Page 3 of Living with Fire
Double shit, since he must have heard me curse, his eyes darting up from his phone to give me a look.
Triple shit when he does a double take at the box in my arms, his eyes moving back to my face for a moment before he sticks an arm out to catch the door before it closes.
“You getting on?” he asks, the rough timbre of his voice sliding down the length of my spine, making me stand taller.
I did not just shiver.
I have no right to shiver over a man’s voice. Especially a man I’ve never met before in my life. Definitely not on the same day I catch a guy I’ve been dating, fucking another woman.
I also have zero business noticing the insanely gorgeous electric blue eyes that are now staring into mine, or how they’re framed by eyelashes that any woman would kill to have. Chocolate brown hair styled in a crew cut, with a little length on top, frames a ruggedly handsome face with a five o’clock shadow, despite it only being ten in the morning. More than anything, though, I know I shouldn’t be gawking at the thick biceps and broad shoulders that pull a gray shirt tight across a hard chest.
Slamming my teeth together to keep from saying a word—my mouth can’t be trusted at this point—I walk into the elevator. Turning to face the door, I hold my chin high and straighten my back. I hope that the embarrassment of my walk of shame is staying off my face while I pray that he didn’t catch me checking him out.
The man drops his arm from the door, stepping back so he’s beside me, but I know his eyes followed me inside and are still turned in my direction. It makes me want to melt into the floor. I can feel my cheeks heating, and I’m certain they’re tinged a bright pink, but maybe the bad elevator lighting will keep him from noticing.
Please let it keep him from noticing, I send up another silent prayer. Please make him stop looking at me.
It’s been a rough morning and I do not need some guy, especially one as hot as him, hitting on me.
“I didn’t get fired if that’s what you’re thinking,” I tell him, channeling my embarrassment into indignation, turning my nose up. Cutting him off at the knees before he can make a move on me seems like a wise decision.
“Not what I was thinking,” he says with mild amusement. “I was—”
“Good,” I cut him off pridefully, “Because I’ll have you know that I quit. I quit because men are disgusting, filthy pigs, so don’t even think about hitting on me while we’re in this elevator. I will not take kindly to it.”
This is why I was supposed to keep my mouth shut. So I wouldn’t say things like this. Though I suppose this is better than telling him he’s a hot piece of eye candy.
I can feel his enjoyment for the situation grow as he says, “Is asking what floor you need considered hitting on you? ‘Cause that’s all I was thinking about.”
CHAPTER 2
NATE
This office is as suffocating as it is tiny, not allowing a guy to take a single breath without feeling like he’s choking on the surrounding air. When I put my gray t-shirt on this morning, it didn’t feel quite as tight around my neck as it does now, threatening to strangle the life out of me. And is it hot in here? It feels like I’ve run into a burning building without any gear for protection.
As a firefighter, temperatures soaring into the hundreds don’t usually faze me. I know how to deal with them—drop to the floor where the heat is less dangerous, and crawl your way to safety. Easy. Adrenaline is constant, but it fuels me, pushes me forward, keeps me and my men safe. Fear comes and goes, but dealing with fire and extreme heat has become second nature to me. As a fire lieutenant for the Santa Rosé fire department, I’m expected to handle these things.
I am not equipped to handle the problem before me.
“Did you hear me, Nate?” Larry, my accountant, asks grimly.
Swallowing around the lump that’s formed in my throat, I force myself to give the older, balding man a nod. I hear him, I just don’t know what I’m going to do about it.
“Everything on that list has to be in my office in the next two weeks,” he reiterates what he’s already told me, like I didn’t hear him the first time. “Invoices, receipts, loans, assets—”
“Income statements, expense records, payroll information,” I interrupt, finally finding my voice. “Yeah man, I’ve got the list.” I hold up the piece of paper he shoved in my direction no more than two minutes ago. “I’ll get it all together.”
“If you need my help…” he starts, trailing off when I raise a hand to silence him.
“I know what you charge an hour, Larry. I’ll figure it out.” I have no idea how, but I don’t have much of a choice.
A week ago, I found out the bar that my sister, Jordan, and I inherited from my uncle on my mom’s side, was in trouble with the government. Turns out, Uncle Pete decided not dealing with “Uncle Sam” and the taxes properly wouldn’t have any consequences. I didn’t truly know how bad it was until twenty minutes ago, when Larry laid it out in no uncertain terms that if I didn’t get everything he needed, we would probably be faced with closing the doors.
There’s no way I can let that happen.
As bad as Uncle Pete has made this for me—us, since Jordan is technically half owner—I can’t lose the one thing that brought my uncle happiness in the last two decades of his life. After he retired from firefighting, 10-42—which means off duty, or ending tour of duty—was his pride and joy, and he turned it into mine.
I’ve worked in the bar for my uncle since I was sixteen, starting as a dishwasher, and working my way through the ranks. It was what I did before I joined the academy to become a firefighter, it’s what I did during my training, and it’s what I’ve done on my days off since.