Page 7 of A Valentine for the Growly Fire

He’s in the parking lot, leaning against the side of his truck. He’s wearing a long-sleeve fire station shirt that clings to his massive arms, jeans that look weathered from hours of hard labor, and a look of serious restlessness on his ridiculously hot face.

All I want to do is run up to him and jump into his big, beefy arms.

“Looks busy tonight,” he says, nodding toward the diner as he pushes himself away from his truck.

“Well, it’s Valentine’s Day,” I say, smiling.

Thorne lets a beat pass. “It is?”

I’m not surprised that he’s oblivious to the holiday. He doesn’t exactly strike me as the kind of guy who keeps track of those kinds of things.

“Yep, it sure is,” I say. “But don’t worry, Thorne. It doesn’t really make a difference to me.”

It’s a bit of a fib; I love this holiday. But I don’t want him feeling any kind of pressure about it. Besides, just getting to spend time with him is the best Valentine’s treat I could ask for.

“Stay here,” Thorne says, pointing at the ground, as if he’s forbidding me to literally move my feet. I kind of want to tease him about that, but I’m more curious to see what he’s about to do.

I watch as Thorne turns and stalks away. He’s gone for exactly six minutes and twenty-three seconds—I know that because I keep checking my watch. When he reappears, he’s got a massive bouquet of flowers in his hand.

“Didn’t know what kind you liked best,” he says, thrusting them out to me.

I can’t get over how big and beautiful the bouquet is. It’s made up of red roses, white roses, dahlias, tulips, peonies, snapdragons…it’s so much. It’s more than I deserve.

“You shouldn’t have, Thorne,” I say.

“You don’t like them?” he asks, frowning.

“No, I do!” I say. “They’re beautiful. I meant that you didn’t need to get me flowers. I don’t need to be spoiled like this.”

“No, you do,” he says simply, as if it’s a fact.

He walks around to open the passenger side of his truck. I happily hop in and hug the flowers to my chest as I watch him walk around the front to get in the driver’s seat. The inside of his truck is a little messy—there’s dried mud on the floor mats, fast food receipts stuffed in the center console, and a bunch of random tools and rags and other things thrown around. I like it, though. It feels like an extension of him.

The truck tips a little to the side when Thorne gets in. As he backs up the truck, he drapes one of his muscular arms across the back of my seat. I have the urge to scoot closer to him and tuck myself up against his big body. I just want to be held by him. Yesterday, when he had me pinned up against the wall in my apartment, it didn’t just feel good because he was grinding his huge cock against me—it also felt good because I felt so safe and protected by him.

As we drive through town, I peer out the window, curious about where Thorne is taking me. Peach Ridge isn’t that big of a town, and there are only so many restaurants here.

“Shit,” Thorne says, sighing as he slows in the middle of the street. We’ve stopped in front of the nicest restaurant in town, a French place called Le Bonheur. It’s all lit up, and looks extremely crowded.

“So much for that,” he grumbles.

“Oh, it’s okay,” I say. “We don’t need to go anywhere fancy.”

He’s silent for a few seconds. Then he says, “Every place is going to be fully booked tonight, huh?”

“Unfortunately, I think that’s pretty likely,” I say.

Thorne thinks for another few seconds, then puts the car back into drive. A few minutes later, he’s turning into the parking lot of our local grocery store. I leave the flowers in the car and we walk into the store together.

As we walk in, I notice that everyone looks at Thorne. No, theystareat Thorne. I can’t believe how rude people are. Is this what he has to deal with all the time? My heart hurts for him. Nobody should have to deal with being gawked at.

I reach for Thorne’s hand and thread my fingers between his. He looks down at our joined hands in surprise. When his eyes lift to meet mine, I smile at him.

“We’re on a date, aren’t we?” I say.

His eyes gleam at me, and I feel a warm pulse between my thighs. Then he leads me by the hand over to the deli, where he says, “Well? What should we get?”

“Those sandwiches are really good,” I say, pointing to the baguette sandwiches in the refrigerated section. Thorne grabs one of each kind, then several of the pre-packaged deli salads. It’s way more food than we need. Before I can protest, Thorne pulls me over to the chilled drinks and puts four different bottles in our basket.

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