I mean, I am a grown-ass adult.They probably brought the truck along for kids to sit in, not me. But I can’t let it stop me. If I allowed my fears to stop me, I wouldn’t get to do anything in life.
Tugging off my ball cap, I run my fingers through my hair before placing it back on my head and announcing, “Okay, I’m going.”
They give me an encouraging cheer, and my pulse quickens as I head toward the fire truck. There are a few guys milling around in their navy cargo pants and matching fire department T-shirts, chatting and laughing among themselves.
I can do this.
Shoving my shaky hands into the pockets of my jeans, I push down my nerves and plaster on my metaphorical mask of confidence.
“Hey,” I say cheerfully, hoping like hell they didn’t pick up on the slight tremble in my voice.
One of them turns around to face me, and when he straightens to his full height, my mouth drops open slightly because holy shit, this guy is tall. And hot. Like really hot. Dark hair, dark brows over deep brown eyes, but it’s his slow, kind smile that softens his strong nose and stubble-lined, sharp jaw.
“Hey there,” he says, his voice warm and easygoing. He takes a step forward, holding out his hand. “You having a good day?”
My eyes drop to his outstretched hand, and I swallow thickly. What if my palms are all clammy? I don’t want to be touching Hot Guy with sweaty hands.
I try to subtly wipe my palm on my jeans as I pull my hands out of my pockets. I slide my hand into his, and a shiver tracks down my spine at how much bigger his hand is compared to mine. When I drag my eyes back up to his face, his lips tilt in a lopsided grin, like my gawking at him doesn’t bother him at all. He must be at least five or six inches taller than me. Maybe even the same height as my teammate and bestie, Zach Reid. He’s six foot six when he’s not in skates, and Hot Guy could be about the same.
It’s only when he lets go of my hand that I remember I haven’t answered his question.
“Y-yeah,” I stammer, a sudden bout of shyness washing over me. My eyes flick to the fire truck again. The cab door is open. That’s a good sign, right?
“Can I…” I wave a hand at the open door. “Can I sit in it?” I ask before internally rolling my eyes at myself.
Get it together, Olsen.
But despite the quip from my brain, there’s zero judgment in his eyes as he nods. “Of course.”
Hot Guy leads me over to the truck and motions for me to get in. I climb up, pressing my lips together tightly as a wide smile threatens to split my face in two. The nerves I was feeling before slowly start to dwindle away, and in its place is this giddy feeling thrumming through my veins.
“I’m Hunter,” he says once I’m seated behind the wheel. “I work over at Engine 3.”
“I’m Elliot,” I reply, turning to face him.
The tops of my ears heat when our eyes meet. His eyes have this intensity to them, but not in a way that would usually make me feel uncomfortable. They’re kind. Warm. Like the rich hot chocolate drinks you can get at the Christkindlmarket every winter.
And when his face lights in a soft smile as he quietly says, “I know,” I melt like the dollop of cream they put on top.
He talks me through the various buttons and lets me try on a headset that they use to communicate with each other. The entire time he speaks, he’s maintaining eye contact, making me feel like his entire attention is solely on me. Even with my endless media training, usually that would make me feel weird, but with him, it doesn’t. He’s patient with every question I ask, and I notice how his brown eyes sparkle when I laugh as I set off the siren. The expression on his face has my breath hitching in my throat and my stomach swooping.
Outside of the team, I’m usually greeted with two different reactions. Either they’re friendly and think I’m funny, or they think I’m annoying and childish. My earliest memories are being told I’m ‘too much’, and it’s only gotten worse as I’ve gotten older. I try and block it out, but there are times when the comments wedge their spikey teeth in my brain, and I can’t shake off its grip.
Hunter’s kindness is a rarity. One that makes me feel all kinds of fuzzies in my chest.
“Hey, wait there a sec. I have something that’ll make you look the part,” Hunter says before hopping down. He disappears, returning a moment later holding a black helmet. He climbs back up the steps and hands it over. I take it carefully, turning it over in my hands. The badge on the front reads “Engine 3” and “Chicago” at the bottom, and at the top reads “Lieutenant.”
“Is this yours?” I ask dumbly.
“Yeah.” He nods, flashing that all-white smile again. “It is. Put it on. Let’s see how you look.”
So I do. It’s a lot heavier than I imagined it to be. He must have some impressive neck strength to wear this all the time. He takes my phone to take a photo of me wearing it, and I listen intently as he tells me facts. His words coast over my skin likea gentle caress, and I lose myself in his smoky, woody scent. He smells like those nice fragrances in the department store. The ones that don’t give me a headache.
Resting one arm on the leather steering wheel, his other hand grips the seat behind me to steady himself. My gaze lands on his bulging bicep and the vein that pops from beneath the cuff of his shirt.
Fuck, he’s so hot. Is it bad that I want to lick it? Maybe bite it?
Dammit. I think I’m crushing on the guy, and it only intensifies when he says, “You’re welcome down at Engine 3 anytime. Just ask for me, and if I’m not there, one of the others will show you around. But I’m there most days.”
