5

SARAH JO

The look on Pick’s face when I strolled away from him after our first kiss is priceless. Yes, that’s present tense. Thanks to the miracle of modern cell phone technology, I’m able to replay that look of stunned surprise over and over again. I’m also the happy recipient of not one but two iPhone videos of his face and a third of his butt (the cook in question has a definite thing for faded denim and I’m not complaining). He looks amused. Deliciously confused. Ready to come after me and ask me all about my specials. It has to be the sensual warmth in his eyes, though, that has me melting. I kissed him on a dare, but I definitely don’t need any more trouble. Or men.

So maybe I grabbed a screenshot from Rosalie’s Pick video and made it my wallpaper. And just maybe one of the steamier stills is now hanging on the wall of the kitchen with Dish of the Day scrawled in the margins in hot pink Sharpie. I’m sure you remember that Pick is a good-looking man. Mr. Chocolate-Eyed, Broad-Shouldered, Big-Dick Lumberjack kisses even better than he looks, too, which is a definite plus in my book. It’s too bad I can’t start something with him, but I’ve learned my lesson. No more policemen, sheriffs, first responders, or firemen. That kind of guy is nothing but take-charge trouble.

Still, walking away from him was hard.

Especially since parts of me—the more southern parts—insist I should grab his hand and lock him in my cabin. He’d make one hell of an afternoon off.

On the other side of the camp, a car starts. I jump before I can stop myself and the silverware I’m holding bites it, scattering on the cafeteria floor. I look down at it. Yup. Dirty, dirtier, and dirtiest. I’ll have to re-wash it all. Bending down, I scoop up the rejects and eye the departing vehicle as surreptitiously as I can. Just one of the hotshots leaving camp for an afternoon of R&R. A car pulling out—not in.

Still safe.

“Don’t overreact,” I tell the silverware. “He can’t find me out here.”

Okay—so it’s won’t and not can’t. I’m pretty sure my ex could track me down in Antarctica if he put his mind to it. Thad Hill has the tracking skills of a bloodhound.

Unfortunately for my peace of mind, the sound of a second motor approaching the camp requires a recheck of the impromptu parking lot through the cafeteria’s front windows. The battered pickup definitely seems like hotshot material. Hotshots don’t make billionaire money, and they like their trucks tough and rugged, chosen for their ability to take on backcountry roads and haul loads. Like the men themselves. There’s a certain raw beauty about that kind of dedication and power. Hotshots are men with staying power.

Unlike my ex.

Thad will come for me. Making like an ostrich won’t change that truth. I should have known better. Thad is law enforcement and I fingered him for a jewelry theft and cover-up arson . . . and then he deflected the blame back onto me. Nevertheless, the possibility of discovery seems far away right now. I’m three hundred miles away from Mr. Douche. Plus, the fire camp, for all its rough-and-tumble ways, is more peaceful than any town or city. Instead of skyscrapers, ponderosa pine reach for the summer sky, which is all hazy heat and summer gold instead of smog and light pollution. It’s like I’m starring in my very own Disney movie because I can count at least a dozen different birds flying around and making mad, loud bird noises. Even the squirrels have glossy coats, for crying out loud. The place certainly smells a hell of a lot better as well.

Line cook isn’t any harder than my last job as a home care worker. I had my own small business, taking care of a few elderly women. I met Thad when I picked up the phone and called for a wellness check for one of my ladies who hadn’t answered the door or collected her mail. He arrived in uniform. Different from my usual dates, but he was polite. Considerate. My client was fine, but he kept on coming by. Calling, my ladies said.

Sniffing around, more like.

You know those truffle hogs that Frenchmen use to dig up super expensive, ugly as fuck, but really damned tasty truffles? Thad is the ultimate truffle hog. He’s all beady eyes and snuffling nose. You know, if he were a girl. I Googled it the other night when I couldn’t sleep, and it turns out that truffle hogs are all females because truffles have some chemical in common with male pig saliva. You’re confused? Welcome to my life.

Hog or not, Thad made his grand entrance into my life, and I greeted him like he was a tasty treat. He had the same reaction to me, which should have been my first clue. Small-town dating has never been my thing. I don’t do sitting on the front porch or evening walks and sweet sunsets. I stuck out and not in a sexy or good way. After he met my Mrs. Joan when I was running late one night, his interest had done a 180. The elderly lady sat outside with him, wearing her “diamonds” and chatting Thad’s ear off, while I finished up inside. Unfortunately, the only diamonds I’m familiar with are the tiny engagement rings my friends’ fiancés buy at the local Sears. I had no idea that those big stones were real.

Yeah. Reality check.

Dragging my attention back to my new here-and-now, I dump the sullied silverware into the dirty bin and then add more clean forks to the pile I’m assembling for the dinner rush. Fifty should be enough. Eight hours into my shift, and quitting time is definitely on the horizon. I hate loose ends, though, so I’ll finish the sorting, prep the tables for tonight’s hungry hordes, and then clock out. After all, it isn’t as if I have anywhere to go. My deluxe, five-star summer accommodations are that double bed in my just-big-enough-for-one cabin at Baby Bear Lodge. The cabins are named after the local wildlife, and of course I’ve been blessed with Beaver #1. The mattress sags something fierce, and the slippery art of keeping the sheets put still eludes me. So there you have it, folks. More forks, or an early night curled up in bed with a paperback.

Choices, choices.

Another car crawls up the rutted fire road, gravel crunching beneath the tires. Why am I working in Grand Central Station? This is Mountainsville, the capital of Nowheresville. There shouldn’t be so much traffic. I don’t have to look. I really don’t have to.

Of course, I look.

How can I not? If my life were a horror movie, I’d totally go into that empty room or check out the nice, dark, spooky woods. And, oh, God, that is a patrol car. I can’t read the words on the passenger side door, can’t tell if this is the local sheriff or if Thad has found me. I recognize the cold clench of my stomach, followed by the wave of nausea. Today’s lunch promptly transforms into one of those little rowboat things that the waves toss around ruthlessly. Still thinking I’m overreacting? Just wait until I hurl on your feet. Hoping stupidly for a coincidence, I crane my neck, trying to see.

Someone moves in behind me. Someone male and large, who’s scuffing his feet deliberately because he’s afraid he’ll scare the shit out of me. The hotshots can be a real sweet bunch, but I’ve already overdosed on scared for today.

“Be right with you.” I twist my neck wishing I’d paid more attention to that yoga thing Olivia had tried to teach me. Olivia’s the second member of the Break Up Club, and she’s a bit of a health and fitness nut. Where I’m a peanut butter milkshake, she’s an organic kale smoothie. As you’d expect, I’m about as flexible as PVC piping, and I still can’t get a good look at the car. Go. Stay. My body practically explodes trying to choose between fight or flight.

The car’s driver is clearly male, but I can’t make out anything else through the tinted glass. I’ll have to wait for him to get out, and then I’ll have only a few seconds to decide. It’s not like I can announce that the good deputy is a thieving bastard. I already tried that and got precisely nowhere. Sure, I know that he broke into Mrs. Joan’s house, stole enough jewelry to purchase a small island in the South Pacific, and then covered his thieving ass by setting the house on fire. Problem is, I caught him leaving—but I have no proof. It’s my word against his. And no one believed me. My only consolation is that Mrs. Joan wasn’t home—thank God for Bunco night at the senior center—so no one was hurt. Physically, at least. I imagine the older woman mourns the loss of a houseful of memories that no insurance check can replace.

I lean a little further.

Is the door opening? Is he just sitting there, trying to torture me? Maybe I should walk out with my hands up.

“Problem?” Oh, the surprise. The universe has decided to go all in on my helping of trouble today. Because that too-male, too-interested voice belongs to one Pick Revere. Like whiskey going down, his voice is all rough-smooth, golden edges. And just like whiskey, I’ll have nothing but regrets in the morning.

I go with the safe answer. The so-not-true answer. “Nope.”

“You sure?” He sounds unconvinced—and concerned. As if he has a stake in my personal well-being, or at least some kind of interest. Plus, he’s called me out on lying about my mood before.

Somehow, I’m even less surprised by his pursuing me than Thad. He might have removed his mouth from mine after our kiss, but he didn’t pull back. Not really. I’d beat feet back behind my table ready to give the man all the pancakes he could eat, but he’d stood his ground. I’m pretty certain he’d been five seconds from clearing the table and repeating our kiss, and I hadn’t known how to feel about that. Now, as he steps closer, I swear I can feel the heat of his big body despite the rapidly dwindling stretch of empty space between us.

And there’s the desire I’ve been pretending doesn’t exist, the insta-lust that just shouldn’t happen to mostly-good girls who are trying really hard to start their lives over. I should pick a mantra. Some kind of reminder word that freaking encapsulates what I’m doing here.

Solitude.

Independence.

Absofreakinglutely.

Oooh, that last one is a good one.

Unfortunately, nothing seems to cure me of wanting to jump Pick and see if he’d be open to a game of hide-the-sausage. The extra dirty version, naturally. I remind myself that I’ve declared my independence from the male of the species. Every day is the Fourth of July on my calendar. I’m not dating, and I’m definitely not putting myself in another no-win situation with a take-charge alpha. Everyone here will take his word over mine any day of the week and twice on Sunday.

So there’s the question I don’t want to ask. Pick’s the original bossy lumberjack. Take charge. I’d like to think I could hold my own, but I’m supposed to be flying under the radar in this camp, and there’s no way I take him on quietly. Fighting with him would be fun. And taming the alpha male? Sign me up for that safari, please. It’s just that I shouldn’t. Not today, not tomorrow, not until I’ve somehow magically resolved this business with Thad. My hooha and my heart are officially closed for business.

None of which explains why my stupid head goes rebel and jerks around for a better look at Pick and is promptly rewarded for its foolishness. Pick is definitely worth looking at. His hair is damp from a recent shower, and a clean T-shirt clings to his powerful chest. No fancy words or logos for him. Just plain white cotton and blue jeans paired with practical steel-toes. Strong, tanned forearms cross over his chest as he watches me, his eyes narrowed. Play it off.

This would be more successful if my traitorous head doesn’t swing back and forth between Pick’s pretty face and the parking lot like a Wimbledon spectator.

“There’s really no problem?” I have to give him credit. He sounds like he’s at least trying to believe me. I promptly feel all warm and tingly inside because my stupid, stupid head is suggesting that we’ve just found ourselves a white knight and we should take full advantage. You know, ride off with him into the sunset of happiness, or at least ride him. Lady’s choice, right?

“No,” I repeat, a little more loudly than is strictly necessary. “I’m absolutely fine. My life is one big dream.”

Liar, liar, pants on fire.

For Pick, those certain southern parts of me point out.

Nightmare alert, my head screams because it’s hard to ignore the police when you’re on the run, no matter how hot the local scenery is.

The patrol car makes that small pinging sound of a vehicle that’s been driven long, far, and fast. Funny how such a little sound still sounds like the trumpets announcing the start of the apocalypse. I can practically hear God going told you so. I’m such a bad country song. The po-po shows up, lights flashing, and I can’t stop myself from flinching. Thank that laughing God that I don’t play poker.

“Seems like it to me.” Pick’s right behind me now. “You’re real tense.”

Okay, Captain Obvious. Also, FYI? I’m revoking his credit for pretending to believe me when I said I was okay. Still, he wins some points back for his next move. A big hand walks down my spine, pressing out the knots. Bliss. Leaning into that hand would be too easy.

“Figment of your imagination.” I pull away because I’m still wearing my big girl panties (despite the panty-melting qualities of my companion), tracking the car with my eyes. Will the door ever open? Why on earth is he just sitting there? Admittedly, even the non-penis-owning scenery up here is impressive, and lots of people like to ooh and ah over big, tall trees and the mountains, but still. He should get out. Move on. Do whatever it is that police officers get paid to do that does not involve arresting my butt.

Pick’s hand comes back, landing on my shoulder. I do my best not to flinch. Just because I kissed him yesterday doesn’t mean he has touching privileges now.

I’ll use my words if I have to.

Of course, I also talked and talked that last time I visited the police station. I filled out forms and told them what I knew. Thad paid me a little visit that same night. He’d pulled up alongside me in his patrol car and snapped out an order to get in. At least he’d pointed toward the passenger side and not the back, in the Plexiglas cube where he locked up criminals. After I got in—and I should have started running right then—he threatened me. If I kept talking, he’d talk, too, and share his side of things. The whole time, his fingers clenched my arm, squeezing the bones of my forearm together. It hurt. It was like being in a bad movie, except we weren’t at the happy ending right before the credits start rolling, when our heroine has overcome all the nasty shit life’s dumped on her and hooked up with the hero. I was stuck in the part where she’s lost all hope. I promptly panicked and ran as soon as he let me out.

I can’t do that again.

Strike that. I won’t do it.

New and improved me will stick up for herself or get even or maybe consider mortgaging her soul to buy a remote castle with a really big moat. Then I can always pull up the drawbridge and wait trouble out.

“You know the county sheriff?” Pick’s voice rumbles in my ear. Is it just me, or does he even sound sure and steady? Dependable. Protective. Like a total white knight, if you know, white knights were the size of mountains and rode Harleys in their spare time. Whereas I’m ready to run around in frenzied circles looking for an exit, he’s not in any rush. The car door is definitely opening, the sound drifting through the cafeteria’s screen door.

“Not me.” God, I hope not.

“So there’s no problem there. You didn’t date and dump him, or bump into him in the supermarket and have to listen to his long-ass stories about fishing and now he’s on your avoid-at-all-costs list.”

Pick’s drawl is slow and knowing. He knows he makes me nervous, and he knows I’m hiding something. In fact, he knows far too much. I open my mouth to say something, anything, because I know things, too. Like how to lie. It probably should bother me how easily the lies come, but I’m long past caring about ethics and moral values. You don’t put caviar on your shopping list when you’re down to your last dollar. Adrenaline spikes through my body, leaving me weak at the knees and painfully alive. Life is too short. Too uncertain. Blah blah freaking blah. Pick’s big body brushes against mine because of course he hasn’t stayed away, and I make the split-second decision to seize the opportunity. He’s here, he’s close, and if I don’t have my way with my hotshot now, tomorrow might be too late.

Thad could find me tomorrow. And if not tomorrow, the calendar is full of alternative dates, all of which will end equally badly for me. The only safe moment is now. I have to stop freaking out at every little noise. This is no way to live.

And I really, really want to live.

The last few months I’ve been putting down the highway of life in an overloaded minivan towing a whole lot of baggage. I’m ready to upgrade to a Camaro. To something with sizzle and flash and fire. No more speed limits, no more detours, no more wishing I’d gone in a different direction.

I’m lonely, I want sex, and this big hunk of man mountain is checking all the boxes on my top ten sexiest man traits list. You think all those driving metaphors were bad? Well, I’m getting off the highway of fear. Pulling over, making a pit stop, taking some me time.

This hotshot’s mine.

“Sarah Jo?”

“Yeah?” Even the way he says my name revs me up.

“You dating the sheriff?” I can hear the amusement in his voice, along with something else. Something that’s darker, hotter, and way more dangerous to my panties.

“No dating at all,” I get out, before a big finger comes up and covers my lips.

“Better not to say anything, darling. Whatever you’re coming up with, I’ll wait for the truth.”