Lieutenant Crawford had kissed me, not just any kiss, but the kind described in romance novels. His kiss reminded me of why people wrote songs and poems about this feeling.
I touched my lips, remembering the pressure of his mouth against mine. For the first time since moving to Goodwin Grove, something unfurled in my chest, like I was ready to let someone in, maybe even if someone carried as much fire within him as Lieutenant Liam Crawford.
I walked awayfrom Gisselle's place with my skin thrumming, like the volume on every nerve ending I owned had been turned up. Her taste lingered on my lips, following me down the empty sidewalk.What the hell had I done?Kissing her hadn't been a part of any plan, and I always had a plan, yet the moment that truck came speeding around the corner, everything in me shifted. One minute, I was Lieutenant Crawford, walking a woman home, the way any decent man would do. The next minute, I held her against me, inhaling the scent of her hair and crossing a line I hadn't even realized I'd been approaching.
Unconsciously, my fingers rose to my mouth, still feeling the pressure of her lips against mine: sweet, warm, and responsivein a way that made my chest tighten at the imprint she'd left on me.
I hadn't navigated this territory in years, and it left me stumbling around like a fool. I wasn't the type of man who spontaneously kissed on street corners, much less allowed a woman to make my heart race like a four-alarm fire. I definitely didn't stand on women's doorsteps, fighting the urge to ask if I could come inside. Yet, there I was, like a lovesick teenager, replaying every second of that kiss in high definition.
The fire station came into view as I walked. The bay doors were open as the night crew on shift performed their duties. As I approached, I straightened my shoulders, pulling Lieutenant Crawford back around me like armor.
"Blaze, I thought you were long gone by now. The cook-off ran late?" Connor asked.
"Something like that," I replied, keeping my answer short.
"Damn, it looks like someone had a good night," Jaxon commented from where he was coiling the hose.
I raised an eyebrow. "I just came to get my truck."
"Chief left some paperwork on your desk about the task force. He said it can wait 'til Monday," Connor noted.
"Thanks. Anything I should know about the shift change?" I questioned.
"All quiet. The usual Saturday night drunk calls are coming in. Nothing serious."
"Cool. I'm out," I replied.
I headed to my truck, opened the door, and slid inside. I started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot. The streets of Goodwin Grove were mostly quiet now. I stopped at the light and waited. The normalcy of the town felt surreal, compared to what was happening in my head.
What was I doing? Getting involved with anyone right now was asking for trouble. The arson investigation had ramped up,demanding more of my time and mental energy than I could spare. I had responsibilities to my crew, this town, and the job. I couldn't afford distractions, and Gisselle was definitely a distraction.
My phone buzzed in the cup holder, pulling my attention. I glanced down, half-hoping it might be her. Instead, it was a notification from the department scheduling system, reminding me of Monday's shift change. I left it unanswered, refocusing on the road.
At the intersection of Pine and Maple, I glanced down the street leading back to Gisselle's neighborhood. I couldn't lie. I considered driving back to her place, and… what? Knocking on her door and asking if she wanted to pick up where we left off?
I shook my head and continued straight toward my home. By the time I pulled into my driveway, I'd convinced myself that what happened with Gisselle was a one-time thing, an impulse triggered by adrenaline and proximity. Nothing more. I'd see her around town, and we'd be friendly, and that would be that. Goodwin Grove was small, but not so small that we'd constantly run into each other.
Except when I turned off my car, all I could think about was how her number was still in my phone and how easy it would be to send her a message.
I grabbed my phone and keys and stepped out into the night air. I climbed the stairs to the porch and punched in the code on the keypad at the door, listening for the beep confirming the alarm system had disarmed. Inside, I dropped my keys on the bookshelf, eying three framed photos: one of my crew after winning the department's annual training competition, another of my mother and sister at Kiara's flight attendant graduation, and the last was Reggie and me in our rookie gear, our arms slung around each other's shoulders. We grinned like we were invincible.
I hung my jacket on the hook and pulled off my boots, leaving them by the door.
"Shower, food, then sleep," I muttered to myself.
I stripped off my shirt as I headed toward the bathroom, dropping it in the hamper. In the mirror, I examined the jagged scar along my left forearm. It was raised and darker than the surrounding skin, extending from below my elbow almost to the top of my wrist, a permanent reminder of the warehouse fire that had taken Reggie and left me with more than physical scars. I ran my thumb along the length of it.
The memory flashed — the crash of the beam, and the searing pain, and Reggie's voice calling out before being silenced forever. Then, strangely, it morphed into Gisselle's fingers brushing against the same scar when she'd grabbed my arm as I pulled her to safety.
I shook my head, turning away from the mirror. My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a text from Kiara.
Kia:
Heard you judged the chili cook-off today. Call me with the boring details before I die from a lack of brother interaction.
I chuckled, thumbing the call button. Kiara answered on the second ring.
"Thought you forgot how to use a phone," Kia said.
