Holy fucking shit! Of all the misadventures I’ve ever had in my line of work, and there have been a few, this is the weirdest. And also the stuff of firehall chatter hard-ons.

First, I get to the door of what seems to be an unoccupied cabin, and when I knock, no one answers. But then the dog starts barking. Where is the resident? Why did he leave his dog here, in the cabin alone? That’s easy. He’s gone to work. Because surely he wouldn’t have taken off and left the little guy behind. This dog isn’t going to make it.

So, I break in. And fortunately I didn’t kick the door in, which crossed my mind. Next thing I know, this eager beagle is threatening to kill me, and then this crazy naked chick comes barreling out of the back, drops her towel, and falls into my arms.

I’m a professional, but this is too much for any healthy male to stand up to- or not.

And if she didn’t call my name, what did she say right before tossing her wrapping to the ground? She must have thought I was someone else.

“I think we need to start over,” I hear myself say.

What I really think is I’d like to go back to before she picked up the towel and covered over that perfect body. But it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen, and besides, I’m here on business.

“My name is Shawn Newton,” I repeat. “I’m here to notify you of a mandatory evacuation.”

Her eyebrows rise.

“I did knock,” I gruff out and am rewarded with a scowl from those perfect lips. I have to not look at her mouth. Eyes up.

“Look, I like dogs, okay?” I continue, defending myself for some reason. “When you didn’t answer, and the little guy here started barking, I thought he was left alone. The fire… I couldn’t leave him here to burn.” I turn my hands palm out and raise my arms a little.

She has an expressive face. It softens at my confession of a weakness for dogs, then the scowl returns and she says; “Thank you. You can leave now.”

In the few minutes since she came busting out of the other room, her hair has started to dry from a deep auburn to what looks like it will turn out to be strawberry blond. The mass of curls would be perfect to run my hands through, if I ever get the chance to come close again.

“I’m afraid I have to stay until I can confirm you’ll comply with the e-vac order,” I tell her, getting business-like. “I’ll wait here while you get dressed.”

Her mouth falls open. Her arms are already crossed over her tits, but if they weren’t, she’d be crossing them now. She’s got that look on her face. This one is a rebel. Doesn’t play with the rules.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” she purrs. “Get out.”

Wow. Feisty.

“Yes, ma’am. I will go outside,” I nod, the total professional. “But I’ll be waiting for you to come out.” I love how her scowl deepens and her lips get fuller into a stubborn pout. I can imagine biting that flesh and sucking it into my mouth. “If you don’t, I’ll have to come in and get you.”

Her face turns pink, and her green eyes, swear to God, turn brown with dark angst. “Bite him, Pete.”

Luckily, Pete’s the dog, not some dude she keeps chained in the back to do her will. I heard her say his name before she noticed me. He cocks his head toward her when he hears his name, and sits there, looking confused and as goofy as a dog can look. I can’t help but laugh.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” she says.

The dog woofs with pleasure, thinking she’s talking to him again, I guess.

“Listen, lady,” I say, getting serious again when I recall the gravity of the situation. “There’s a fire burning up this hill. You need to get a move on.”

I try to put authority in my tone, but looking at the goofy dog, I want to laugh again. The girl, who I just called ‘lady’ like she’s my mother’s age, is fuming, not only the skin on her face pink, but a hot pink spot spreading from the hollow of her throat to the cleavage that just won’t be hidden away with the towel. I’d love to see that flush travel all the way to those gorgeous nipples.

Yeah, I looked and they’re tattooed on my memory. So, what? Now I’m aware that recalling that image makes my dick unfurl eagerly. Thank fuck for the Nomex. I can’t imagine what she’ll tell the dog to do if she notices I’m getting a hard-on.

Without another word, she whirls around and stalks into the back of the house she emerged from. I’m guessing it’s her bedroom. I stand there trying not to picture her body without the towel again while she puts on some clothes. It’s getting uncomfortable enough in my tightening pants without fueling the flame, to coin an apt phrase.

Under other circumstances, in another world, I’d follow her in there. She’s hot as sin, and when she first came out of that room, she looked like she’d just been fucked. Her face all pink, her hair wet and tousled. It doesn’t take much effort to picture what she was doing in the shower. And there doesn’t seem to be a Mr Stubborn at home. I bet she could be persuaded.

I think about my reputation. The only thing I can do to damage it is not take advantage of this situation. My crew thinks I can fuck any woman I want, just because of that stupid calendar.

Fund-raiser, they said. Hot firefighters, they said. So now I’m Mr. August. My half-naked body, leaving little to the imagination with my turnout pants riding as low as decency permitted, is plastered all over the county. A surprising number of women have shown up at the station, looking for Mr August. Who am I to deny them their five minutes?

This woman isn’t one of them. She said my name, though—I swear it. Now she denies it, but why else would she literally throw herself into my arms? I need to get to the bottom of it. Going all detective mode, I start looking around the cabin for the calendar.

It’s a small cabin, finished in rough logs. The living room has no television, just one easy chair and a rocker, both with homemade quilts thrown over their backs. Funny- this girl doesn’t look like the crafting type. Actually she doesn’t look like the cabin type either. I continue my inspection, wanting to figure out more about her.

A bookshelf lines one wall, loaded with art books, psychology and memoir. Windows take up the other two. There’s a half-wall separating the kitchen, where the dog has retreated. The two rooms together form an L, while what I assume is one bedroom with a bath forms the rest of the square. All of it hand chopped and carved wood.

This place is going to go up like tinder when the fire gets here. No way to prevent it. I look at my watch. This is the last place I was supposed to check, and I’m antsy to get back and help the crew. We’re working to contain the advance, but there’s too much aerial fuel. The summer has been dry, with above-average temperatures.

Too many thoughtless idiots out making firepits, or lighting joints. I should be with the men, but captain sent me out to roust the last of the holdouts. Fuckers put themselves and us in danger when they get special and refuse to leave.

To give her the benefit of the doubt, though, maybe this woman hasn’t heard the orders. No TV, and I don’t see a radio, either.

“Are you almost ready?” I call. “Say, what’s your name?”

“Lila. Lila Byrd. I thought you were going to wait outside?” Her voice sounds odd. I chalk it up to the closed door.

“Sorry, I forgot,” I lie. Man, she’d be pouting hard if she knew I was checking her stuff. “Listen, you need to hurry. I’m not kidding.”

She says something else, but I don’t catch it. I squat on my haunches and call the dog to me. By now, I’m an old friend. He pads over and offers his head to be scratched.

“Who’s a good dog?” I question. He rolls his eyes up at me, showing the whites.

“How old is your dog?” I call.

A muffled sob is my only answer. What the fuck?

I stand up and walk to her bedroom door. Listen closely, and then knock. “Lila?”

“Go away,” she mewls.

Has she not heard anything I’m saying?

“Lila, are you decent? I’m coming in.”

“No. Stay out,” she screams. “Just go. Get the fuck out of my house.”

“No can do, sweetheart,” I say calmly. I can sense rising panic in her. “Better cover up. I’m coming in.”

I try the doorknob, expecting it to be locked, ready to kick this one in. Surprisingly, it turns. She’s sitting in the middle of the bed, dressed in a wisp of a bikini panty and a lacy bra. I’d be there in a second if her face wasn’t buried in her hands, her shoulders heaving with pain and misery.

“Hey. Come on, sweetheart, it’s not that scary, nothing to be afraid of.” No response. “What’s wrong?”

“Everything,” she sobs.

Okay, I don’t have time to fix ‘everything’.

“Honey, you need to pull yourself together,” I grit out. “I’m serious. I can’t leave you here, and I can’t leave your dog here. And I’m damn sure not going to die for you.”

She wails harder, the pain really ratcheting through her until I feel like I’ve been gut punched.

“Oh, God, Jon!” she moans.

“No, babe, it’s Shawn.”

“Not you, him!”

She waves in the direction of a nightstand beside the bed. I look over and see a framed picture with her and a guy I vaguely recognize. “Is that…?”

“Jon,” she confirms.

Shit. I know him. Or knew him. He wasn’t on my crew, but we all turned out for his funeral. Must have been about a year ago. Killed in a collapsed shelter if I recall. And I just told her I wouldn’t die for her. Asshole.

“He was your husband?” I ask, dreading the answer.

“Fiancé. But we had a fight, right before…” she hauls for breath, her lungs constricting, I know the signs.

“Before he was killed.” I say it, knowing it’s brutal but I need her to snap out of this for the time being. I’m more a man of action that words so I come up with the best I can; “Sweetheart, he wouldn’t want you to die like he did. Trust me. We have to go.”

If that doesn’t work, I fully intend to hoist her and carry her out of here.