Crazy Hot Love (Dirty Dicks 2)

Talk.

Everyone wants me to talk, and I do. They all sit and listen, offering words of encouragement, but none of them listens—I mean really listens.

Maybe Trevor will be different.

I glance over at him. He’s wearing jeans and a black henley that stretches tight across his chest. The sleeves are bunched around his elbows, and his ball cap is on backwards, making him look all sorts of badass.

Who am I kidding? He is a badass. A badass firefighter who smells delicious and has positioned himself between me and the road. Always the protector. But who’s protecting him? Who listens to his stories at the end of the day and comforts him? Who understands Trevor Allen? So many questions I’d love to get answers to.

We reach Trevor’s truck, and I stop.

“What are you doing?” he asks. “I thought we were going to walk.”

I stuff my hands in my pockets and shrug. “I’m cold, and two miles is a long way.”

He smiles, and it’s a full, bright grin that shines a sliver of light through my dark world and offers me a ray of hope. I want to see it again, and more than that, I want to be the one to put it on his face.

With a hand at the small of my back, he guides me around the front of his truck, opens the passenger door, and helps me climb inside.

He waits until I’m situated and buckled before getting in himself, and then he starts the truck, turns on the heat, and points the vent toward me.

“Since when did you become so chivalrous?”

“I’m not. You just seem to bring out the best in me.”

I watch Trevor unabashedly as we merge onto the road. I watch the muscles of his forearms tighten and shift along with his thigh as he shifts gears, and that’s when I realize that two miles isn’t all that far—not when you’re staring at a gorgeous man. Before I know it, Trevor pulls into my driveway and shuts his truck off.

I unbuckle, slide out, and walk to my front door. When I turn around, Trevor is still sitting in his truck. His gaze cuts straight through me, and it’s as though I can feel what he’s thinking. I can feel him trying to convince himself to get out of the truck; I just don’t understand the struggle.

What I do know is that I don’t want to force him to come in, and I certainly won’t beg. Releasing his gaze, I turn toward the door, unlock it, and walk inside. I flick on the light and drop my purse on the end table next to the couch, and a minute later, I hear the door shut behind me.

Trevor’s presence is all-consuming. I can feel his big, strong body move across the room before I ever turn to look at him.

“Would you like something to drink?” I ask.

“A water would be good.”

My house has an open floor plan, but it isn’t big, and I feel the weight of his stare on my back as I walk into the kitchen and grab a bottle of water from the fridge. I lean into it, allowing the cool air to seep around me in hopes that it’ll calm my nerves, but all it does is make my nipples pucker tight beneath my shirt.

Shit.

“You okay in there?”

Trevor’s smooth voice washes over me, making it all but impossible to gain any sort of control over my breasts.

“Yeah. I’m good.” With my arms crossed awkwardly across my chest, I walk into the living room. Trevor is sitting on the end of the couch, tossing a yellow ball into the air.

Milo’s yellow ball.

“Where’d you find that?” I ask.

“Found it stuffed between the seat cushions. Heard you returned her.”

“It’s easier this way. I’m never home.”

“You’re always home,” he argues.

I hold out the bottle of water. “Is this what you want to talk about, a dog?”