Her shoulders tense for a second, but then she shrugs lightly. “This is different. From Memphis.”
“How so?”
She lowers herself into one of the chairs, her gaze distant. “Back there, the firehouse always felt like a cage. Rules everywhere. Doors locked. Uniforms stiff. And the men… they made sure you never forgot who had power. Every corner I turned, I felt watched. Measured. Here? It doesn’t feel like that. It feels like…” She pauses, searching for the word. “Community. Like this place belongs to the town, not just the men inside it.”
Something pulls at my mouth, and I realize I’m smiling.
“Actually, it was my father who implemented a lot of those changes. Before him, Driftwood’s station wasn’t much different. Closed off. Guarded. He wanted it to be open. Wanted kids to see firefighters as people, not uniforms.”
Her eyes widen. “I didn’t know your father was a firefighter.”
“He was.” My voice softens without my permission. “One of the best. When I was a kid, I got stuck in a house fire. Me, Boone, Sawyer. I was eight, maybe nine. The smoke got to me fast. I don’t remember much except heat and panic. But then there he was—my dad. Carrying me out like I weighed nothing. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, but I remember the feeling of his coat against my face. Safe. That was the moment I knew. I wanted this job. To be him.”
She smiles, small and genuine. “That explains it. Why you love this place so much. Why it’s not just a job to you.”
I nod, unbuttoning my coat out of habit, ready to drape it over the chair. But her voice stops me.
“Keep it on.”
I look at her. She’s leaning forward slightly, eyes on my chest, her fingers reaching out. She traces the edge of my badge, slow, reverent. Her touch burns even through the fabric.
“Hey,” I murmur, the word catching in my throat.
She glances up, smiling faintly. “Hey.”
I don’t think. I lean in. Our mouths meet, tentative for a second, then hungrier, tongues brushing. She whimpers, the sound vibrating against my lips, and I deepen the kiss, letting myself drown in it.
When we pull apart, both of us are breathing unevenly. I search her face. “You okay today?”
Her cheeks flush. “I didn’t know fingering could get me that sore.”
A laugh rumbles out of me, low and rough. “Wait until it’s cocks, sweetheart.” I wink at her, and the pink on her cheeks deepens until it spreads to her throat.
I tug her gently toward me, settling into the chair and pulling her into my lap. She fits there too easily, her back against my chest, her thighs warm over mine.
She reaches for the bag, pulling out the pastries I grabbed at Cora’s. “What did you get?”
“Croissants. Muffins. Nothing fancy.”
She tears off a piece of croissant and pops it into her mouth, then holds another piece up to me. I bite it from her fingers, the buttery flakes melting on my tongue.
Her laugh is soft. “I didn’t peg you for a sweet tooth.”
“I’m not, usually,” I admit, licking the corner of my mouth. “But sometimes.”
Her eyes glint as she studies me. “I like this. You not avoiding me.”
I swallow, my hand resting low on her hip. “You know why I was avoiding you, right?”
“Why?” she whispers.
“Because I needed to behave.” My fingers slide to the button of her jeans, flicking it open slowly. Her breath hitches.
“And now?” she asks, her voice fragile, hopeful.
“Now I don’t have to, sweetheart.”
CHAPTER 34
