Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 48039 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48039 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
Instead, I stab a fork into my pasta so hard the damn utensil bends.
“Christ,” Torres mutters under his breath. “Fork didn’t kill your dog, man.”
I grunt. “Mind your food.”
He smirks. “Hard to mind mine when you’re over there acting like yours insulted your mother.”
The guys chuckle. Savannah hides a smile in her napkin.
And I hate that I notice that too.
Cole clears his throat with the giddy self-satisfaction of someone about to stir the pot. “So, Savannah—tell us more about this ‘secret firefighter past’ you apparently had.”
Savannah blinks. “Excuse me?”
Torres answers, grin wide. “You patched Ramirez up so fast on that last call you looked like you’d done the job before.”
Her brows rise. “I’ve worked trauma all over the world. I didn’t realize that made me a closeted firefighter.”
“No, no—” Cole waves a spoon dramatically. “It means you’ve got the instincts. That’s the problem. We’re trying to figure out where you’ve been hiding them.”
Savannah’s lips twitch. “If you all want to imagine I had a secret identity, I won’t stop you. But I’m not sure firefighter qualifies as mysterious.”
“Only if it’s Ramirez’s brand,” Ash grumbles. “Broods more than a wolf in a romance novel.”
I choke on my water. “What the hell does that mean?”
Torres claps me on the back. “Means you’re intense, Captain Angst.”
“Shut up, Torres.”
Savannah laughs again—light, delighted, too pretty for this ugly metal kitchen—and something in my chest loosens at the sound. It feels like drinking warm whiskey after being cold too long.
Then she smirks at Torres.
And that loosened thing in my chest?
It twists.
Not because she’s laughing. But because she’s laughing at him.
Not me.
Instinct hits fast and hard, the kind you can’t control. My hand tightens on my fork. The metal squeals as it bends another fraction of an inch.
Torres sees it. Everyone sees it.
Cole whistles low. “Easy, big guy. The cutlery didn’t hit on your girl.”
Heat spikes through me so fast I swear the temperature rises ten degrees.
Savannah freezes, eyes wide.
The table goes silent.
“My what?” I manage, voice low, dangerous.
“Oh come on,” Torres says through a mouthful of garlic bread. “You’ve barely blinked since she walked in.”
“Not true,” Ash mutters. “He blinked, once. When she said ‘pass the salt.’”
Laughter erupts around the table.
Savannah’s face flushes a deep, telltale pink.
I should say something to shut it down.
Something calm. Reasonable.
What comes out is neither.
“She’s not—” I start, but my voice cracks more than I intend. I clear my throat. “She’s not my girl.”
Her eyes snap to mine.
For a second, there’s something like disappointment in them.
Or maybe I’m imagining it. Hope is a dangerous thing, and I’ve lived without it for a long damn time.
But then Torres grins at her. Big. Stupid. Too charming.
“So Savannah,” he says, leaning forward, “if you ever want a tour of Devil’s Peak—”
“Torres,” I growl.
His smile widens. “—a real tour, not a firefighting one—”
“Torres.”
“—I’d be honored to—”
I slam my fork down so hard it echoes off the table like a gunshot.
Everyone goes silent. Even the overhead fan seems to pause.
Savannah’s gaze cuts to me. Slow. Intense.
A spark lights behind her eyes, something dark and hot and dangerously curious.
I look away. I have to. Because if I don’t, I’ll drag her into my lap in front of half the station, and that’s not who I am anymore.
That boy died in a fire ten years ago.
But I’m not sure what’s left.
Not when it comes to her.
“I’m going to… get more bread,” I mutter, pushing up from the table.
I don’t need the bread.
I need a second to breathe.
Unfortunately, the universe has a talent for kicking me in the teeth.
Savannah stands too.
Our eyes lock.
And everything inside me stutters violently.
She steps closer. Just enough to brush against my awareness—light, barely-there pressure, but it’s like being hit with a live current.
“Axel?” she says softly.
God. Her voice still wrecks me.
“You okay?” she asks.
I’m not.
Not even close.
But I nod. “Fine.”
“Your fork disagrees.”
I follow her gaze to the table. The fork looks like I tried to make modern art out of it.
I exhale slowly. “I’ll buy a new one.”
She smiles. It’s small. Gentle. Enough to carve me open.
Then she does something I’m not prepared for.
She reaches out and touches my hand. Barely a graze. Fingertips warm. Soft.
But it hits me like a blow to the sternum.
My pulse surges. My muscles tighten. My breath falters.
Her eyes widen—she feels it too.
She pulls her hand back quickly, like she accidentally touched a flame.
Torres, the asshole, hollers from the table: “Ramirez! You gonna break the rest of the silverware or can I eat in peace?”
Savannah steps back. The spell breaks.
But the heat doesn’t fade.
Not even a little.
We both return to our seats, acting like nothing happened.
Acting like I’m not one slow inhale away from losing every ounce of restraint I’ve rebuilt since she left.
She sits. Laughs softly at Cole. Tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.
And I—idiot that I am—watch her.