!”

Rose guiltily twitched her sheet up, so that the woman couldn’t see the blank, empty column where she was supposed to mark the men she’d like to see again. She opened her mouth to ask for more time—and paused.

The organiser’s smile was just a shade too fixed. She held her clipboard close to her chest, as though she too had something to hide. Rose focused her empathic sense on the woman, and had a distinct impression of pity.

Rose abruptly knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that none of the men had written her name down.

She thrust her unmarked sheet at the organizer. The woman glanced down the empty column, and her tight expression relaxed.

“Oh, what a pity. There’ll be a lot of disappointed gentlemen,” the organizer lied, relief practically steaming off her. “Well, it’s only your first time. I’m sure if you come back—”

“Thank you,” Rose interrupted, desperate to be out of there. “But I don’t think I will. Excuse me.”

Brushing aside the organizer’s half-hearted attempt to stop her, she fled. The men were still hanging around the bar. Head down, mumbling apologies, Rose pushed through them. She tried not to catch anyone’s eye, but was still painfully aware of Jim-not-Tim glancing in her direction. His gaze passed straight through her, without a flicker of acknowledgment.