Page 31 of Hot Knot Summer
“Lucky me,” she echoes, but there’s a wariness in her eyes that makes me wonder if she doesn’t feel particularly lucky at all. That’s fine. I’ve always enjoyed a challenge.
Atlas gives me one last warning look before he and Levi head out, leaving Emma and me alone in the doorway of her temporary room. She shifts her small backpack from one hand to the other, looking momentarily lost.
“Need help unpacking?” I offer.
“Not much to unpack,” she admits. “I grabbed what I could when I escaped the fire.” She winces slightly. “Still feels surreal. Yesterday, I was just checked into the cabin for a vacation, and today, I’m basically a refugee.”
“A very welcome refugee,” I assure her. “Come on, I’ll give you the grand tour while those two handle their important business.” I wait as she sets her bag on the bed, then lead her out into the corridor. “So, emergency exit that way,” I point to the right. “Main bay that way, and kitchen and common areas to the left. Anything particular you’d like to see first?”
“Kitchen would be good,” she says. “I haven’t had coffee yet, and I’m basically useless without it.”
“A woman after my own heart,” I declare. “Atlas is a tea guy, if you can believe it. And Levi drinks these disgusting green health shakes he makes in the blender at unholy hours of the morning.”
That gets another smile from her, and I find myself cataloging the microexpressions that cross her face. The slight crease at the corners of her mouth when she grins, the way her bottom lip curves just a fraction more on the right side. There’s something almost addictive about making her smile, about watching the subtle play of emotions on her expressive face.
“Your pack is... not what I expected,” she says as we walk.
“How so?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“You’re all so different. Most packs I’ve encountered tend to be more... uniform. Similar types, similar personalities.”
I consider this as we enter the kitchen, a well-equipped space with industrial-sized appliances and a large island in the center. “I think that’s why we work. Atlas is the leader, the protector. Levi’s the brain, the planner. And I’m?—”
“The heart,” she finishes for me, then looks embarrassed. “Sorry. That was presumptuous.”
Something warm unfurls in my chest at her assessment. “Most people just say I’m the comic relief.”
“You’re more than that,” she says with a certainty that catches me off guard. “I can tell.”
For once, I don’t have a clever response ready. Instead, I busy myself with the coffee maker, pulling out cups and grounds. “How do you take it?”
“Black, two sugars,” she replies, hopping up to sit on one of the barstools at the island. She looks around the kitchen appreciatively. “This place is seriously nice for a fire station.”
“Atlas has been upgrading it piece by piece since he took over as chief,” I explain, measuring coffee. “Says if we’re going to spend half our lives here, it should feel like someplace worth being.”
“He seems like a good leader,” she observes.
“The best,” I agree without hesitation. “Saved my ass more times than I can count… literally and figuratively.”
The coffee maker gurgles to life, and the rich aroma starts to fill the kitchen. Emma inhales appreciatively.
“So,” I say, leaning against the counter while we wait for the coffee. “What’s your story, Emma? Besides being a successful author whose cabin just got torched.” She tenses slightly, and I realize I’ve pushed too direct, too fast. “Sorry,” I backtrack. “Professional hazard. We firefighters tend to skip the small talk.”
“It’s okay,” she murmurs, though her posture remains guarded. “Not much to tell, really. I write fantasy romance books. It’s done... unexpectedly well. Enough that I had to get an agent to handle the business side.”
I’m pouring the now-ready coffee into two mugs—a novelty one withToo Hot To Handleemblazoned on it for her and my personal fire-engine red one for me.
She accepts the mug with a grateful smile, adding sugar from the bowl I slide her way. She takes a sip of her coffee, her expression thoughtful.
“Anyway,” she says. “What about you? How does one become a wildfire specialist?”
I debate whether to give her the sanitized version I tell most people, but something about her makes me want to be honest.
“Got caught in a forest fire when I was seventeen. Ran away from home, well, from the corrections facility my parents sent me to. Was living rough in the woods when a wildfire started. Fire crew found me, saved me. Figured I’d pay it forward.”
I don’t know why I’m telling her these bits of myself I usually keep locked down tight, but there’s something about her that draws the truth out, as natural as breathing.
Her eyes soften with understanding rather than pity, which I appreciate. “Corrections facility?”
