Saxon doesn’t look amused.
He does, however, look furious.
His gaze sweeps the area like he’s expecting flames to burst from behind the playground slide at any moment.
Then he turns back to me.
And starts stalking closer.
Oh God. He’sclosenow.
Broad shoulders filling my entire field of vision.
Brow tight.
Jaw ticking.
Chest rising and falling like he sprinted the length of the building.
“Did you pull the alarm?” he demands.
Technically no. Technically yes. Technically I’m an idiot.
“It was a mistake,” I rush out. “New switches, new classroom, new…everything.”
His voice drops, low and lethal.
“Kindergarten fire drills don’t activate the entire goddamn station, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart.
My brain short-circuits.
I’m ninety percent mortified, ten percent offended, and one hundred percent aware of how his voice sounds like gravel and smoke and something I shouldnotbe reacting to.
“I said it was a mistake,” I snap, irrationally defensive.
His brow lifts. He actually looks like he might combust. “A mistake that pulled three engines, an ambulance, and half my crew off shift. Care to explain that?”
“I hit the wrong switch.”
His eyes narrow.
“Which wrong switch?”
“The…red one.”
“Which red one?”
I throw my hands up. “Why are there thirty identical stupid switches in a row? That’s the real emergency here.”
He steps in closer—so close I feel heat radiating off him.
I swallow. Hard.
He leans down just enough his voice barely carries to anyone but me.
“The real emergency is you nearly triggering a building-wide evacuation.”
