“They’re claiming equipment malfunction,” I mutter bitterly, twisting the ends of my damp hair. “Please. His aim was dead-on. Not a single drop hit the wrong side of the road. Except, oh right, directly into my open sunroof.”
I sigh and flop back on the bed, glaring at the ceiling like it personally offended me. My mind conjures up the image of the tiny corner shop with crystal figurines and handmade glass ornaments—where I was headed before this whole misadventure—and I feel my heart break all over again. I was going to pick the prettiest snow globe on the shelf, and maybe chat with someone in town who doesn’t think healing crystals and chakra-infused trail mix are weird.
Instead, I got drop-kicked by Smokey the Helicopter God.
I grit my teeth. Maybe I should find out who he is. March right up to that firehouse, demand to speak to the guy in charge. They owe me more than a complimentary room and a few towels.
I’m actually halfway through mentally composing a blistering speech—complete with dramatic gestures—when a sharp knock sounds at the door.
I freeze, blinking in surprise.
I know that knock.
Or rather, I know exactly what kind of man knocks like that.
I swing my legs down and march over, still wrapped in frustration and slightly damp dignity. The second I crack open the door—
Oh.
Standing there, framed by the last burnished light of evening, is the most devastatingly attractive man I’ve ever seen.
He’s tall. Broad. Built like his job is to lift mountains and drag them out of danger. He’s still in his fire-resistant gear, soot streaked along the curve of his jaw, the top of his uniform unzipped just enough to hint at muscle and sun-kissed skin.
And he’s holding out a cup of coffee.
“Peace offering,” he says, in a voice that’s deep and rough, like gravel and sin. Husky, like smoke has taken up permanent residence in his lungs.
I stare at him, my brain fuzzing into nothingness.
The coffee. The smirk. The voice.
My resolve weakens.
No. No. I should be furious, and Iamfurious. That doesn’t change just because he looks like someone who stepped out of the front page of some magazine, right onto my doorstep.
I lift my chin, take a breath, and step back stiffly, leaving the door open. And pointedly ignoring the coffee.
“You might as well come in,” I say coolly, folding my arms over my chest.
If this is going to happen, I’m doing it on my own terms. Even if my heart is suddenly pounding like I’ve run uphill in wet shoes.
He steps inside like he owns the place, his boots thudding quietly against the wooden floor as he crosses the room in slow, casual strides, like he’s not the reason I’m still picking twigs out of my damp hair.
I shut the door behind him and lean against it, arms folded tight across my chest. The coffee’s still in his hand, untouched.And he’s still got that smirk—that infuriatingly sexy smirk that’s doing something funny to my stomach.
It’s like he knows I’m mad, but isn’t bothered.
“Let me guess,” I say, keeping my voice cool. “You’re the one who gave me the world’s most dramatic shower.”
His expression is unreadable, but his eyes glint with a deep, amused spark that gives him away.
“You had your sunroof open,” he says, not even bothering to deny it.
“You dropped a bucket of water on a line of traffic,” I snap, pushing off the door. “Was that part of your training? Soaking civilians for sport?”
His lips twitch. Just slightly. Like he’s trying not to laugh.
Oh, he thinks this is funny.
