The same ones that used to hold me like I was breakable now look capable of doing filthy, delicious things that make my knees weaken, and my thighs clench.
But it's his eyes that finish me—icy blue, glacier bright, and locked on me like he already knows I've been picturing him naked in the half-second since he opened his mouth.
I swallow hard.
He smirks.
And just like that, I'm seventeen again and soaking wet for the boy I left behind—except now he's a man who looks like he could ruin me.
My tongue feels too big for my mouth. "Just died on me." I gesture helplessly toward the rental. "No cell service."
"Some things never change."
His voice slides over me—low, unreadable. Amusement? Bitterness? A cruel kind of nostalgia?
I can't tell.
He shifts the SUV into park and steps out, unfazed by the sheets of rain drenching everything in sight—including him.
And holy hell.
The soaked uniform clings like sin, molded to his wide shoulders, broad chest, and thick forearms, flexing as he shuts the door. Across his chest, bold white letters scream FIRE CHIEF, like the universe wants to add insult to injury.
Fire Chief.
Water drips from his dark hair as he strides toward me, slow and unhurried, like he's got nowhere else to be—like he's not just striding across a gravel road, but stomping straight through every defense I've rebuilt in the last ten years.
I, on the other hand, look like hell.
Soaked. Shivering. Mascara likely raccoon-ing around my eyes. My blouse? White. Thin. Absolutely see-through now. And I didn't wear a bra—because I hadn't exactly planned on going fullwet t-shirt contestin front of the one man I still dream about.
And oh yeah. He notices.
His gaze drops. Just for a second.
But it lands.
Heat flashes through those glacier-blue eyes.
Jaw tightens.
Nostrils flare.
I cross my arms instinctively, like that's going to do anything to hide the fact that my nipples are visibly saluting the entire mountain.
He drags his gaze back up, slow as sin, and there's something unreadable in his eyes when they lock on mine again.
"Pop the hood," he says, all clipped command now, like he didn't just gut me with a single look.
I duck into the rental, cursing under my breath as I fumble for the lever with numb fingers, then force myself back out into the downpour.
He's already at the front, sleeves rolled, examining the engine like he was born to fix things. And not just things—me, once upon a time.
"How long's the check engine light been on?"
He doesn't look up. Doesn't need to.
His voice is pure authority—deep, rough, threaded with that impossible mix of command and calm that once made me forget my own name. It slides under my skin like a match striking wet tinder—sparking heat low in my belly, making my breath catch, my thighs press tighter.
