"It'll be boring. Lots of paperwork questions and corporate double-speak."
"I'll survive."
"You'll have to wear something other than your calendar-ready firefighter look."
He steps closer, hands finding my waist and pulling me against him. "Are you saying you don't want me showing up in turnout gear?"
"I'm saying Blackwood Properties might take the investigation more seriously if my boyfriend doesn't look like he's about to pose for a charity auction."
"Boyfriend." His grin softens into something warmer. One hand slides up to cup my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone. "I like hearing you say that."
"Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late." He leans down and kisses me—soft at first, then deeper when I melt into him. My hands find his shoulders, those unnecessarily broad shoulders I apparently talk about in my sleep, and I stop caring about corporate interviews or arson patterns or anything that isn't the warmth of his mouth on mine.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing harder.
"It's after three," he says, voice rough. "I should probably let you get some sleep."
"You could stay." The words come out before I can second-guess them. "If you want."
His eyes search mine. "You sure?"
"I'm sure."
"Okay." He kisses me again, soft and sweet. "But you're actually sleeping. Not staying up analyzing employee records until dawn."
"I make no promises."
"Riley."
"Fine. Sleep. I'll try."
He grins and pulls me toward the hallway. "Come on. Before you change your mind and pull out more spreadsheets."
Blackwood Properties occupies the top two floors of a glass-and-steel building downtown, the kind of aggressive modern architecture that screams money without bothering to whisper taste. The lobby is all marble and chrome, with a reception desk that probably cost more than my car.
Aiden, true to his word, has dressed down—dark slacks, a blue button-down that brings out his eyes, no turnout gear in sight. He's toned down the megawatt smile, replaced it with something more serious. Still irritatingly handsome, but in a way that might pass for professional.
"Stop fidgeting," I mutter as we wait for the elevator.
"I'm not fidgeting."
"You've adjusted your collar three times."
"This shirt is uncomfortable. I feel like I'm being slowly strangled by business casual."
"Welcome to my world."
The elevator deposits us on the fourteenth floor, where a sleek receptionist directs us to a conference room with floor-to-ceiling windows and a view of Copper Ridge that probably makes executives feel like gods.
Harrison Blackwood himself meets us. Late fifties, silver hair, the kind of tan that suggests golf vacations rather than actual outdoor labor. His handshake is firm but not aggressive, his smile practiced but not insincere.
"Ms. Pritchard. Thank you for coming." His eyes flick to Aiden with polite curiosity. "And you are?"
"Lieutenant Aiden Gentry, Copper Ridge Fire Department." Aiden's charm is dialed to professional rather than dazzling. "I'm consulting on the investigation."
"Of course." Blackwood gestures toward leather chairs arranged around a polished conference table. "Please, sit. I want to help in any way I can. These fires have been devastating for our company."
