Page 7 of One Night Flame

That earned whistles, whoops, and at least one very enthusiastic “Take it off!” from the back row. Probably Lola Taggert. Woman had the spirit of a Vegas emcee and the instincts of a matchmaking sniper.

I paced the edge of the stage, giving them my best grin as I shrugged out of my jacket and draped it over the mic stand.Someone let out a dramatic gasp. My T-shirt—tight enough to hug in all the places women seemed to notice—earned a flutter of raised paddles and a burst of applause.

I spread my arms wide. “This isn’t just about finding dates for these brave men. Every dollar raised tonight goes toward new equipment for our fire department.”

That part actually meant something. We weren’t padding some charity CEO’s bonus. We were talking new turnout gear, updated rescue tools, real upgrades that would save lives. That’s why I always said yes to this gig. That, and I didn’t mind making a fool of myself if it helped someone else.

The crowd roared again. I could feel the hum of it in my chest. Let it build. I gave it another beat, let the noise crest, and then leaned in with the smile they all expected. “Let’s get this party started.”

More cheers.

God, they were ready. Hungry for spectacle. Hungry for something.

I didn’t mind giving it to them. I was good at playing the part.

Hollywood. That’s what they called me back at the station. And out here, in a room full of perfume and paddle cards, I could see why.

They didn’t want messy or real. They wanted a fireman with a nice smile who’d flex and flirt and make them laugh. And I could do that all night.

I adjusted the mic and took a slow step forward, letting the crowd noise rise again. It was like riding a wave. Timing mattered. Too soon and you wiped out. Too late and you missed it.

“Now, I know what you’re all here for,” I said, voice light, eyes sweeping the front rows. “Auction meat. Grade A. Fullycertified. Hydrated, mostly house-trained. And—if we raise enough money—possibly available in sleeveless T-shirts.”

That got a full round of laughter and a few paddles popping into the air just for the hell of it.

I smiled and shrugged as if to say, who, me?

“Seriously, folks. New extrication tools don’t pay for themselves. So someone better make it rain.”

More laughter. Another shout of “Take it all off!” I scanned the room again, soaking it all in. This was tradition, and if nothing else, Huckleberry Creek clung to its traditions with both hands and a church bake sale flyer.

In the front row, I spotted Meghan Garcia fanning herself with her paddle, already laughing like she knew this was about to become chaos in five acts. Not far behind her, Dorothy Bishop lounged in her folding chair like a Roman empress ready to hand out roses. She caught me looking and raised a brow. I winked back.

I filed her under the heading of “Dangerous,” though I knew she’d been working her wiles on pairing up her grandson, Gabe, so maybe I was safe for now.

I kept my posture easy, my tone playful, my grin locked in place. But under all that—under the applause and the jokes—I could feel it. A flicker of something cooler pressing against my ribs.

Because no matter how many times I did this, no matter how many cheers or catcalls I caught, there was always a moment. That shift when the laughter faded, and I saw the way they looked at us.

At me.

Not bad. Not unkind. But like we were a prize to win. A list of surface traits: hot, tall, charming, looks good in turnouts.

I was good at being that. I’d had years of practice.

But some quiet, stubborn part of me knew how easy it was to disappear behind all that shine.

The crowd was still laughing when I brought the mic back up.

“All right, ladies,” I said, letting the smile tip a little cocky. “Let’s see what a slightly over-caffeinated firefighter with decent teeth and marginal impulse control goes for these days.”

That earned another wave of laughter. A few paddles twitched in anticipation.

I pointed to myself. “Bidding starts at fifty. Do I hear fifty dollars?”

A paddle went up instantly from somewhere on the left.

“Do I hear seventy-five?”

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