“Chief left very clear instructions,” he says, mockingly formal. “The blonde. The one you hydro-bombed the hardest. I think her name is Ruby something…you have to apologize to her in person. Tonight.”
I look up at the darkening sky, then back at him. “Tomorrow morning. She’ll live.”
“Not good enough.”
I scowl. “You know how ridiculous this is?”
“Oh, I do.” He grins. “But apparently she got the worst of it. So…damage control. One-on-one. In person. Those were the boss man’s words.”
I rub the back of my neck. “Fine. Where is she?”
“She’s crashing in the firefighters’ lodge for the night,” Danny says, clearly enjoying this way too much. “We offered compensation. Food, warm bed, getting her car cleaned… Room number twelve.”
I shoot him a look. “You handing out room keys to civilians now?”
“Only the pretty ones.” He winks.
I shake my head. “You’re a menace.”
He shrugs. “Just doing my part for station morale. Go make peace. Try not to scare her off.”
“I’m not thrilled about any of this,” I mutter.
“You know…she’s a looker. It might not be so bad seeing her again.”
“Yeah, whatever,” I murmur, rolling my eyes at him.
But he’s right.
Something about her…even soaked to the bone and ready to spit nails…stuck with me. Maybe it’s the way she held herself so rigidly proud. Maybe it’s the fire in her eyes as she glared at me in the sky…the kind of fire I don’t mind chasing.
Even if this whole thing feels like an HR nightmare waiting to happen, I don’t mind seeing her again.
Just one more time. Maybe.
“Room twelve,” I repeat, walking toward the lodge.
“Aren’t you forgetting the flower bouquet?” Danny calls after me, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Women love a peace offering!”
“Bastard,” I mutter under my breath.
Chapter Three
Ruby
This day was supposed to be fun. Light. Sweet. I had plans…real plans. A slow afternoon wandering the little shops in town, a pastry I didn’t have to scarf between bug spray duty and snack prep, and maybe, just maybe, a snow globe to add to my collection.
Instead, I’m here. In a plain, too-white, too-sterile room at the firefighters’ lodge. Smelling faintly of smoke and cheap soap. I was lucky that I had an extra skirt in the back of my car to wear instead of my soaked jeans, but my tank top is still damp and I shiver in the chill of the window AC.
I sit stiffly on the edge of the narrow bed, arms crossed, my damp hair curling against my neck as I glare at the towel draped over the back of the chair. It’s the third one they gave me. The first two were sacrificed to the cause of drying my seat, my sandals, and, humiliatingly, the inside of my purse.
Thenerveof that pilot.
There was no reason to drop the water right there. None. Okay, maybe technically the fire was creeping up toward the road, but he could have approached from a different angle, delayed the drop a second. Flown lower. Higher. Something.
Instead, he did a fireman cannonball over the entire bottleneck of cars.
And I just happened to be in the splash zone.
