Page 6 of The Hotshot's Prize
Almost there.
“Just a little more,” I grunt.
And then her hand crests the ledge. I grab her arm and haul her the rest of the way, her body collapsing into me as we hit the dirt. She’s breathing hard, clutching the front of my shirt like she doesn’t know where she is anymore.
But she’s here. Alive. Safe.
I ease us both back from the cliff and sit her down gently against a flat rock.
“Hey,” I say quietly, crouching in front of her. “You’re okay now. You’re safe.”
Soft hazel eyes meet mine, still wet, still anxious…but she nods.
“Thank you,” she whispers in a faint voice.
And even though this was just another rescue, like a dozen others I’ve done, something about the way she says it hits differently.
I give her a half smile, trying to calm the part of me that wants to examine every inch of her for injuries. “Just doing my job.”
But I already know this isn’t going to be just a job.
Not with her.
Chapter Three
Ella
My legs won’t stop shaking.
Even now, sitting in the dirt with the wind cutting past my ears and my savior crouched beside me like some kind of unshakable mountain, I can’t stop trembling.
I’m alive. I’m safe. But the terror of almost dying clings to me like a second skin.
He’s watching me carefully, his brows furrowed under a mop of sweat-damp dark hair. His eyes—brown, I think, though it’s hard to tell in the failing light—keep scanning the horizon behind me. There’s a low rumble of thunder that seems to crawl through my chest.
“Storm’s coming in faster than I thought,” he says, mostly to himself. Then he looks at me again. “We’ve gotta move.”
I blink up at him, disoriented. “Move?”
Before I can fully process his words, he wraps his arms around me, one slipping under my knees and the other behind my back, and I’m being lifted into the air like I weigh nothing.
“What—what are you doing?” I yelp, my hands automatically clutching at his shoulders. They’re broad. Hard. Warm through the cling of his damp shirt.
Zack adjusts his grip on me with ease and starts walking. “You’re still in shock, your ankle’s scraped, and we’re not staying here. There’s a cave about a quarter mile from here. It’s safe. I’ll go back for your gear once I’ve got you out of the wind.”
I should protest. I should insist that I can walk. That I don’t need to be carried like a fainting damsel from some bodice-ripper romance novel.
But my arms don’t let go.
And God help me, I’m aware of every single point of contact between us. His chest is solid, rising and falling steadily under my arm. I can feel the delicious flex of his biceps as he moves effortlessly through the rough terrain. His jaw is square and sharp, dusted with scruff.
Holy hell. This man is stupid hot.
“Are you, like…” I swallow. “Are you a firefighter or something?”
“Hotshot,” he answers without breaking stride. “Wildland firefighter. We’re based a few hours south of here. But I’m up here training.”
Hotshot. Of course he is.
