Page 7 of Bonfire with Beckett
“Don’t thank me yet,” he says. “We’re going to the office. Got a full agenda.”
“Of course we do,” I say, sipping the latte. Perfect, obviously. Which annoys me more than it should.
His office is tucked into a small corner of the basement in the town hall. It’s perfectly square, and practical. Exactly what I would expect from a man like Beckett. There’s a metal desk, a couple of mismatched chairs, filing cabinets that look older than me.
The only indulgence is a bulletin board tacked with weather maps and burn reports.
He gestures to a chair. “Sit.”
I arch a brow. “You’re very bossy for a man bearing muffins.”
“Safety first,” he says, taking his own seat across from me. He leans back, his big frame making the chair creak, and steeples his hands. “Okay. Fire safety class. Lesson one: fuel, heat, and oxygen. You know what those three make?”
“Hot cocoa?”
The look he gives me is flat enough to make me bite back a laugh.
“Fire,” he says. “They make fire. Our job is making sure they don’t make wildfire. That means containment. Clearances. Backup suppression.”
“Wow.” I widen my eyes dramatically. “You make it sound so sexy.”
For half a second, he doesn’t react. Then one corner of his mouth twitches again, and something warm pools in my stomach.
“You wanted me to learn,” he says. “Don’t complain about the curriculum.”
“Oh, I’m not complaining.” I lean forward, resting my chin in my hand. “I just thought you’d use more… hands-on methods.”
His gaze sharpens, hot enough that my breath hitches. Then he pushes back his chair and stands. “Fine. Hands-on.”
He walks around the desk, pulls a heavy-duty fire blanket from the cabinet, and tosses it over my lap. “This is what you throw on a small fire. Cuts off oxygen. You try.”
I clumsily hold it up. It’s heavier than it looks.
“Arms higher,” he says. “If you can’t cover the source in one motion, it doesn’t work.”
I lift it again, wobbling. Suddenly his arms are around me—his chest brushing my back, his hands guiding mine up and out. He smells like cedar smoke and clean soap. Solid muscle pins me in place without even trying.
“Like this,” he murmurs near my ear.
My heart is thudding so loud I’m sure he can hear it. I tilt my head the tiniest bit and almost—almost—brush his whiskered jaw with my temple.
“See?” he says softly. “Control. Even when it’s hot.”
My lips part. I’m tempted close the tiny gap between us. Tempted to see if his mouth feels as hot on mine as I imagine when?—
“Willa?”
I jerk forward, nearly dropping the blanket. Dad stands in the doorway, eyebrows raised, newspaper tucked under his arm.
My face flames hotter than the bonfire I’m begging for.
“Dad! Hi.” I clear my throat. “What are you doing here?”
“I was in the area. “ He squints at Beckett. “Thought I’d check in.”
“Morning.” Beckett steps back smoothly, expression unreadable. “I was just… running Willa through a safety orientation.”
Dad’s gaze flicks from me to Beckett and back again. “Good. Good.” He clears his throat. “Well. Don’t let me interrupt.”
