She’s still watching me.
Not in ayou’re annoyingway. In ayou’re interestingway. Which is worse.
“You really shouldn’t get this close to fire,” I tell her again, softer this time.
She hugs her camera to her chest. “You see danger. I see beauty.”
“That’s the problem,” I mutter before I can stop myself.
Her brow furrows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I shake my head. “Nothing. Just… be careful.”
“You always this bossy,” she asks, “or am I getting the special treatment?”
“Special treatment implies I enjoy rescuing you.”
A spark of something bright flashes in her eyes. “Do you?”
I take a slow breath, fighting a losing battle with the part of me that noticed her the first time and is noticing her again now—harder.
“Get back to your cabin, Emma.”
She smiles—small, knowing, like she can see straight through me. “Fine. But only because you asked nicely.”
“I didn’t.”
“You asked nicely for you.”
She throws my own line back at me and walks past, boots crunching on the frosted ground, hair shining in the fading light.
I watch her go for far too long.
When she reaches the trailhead, she glances back once—quick, almost shy.
I’m still staring.
Damn it.
I holster my gear, radio Justin with the all-clear, and head back to the truck. But even as I drive away, clearing my throat and trying to shake off the moment, one truth sticks like a burr I can’t pry loose: That woman is going to be trouble.
And God help me, I’m already in it.
THREE
EMMA
The muffins are still warm when I pull into the fire station parking lot, a small miracle considering I nearly dropped the entire tin when they came out of the oven. I don’t bake often—okay, ever—but guilt is apparently a powerful motivator.
New York Emma never would’ve done this. But Tree-Disaster-Repeat-Offender Emma?
She’s turning into a whole new person.
I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, square my shoulders, and step inside the station.
The warm smell of coffee and something savory—maybe sausage?—greets me, along with a wave of chatter. The place is busy but not frantic, firefighters moving between tables, a few checking equipment. The big garage doors let in strips of pale morning light.
My heart does an unhelpful skitter as I spot him.
