“Uh-huh.” Hazel exchanges a look with the others that I don’t appreciate. “And did this tyrannical face happen to be attached to a body?”
“All faces are attached to bodies, Hazel. That’s how anatomy works.”
“A tall body?” Jessica asks, too innocently. “Broad shoulders? The kind of build that suggests he could probably carry you out of a burning building without breaking a sweat?”
Heat crawls up my neck. “I didn’t notice.”
“You absolutely noticed,” Amber says. “You just described his clipboard with more detail than you’ve ever described anything.”
“Because the clipboard was a weapon! He wielded it like—like?—”
“Like a man doing his job?” Michelle suggests.
I glare at her. Traitor. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“We are on your side,” Hazel says, patting my hand. “We’re just also pointing out that you’ve talked more about this fire marshal in five minutes than you talked about Brad in the last six months of your relationship.”
The table goes quiet. Even I wince at that one.
Brad. My ex-fiancé, who left me six months ago for his hot yoga instructor named Sage. Brad, who said I was “too focused on work” and “not present enough emotionally.”
“That’s different,” I say finally. “Brad never threatened my business.”
“No, he just threatened your sense of self-worth,” Jessica says dryly. “Much better.”
“Can we focus?” I pull out my notebook and flip to my increasingly desperate notes. “I have a Valentine’s event in twelve days. I need to figure out how to make this work, or I’m going to lose a massive deposit, disappoint everyone who bought tickets, and prove Brad right about my life being a disaster.”
“Brad is a sentient protein shake who ghosted his own engagement party,” Michelle says firmly. “His opinions are invalid.”
“Still.” I tap my pen against the page. “I need a plan. The venue won’t hold thirty people legally. I can’t change locations this close to the event. And Dean Beckett made it extremely clear that if I try anything, he’ll shut me down so fast my head will spin.”
“Dean,” Amber repeats, grinning. “First name basis already?”
“That’s literally his name. It was on his?—”
“His clipboard, yes, we’ve established your fixation.”
I open my mouth to protest, then catch sight of my notes. Where I’ve written “DEAN BECKETT - FIRE MARSHAL - DESTROYER OF DREAMS” in aggressive capitals. And underlined it. Twice.
“Okay,” I say, flipping the page. “New topic. Solutions. I’m thinking I could?—”
The brewery door chimes.
I glance up automatically.
Then promptly choke on my coffee.
Because walking through the door, looking somehow even more devastating in civilian clothes than he did in uniform yesterday, is Dean Beckett himself.
Our eyes meet across the room.
His widen slightly—surprise, recognition—then something darker flickers through them. Something that makes my stomach drop and my pulse kick into overdrive.
His gaze drops to the table, to my notebook, and I realize with hot, creeping horror that from his angle, he can probably read the “DESTROYER OF DREAMS” note.
His eyebrow lifts. Just slightly. Then his mouth curves—not quite a smile, but close enough to make my breath catch.
“Oh,” Hazel breathes beside me, “this just got interesting.”
