Page 26 of The Firefighter's Fate

She’s the complete opposite of me, to be frank.

I can’t help but admit that my cock hardened at the sight of her. It’s been a hell of a long time since I’ve allowed myself to be attracted to the fairer sex. I’m always too focused on my work... on my defenses...

But her prettiness shone through all of that.

And somehow made me hard.

For fuck’s sake, Connor. What the hell are you thinking?

A fucking journalist...

Out of anyone on this planet?

“Who was that?” Eric asks me.

We’re sitting in the back of the fire engine, being driven to this job. The alarm saved me from really letting loose at that Ember Mortensen back at the fire station. I really wanted to give her a piece of my mind for daring to intrude on my world like that.

I glare at my friend.

“I have no idea,” I reply. “She’s a nobody.”

But I saw the determination in her eyes as she confronted me. I can tell she’s not done with me yet.

And that scares me.

I know a good journalist when I see one, and she seems like a journalist who will stop at nothing for her story. And her story is clearly about me.

I can’t allow her to get the upper hand. I have to be ready for her second coming.

And I certainly can’t allow myself to get fucking hard again in front of her. That would be unacceptable.

So I’m going to find out who exactly she is.

12

EMBER

I’m sitting at a bar on the main street of Crystal River with an open notebook in front of me and with absolutely no idea what to write on the first page. I bite down on my pen and ponder...

Connor Penmayne completely blew me off, with not even a word indicating he might even be prepared to have a single conversation with me. It’s clear he hates journalists to the bone.

Well, I need to talk to him somehow.

Waylen is expecting me to do this. Somehow. He’s expecting me to write this crazy article. He wants me to tug on Connor’s heartstrings and bring him back to the family with just my words...

I’m royally screwed, aren’t I? And all because of a billionaire’s ego.

I’m interrupted in my thoughts by some man sliding over to me. He grips a beer in one hand. He wears a baseball cap and a flannel shirt. He’s probably a decade or so older than me, in his mid-thirties. He looks older.

Boy, I can smell him before he even speaks – a lovely mixture of alcohol and body odor.

“You’re a pretty lady,” he says quietly. Just loud enough for me to hear, but not loud enough for the other patrons or bartender to eavesdrop.

I’m not even looking at him.

I’m obviously focused on my work.

I’m not indicating I’m looking for conversation in any way, and especially not one about how pretty I am.

---