Page 11 of Flashpoint Feelings

Instead, I step back and run a hand through my hair, trying to get my racing pulse under control. She’s right. We have a job to do. But as she reaches for the Emergency Stop button, her fingers brush mine, and that single point of contact sends another jolt of awareness through me.

This woman will be the death of me. But if one thing is crystal clear now, it’s that she’s worth it.

Maya

“Who’s got you tearing apart your closet on a Thursday night?” Shannon’s disbelieving voice carries from my bedroom doorway, making me jump. I hadn’t even heard her come home.

“No one,” I mutter, tossing another workout shirt onto the growing pile on my bed.

“Right.” She leans against the doorframe, crossing her arms and eyeing my jeans. “Because you always spend your free time trying on clothes instead of hitting the gym or sleeping between shifts.”

“I just need something that isn’t navy blue, for once.”

“So you are going on a date.” She plops down next to the pile and settles in as if there’s a story here, which I suppose there is.

“It’s not a date,” I insist. “Just…a conversation.” One that needs to be had after what happened today.

She toes off her sneakers, and they drop to the floor with two thuds. “Aconversationthat requires the perfect outfit?”

I shove aside another hanger with more force than necessary. “I’m not looking for the perfect outfit.”

“Where did you even meet someone to go out with?” she continues, frowning at me. “You’ve been so busy at your new station I feel like I haven’t seen you in weeks.”

“Just…around.” It’s not a complete lie.

But Shannon’s onto me like a rescue dog catching a scent. I practically see her nose twitching as she pieces it together. Three, two, one—

“Wait.” Her eyes go wide. “The station? You met someone at your new station?” When I don’t immediately deny it, she groans. “Maya Alexandra Thorne. Please tell me you’re not considering dating afirefighter.”

“We’re not dating.” Just kissing in elevators like two sparking wires in an electrical storm, with enough heat to melt steel and zero regard for department policies.

“Well then, what are youtalkingabout during thisconversation,and why can’t you do it at work?” Her liberal use of air quotes is so like her. Shannon transferred into my fourth-grade class and, no questions asked, joined my after-schoolgirls-only Lego club. From that day on, we were inseparable, and we even moved in together the day after graduation. Usually, she’s my biggest cheerleader, and I’m her voice of reason. Tonight, though, it seems as if the roles are reversed.

I sink onto my bed, shoving aside a stack of rejected shirts. “We’re talking about a kiss, if you must know.”

She sucks in a gulp of air and grabs my arm. “A kiss?”

I nod.

“Was it good?” But before I can answer, she laughs. “Of course, it was good, I mean, otherwise you wouldn’t be meeting up for a booty call, hours later, under the pretense oftalkingabout it.” There she goes with the air quotes again.

“This is not a booty call,” I retort automatically, ignoring the way my thighs clench at the suggestion.

“Right,” she says, drawing out the word.

“It’s not.” I jump up and head back to my closet. “We just need to talk about what happened and why it can’t happen again, so we can get back to focusing on work.”

“But do you want it to happen again?”

I still, my gut screaming the answer as if it’s hooked up to the station’s five-alarm system. Of course, I want it to happen again. I want it with an intensity that should probably trigger every emergency protocol in the book. But wanting something and being able to have it are two very different things.

“It doesn’t matter what I want. I’m not about to sacrifice everything I’ve worked for years to achieve.”

“I hear you, I do,” Shannon says, her tone softer. “But the Maya I know wouldn’t have let a man kiss her if she didn’t feel something for him, something real. Unless I’m wrong, of course.” She shrugs as if maybe she’s way off base, and I fall right into her trap.

“No,” I admit, heaving a sigh. “You’re not wrong. But…” I trail off, biting my tongue.

Too late. “But what?”

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