He pauses mid-step, glances back over his shoulder. The look he gives me could melt steel. “My high horse is exactly the appropriate height, thanks. It’s called having standards.”
“It’s called being inflexible.”
“It’s called keeping people safe.” His expression softens just enough to make my chest tight. “Even when they’re too stubborn to appreciate it.”
Then he’s gone, the door chiming behind him, leaving me staring after him with my pulse racing.
“Oh my god,” Amber says.
“That was intense,” Hazel finishes.
“That was nothing,” I insist, taking a long drink of my now-cold coffee. “That was just... arguing.”
“That,” Michelle says, returning to the table with a knowing look, “was foreplay.”
My face flames. “This isn’t a romance novel. This is my actual life, and that man is an actual problem I need to solve.”
“Oh, he’s a problem all right,” Amber grins. “The kind that involves a lot of tension that could be resolved through?—”
“Don’t,” I warn.
Hazel closes my notebook, where I’ve been unconsciously doodling. Small, angry loops that spell outD.B.over and over. “Honey, I don’t think your problem is the occupancy limits.”
“My problem is definitely the occupancy limits.”
“Your problem,” Michelle says gently, “is that you’re attracted to the fire marshal and you don’t know what to do about it.”
I open my mouth to deny it. But my pulse is still racing and I can still smell his cologne and I’m definitely thinking about his hands.
“Okay,” I admit finally. “Fine. Maybe he’s...aesthetically pleasing. In an objective, doesn’t-matter-at-all kind of way. But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s making my life impossible.”
“Or,” Jessica says, tapping her romance novels, “it makes everything more interesting.”
I look down at my notebook. AtDestroyer of Dreamsunderlined twice. Then I think about Dean’s face. The heat in his eyes.
Maybe this just got very, very interesting.
And maybe I’m not entirely upset about it.
FOUR
DEAN
I’m still thinking about her when I pull into the station parking lot.
This is a problem.
Jo Lennox—with her glitter-covered defiance and her notebook full of capital-letter accusations—should not be occupying this much space in my head. She’s Asher’s mother. She’s a fire code violator. She’s exactly the kind of chaos I’ve spent the last decade of my life trying to prevent.
And yet.
The way her eyes flashed. The breathlessness in her voice. That flush creeping up her neck like a visual representation of every unprofessional thought running through my mind.
I slam my truck door harder than necessary. Rex, my German Shepherd mix who rides shotgun on my days off, gives me a reproachful look.
“Don’t start,” I tell him. “She’s off-limits for approximately seventeen different reasons.”
Rex’s expression suggests he doesn’t believe me.
