Page 13 of Booked Up with the Mountain Man Firefighter

“I’m still here,” he says.

I lean forward and kiss him. I close my eyes and let the glass come down.

EPILOGUE

ELLIE: 5 YEARS LATER

The bookstore looks different at five o’clock than it did five years ago.

My display is still by the front window, and I still keep it stocked with books I love. But there’s a kids’ section now, tucked into the back corner where the extra inventory shelving used to be. Small chairs, a rug with constellations on it, and board books in low bins that tiny hands can reach. A stuffed bear sits in the reading chair—a bear I didn’t put there. Mack did. He brings something new for the corner every few weeks and pretends he doesn’t.

Mack’s mom has the girls tonight. Scarlett is three and Luna is only one, and they both keep us more than busy. My mother-in-law drives up from Denver once a month and spoils them in ways I pretend to disapprove of, and Mack pretends he didn’t coordinate the whole thing.

The bell rings. Mack fills the doorway in his station uniform—the same dark tee, the same boots, the same grin. The ring catches the light when he leans over the counter and kisses me, the way it has every evening for four years. He crosses the shop, leans over the counter, and kisses me, and I can smell smoke and soap and the coffee Lea slipped him on his way through the courtyard.

“I need to show you something,” he says.

“What?”

“It’s at the station.”

“Mack.”

“Trust me.”

I lock up the shop and walk with him down Prospect Street in the late light. His hand is around mine, and he’s talking. He’s always talking. I’m laughing at something he said about Dean and a ladder drill when we turn the corner and the station comes into view.

It’s empty. The bay doors are up, the overhead lights are on, and the engine is parked inside, gleaming under the fluorescents. No crew. No noise. Just the truck and the big quiet space and Mack pulling me through the bay door with that grin.

“You didn’t,” I say.

“Cleared it with Holt.”

“You told Holt?”

“I told Holt I needed the station for an hour. He didn’t ask questions. Holt never asks questions.”

He lifts me up onto the engine, his hands sure under my thighs, and the metal is cold through my jeans. The bay doors rumble down behind us with a heavy finality that echoes through the cavernous space. Overhead lights flick off, plunging everything into shadow except for the faint amber spill from the streetlamps outside.

Mack’s boots hit the running board, then he’s crowding me into the open cab of the truck. The space is suddenly small and intimate, thick with the scent of diesel.

“Mack,” I breathe, but it’s half laugh, half plea.

His mouth is on mine in seconds, hot and demanding, tongue sliding against mine like he’s been starving for this all day. My back hits the cool leather of the jump seat and I arch into him, fingers digging into the stiff fabric of his uniform shirt.

The echo of our breathing fills the cab—ragged, urgent. Outside, nothing but silence and vast empty bays. Inside, only heat.

He strips my sweater over my head in one rough motion, lips trailing down my throat, teeth grazing my collarbone. My bra disappears next. The contrast is dizzying—cold air on my skin, his mouth burning as he sucks a nipple between his lips. I moan, the sound bouncing off the metal walls, and he growls against me, the vibration shooting straight between my legs.

“Been thinking about this since I left this morning,” he mutters.

He shoves my jeans down my hips. I kick them off along with my shoes, clumsy in the tight space, but he doesn’t care.

His palm slides up my thigh, fingers finding me already wet and aching. Two thick fingers push inside without warning and I cry out, hips jerking against his hand. He works me open with steady strokes, thumb circling my clit until my thighs shake.

But he doesn’t let me chase it. Instead he drops to his knees on the narrow floorboard, broad shoulders spreading my legs wider.

The position is filthy and perfect in the cramped cab—my back against the cool leather seat, one leg hooked over his shoulder, the other braced against the dashboard. Cold metal presses into my skin wherever he isn’t touching me.