Lou blows out a long breath as we round the corner and Station 47’s massive firehouse comes into view. “Are you ready for this, Lila?”
I straighten the lapels of my blazer and glance down to make sure I don’t have any gum stuck to my platform loafers.
“Girl, I was born ready.”
***
“It smells like testosterone and wet dog in here,” mutters Lou as we step through the side door that serves as a public entrance.
“That’s the scent of bravery,” I whisper back.
There’s no smiling secretary behind a front desk to greet us, and I’m not really sure why I expected there to be. Instead, we’ve managed to step right into the massive firetruck bay, which resembles a small airplane hangar thanks to its absurdly high ceiling and an exposed mezzanine level that wraps around the entire space.
For a moment, Lou and I gape around us, and then a sharp whistle catches our attention.
“Hey, there! You must be the clean-up crew!”
Lou and I turn in unison and my brain short-circuits for exactly one stupid second.
He’s tall—scratch that, totally huge—with sandy blond hair, a boyish pair of dimples, and biceps that look like they were sculpted by a personal vendetta against sleeves. He’s leaning into the open passenger side of a firetruck, rag in hand, like he lives here. Like he belongs here.
And my body reacts before my brain does.
A quick tightening low in my stomach. A heat-flash of awareness that makes no sense because I’m here to contain a PR disaster, not… notice the impressive span of a stranger’s shoulders.
I blame caffeine. Or New York. Or the fact that I’ve been working too much and sleeping too little.
Whatever it is, I ignore it. I’m very good at ignoring inconvenient physical responses.
Then recognition snaps into place.
Noah Trent. The cat guy. The TikTok menace. The reason my bank account is praying.
Lou makes a confused sound. “No, we’re not here to clean. We’re from Hartstrings PR.”
Noah straightens with an easy grin, tossing the rag over his shoulder like a towel after a swim. “Right—sorry. I meant you’re the clean-up crew for my reputation.” His eyes flick down to my blazer, my latte, then back to my face—warm, playful, a little too aware. “I’m Noah. Promise I’m less of a disaster in person.”
He thrusts out a hand the size of a bear paw.
“Lila Hart,” I introduce myself, marveling at the way his grip swallows my hand whole.
Noah’s thumb shifts—barely—rubbing once over my knuckles like he can’t help himself.
It’s nothing. A reflex. A friendly gesture.
My pulse disagrees.
He lets go, but not before his grin turns faintly wicked, like he knows exactly what my body just did and he’s filed it away for later.
I’m just about to introduce Lou when another tall figure materializes from around the back of the firetruck.
He looks like the antithesis to Noah Trent, though he’s nearly as large. If the blond firefighter exudes sunshine and cupcake sprinkles, this dark-haired, stern-faced man is all thunderclouds and bitter black coffee. It’s working for him, though. He’s insanely hot.
Are they all hot? Is that a requirement?
Because if so, I’m wildly unprepared for this assignment.
My pulse skids, traitorous and loud, and I straighten my spine like posture alone might stop my body from reacting to different kinds of masculine energy at once.
