The response comes almost immediately.
Plans? What plans? You never have plans.
He's not wrong. My life outside the station has been pathetically predictable for years. Work, home, station dinners, the occasional fishing trip or beer with Wade. Rinse and repeat.
Working on the truck. Engine's been giving me trouble.
Need help?
Nah, it’s cool.
All right. Another time then.
I set the phone down and immediately feel sick.
I just lied to my best friend.
The man I've known for thirty years. The man whose daughter calls me Uncle. The man who would probably be happy for me if I just told him the truth.
So why didn't I?
The pancake starts to smoke. I curse under my breath and flip it, but it's too late, one side is charred black. I scrape it into the trash and pour a new one, but my head isn't in it anymore.
I'm not ashamed of Sloane. The very idea is laughable. She's incredible—smart, funny, beautiful, brave. Any man would be lucky to have her look twice at him.
But she's also young. And I'm old-ish. And this is Deepwood Mountain, where everybody knows everybody.
What are people going to say when they find out their fire captain is dating a woman young enough to be his daughter?
Cradle robber.
Dirty old man.
What's wrong with him that he can't find someone his own age?
I've heard it all before, whispered about other people. I know how this town talks.
And I've spent all this time being above reproach—keeping my head down, my private life private, my reputation spotless. I stayed away from dating, afraid women would talk about my preferences.
It was just easier this way. Safer.
Lonelier than hell, but safe.
"Something's burning."
I jerk back to the present. Sloane is standing in the kitchen doorway, and the sight of her scrambles every coherent thought out of my head.
She's wearing my boxers, rolled at the waist so they don't fall off her hips, and my undershirt from yesterday. Her hair is a wild mane around her shoulders, her face still soft from sleep, and she looks so goddamn delicious I forget how to speak.
"Ike?" She's looking at me with concern now, heading toward the coffee pot. "You okay?"
"Fine." I rescue the second burned pancake and toss it. "Just distracted."
She pours herself a mug of coffee and takes a long sip. She studies me, those green eyes missing nothing. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Just—" I gesture at the pan. "Apparently I'm crap at making pancakes."
"Mmhmm." She leans against the counter. "Not convinced. Try again."
