Shake it off.
I try.
And I succeed. I have to, to do the job I’ve fought so hard for. Still, though, that spark I felt the very first time I laid eyes on him, it lingers, curling my fingers tighter around the seat beneath me, a visceral reaction to the mere fecking thought of him, and I’m grateful for the diversion of the scene we roll up on.
I jump down from the rig on high alert, the scent of burning oil heavy in the air, sharp, acrid, and horribly familiar.
“Food court!” someone shouts. But I’m already on my way, boots on gravel crunching the frost, surveying the scene as I pass through with a second crew member at my back.
Sonny.
Logan’s replacement. Criminally, that’s about all I know about him, but there’s no time to fix that now. He’s not Logan. No one ever will be.
But he’ll do.
We jog past the marquees lined up in the grounds of the stately home, a perfect row against the grandeur behind them, fairy lights flickering in the wind.
I’m sure it’s pretty as hell, but as I spot the ribbons of black smoke curling into the winter sky, I don’t much care.
I duck around the last tent. Heat slams into me, blasting any lingering cold from my skin. On a nearby food truck, the fryer fire is popping off, flames roaring above the steel vat, licking the sides of the tent it’s parked against.
Too much oil.
Classic.
And I can already tell some moron’s chucked water on it, leaving us little time to contain it before the whole row of tents goes up.
“Evacuate,” I tell the security guard who’s followed us all the way from the rig. “Now.”
It’s not my job to check he does it. The watch commander can do that from the perimeter. I focus on fire suppression with Sonny backing me up.
The blaze is belligerent.
Takes a while to subdue.
We put it out a little while later, and I stand down with rancid smoke stinging my eyes. Strip my gear back, peel my helmet off, and take a breath of cold, sharp air as I tune back in to my environment.
Damn. The scene before me isn’t very fecking festive. I turn away from it, letting Sonny take control of securing the fryer site, cooling it down and clearing the oil.
It’s habit to scan my surroundings. Absent, almost. I’m not taking in the details, just checking for danger as my adrenaline fades, waiting for the relief to hit, a drop in energy I’ve always kinda hated, even when it means no one’s died.
But the slump doesn’t come. As my pulse slows and my breathing evens out, a new feeling simmers at the base of my spine. A pull in my chest that has me straightening despite the recovery my body demands.
I glance around the cleared fête again, telling myself this is the last place he’ll be. Why would he behere? Selling crafts and cakes? Or spending a small fortune on them?
But like most things recently, my logic is found wanting. My gaze skips over a hundred people before it lands on broad shoulders and dark hair, and there he is.
Sab.
Not looking at me, but profoundly present, and that feeling in my body—my physical reaction to him—it’s powerful. I swallow, pulse kicking again, thudding in my veins, and not from the blaze or the exertion of putting it out. No. It’s from the warmth sweeping through me as I trace the lines of his profile, the angle of his jaw, and the way he stands so strong and masculine in the world as he talks to someone I can’t even begin to notice, oblivious to how magnetic he is.
It’s crazy, but for a second, I almost run from it.
But my boots don’t move.
If anything, they plant deeper into the frosty grass, and just as I’m questioning my sanity, Sab looks up. Heseesme, and heat lurches in my chest, desire and yearning sweeping through me, laced with something far softer, and perhaps what Nash was trying to warn me about.
Maybe I’ll figure it out later. As the world narrows, the bustle and chaos fading, I have no chance of doing it now.
