Robbie
Sweet! OMW!
Robbie’s not kidding about being on his way. I barely have time to pull ingredients out of the fridge before he’s knocking on my door.
When I open it, he’s standing there grinning at me with no clue whatsoever that I just defiled the fuck out of his innocent selfie.
“New fashion for spring,” he says, stepping inside and throwing his coat beside mine on the hook by the door. He strikes an Adonis pose to show off his muscles, then pointstwo fingers down at his junk. “All the guys are gonna want this.”
I refuse to look. “Yes, all the boys will want to be safety-pinned disasters. Get in here. I’ll make you something.”
He follows me to the kitchen, his presence immediately filling my small apartment. Robbie’s too big for most spaces—not just because of his size, but because his whole personality is warm and encompassing, and you can’t help but get caught in it.
At leastIcan’t.
“Sausages and peppers okay?” I ask, already pulling containers out of the fridge. “I don’t have flatbread up here.”
“Perfect. I’m mostly craving the sausage right now.”
I shoot him a look, ready to roll my eyes at his dumb joke, but Robbie’s not looking at me. His cheeks are flushed, and he’s staring very intently at my ceiling.
Weird.
I can’t help but wonder if this is a reaction to me blurting out thatsuck my dickthing last week.
“So… any callouts tonight?” I ask, dumping pre-chopped peppers and onions in the pan.
“A couple. Pretty low-key. Got a workout in, which was good.” He leans back against the counter near the stove—his usual spot, but tonight, he’s shifting his weight and practically squirming like he forgets how to stand still. “Alma Wendt’s carbon monoxide detector went off. Oh my god, did I tell you about how Clay Marsh called to report an interdimensional portal, and Holden and I practically had to rock-paper-scissors over whether supernatural events fall under the sheriff’s purview or mine?”
Robbie’s laugh warms me all over.
“Just please tell me you won,” I say.
We talk about our usual stuff—work, sports, the tourism campaign Beckett’s boyfriend Griffin’s been working on for months. But there’s something different tonight. Robbie keeps moving closer, then backing away. And every time he gets near, I catch the scent of him—that damn freaking cologne—and my brain short-circuits a little.
That’s not just me feeling guilty and overthinking either, pretty sure. Whenever I glance over at him, Robbie’s looking at me—studying me, more like—and then he looks away quickly.
If I didn’t one thousand percent know better, I’d almost think?—
Jesus. How many times do I have to go down this road before I learn?
“So what do you think about Greene?” Robbie asks, his voice a little rough. “You’ve had two shifts as his senior mentor now, right?”
“He’s smart,” I admit, adding sausage to the pan. “Blows everyone out of the water in physical training too. But… I dunno. He’s young, Robbie. I don’t think you and I were ever that young.” I grimace. “Maybe he’s more respectful to you and Hugh, the ‘real’ firefighters. But to us volunteers? Not so much.”
Robbie tugs at his bottom lip—a habit I absolutely do not find distracting—and considers this. “I hear you. I gave him thirty days, and it’s only been, what, a week?”
“About that, yeah.”
“Still time for you to kick his ass into shape, if you speed things up.”
I snort. “My particular skill set with asses doesn’t involve speed. Or kicking, for that matter.”
I wasn’t kidding when I said that I don’t usually joke about sex—at least notmehaving sex—with Robbie. But it’s not like we haven’t both done it with others. Meaningless trash talk is the primary purpose of a locker room; changing your clothes is a distant second.
But tonight—less than thirty minutes after imagining Robbie groaning “show me how much you can take” while I jerked off—my cheeks go flame-hot, and all I can think about is Robbie’s ass. About my comment last week. About how everything feels weirdly charged.
“Uh, s-sorry?” I say lamely.
