Page 66 of Knot Baked Out For This
They scatter like startled pigeons, muttering apologies and yes-sirs as they flee toward the station.
Rowan watches them go, jaw tight, before turning to me. The anger in his eyes softens to something warmer, more concerned.
"You okay?"
"I had it handled," I say, though my hands are shaking slightly as I adjust my display again.
"I know you did." He steps closer, and his scent wraps around me like a protective barrier. "But they should know better. I'll have a word with?—"
"Don't." I touch his arm without thinking, then jerk my hand back when I realize what I've done. "They're just young and stupid. No harm done."
He studies me for a moment, and I'm very aware that we're standing close enough that anyone watching—which is everyone, always, in this town—will draw conclusions.
"They're not wrong, though," he says quietly.
"About what?"
"You look..." He pauses, eyes traveling from my face down to my boots and back up slowly enough that my skin heats everywhere his gaze touches. "Beautiful. More than beautiful. Luminous."
Luminous. Who says luminous? Rowan Cambridge, apparently, when he's looking at you like you're something precious he's not allowed to touch.
"I—thank you," I manage, face burning.
A whistle cuts through the moment. "Yo, Cambridge! Drills start in five!"
He sighs, stepping back. "I have to?—"
"Go," I say quickly. "Do your firefighter things. Save the town from incompetent speed drills."
His mouth quirks in that almost-smile that does dangerous things to my insides. "Watch if you want. Might be entertaining."
He heads toward the training yard, and I absolutely don't watch his ass in those uniform pants.
Liar.
The drills begin in the station yard, the space transformed into a training ground by the strategic positioning of fire engines whose headlights create dramatic pools of illumination. It's unnecessarily theatrical, like someone decided emergency preparedness needed mood lighting.
I try to focus on my booth, greeting customers and making change, but my eyes keep drifting to the yard where the firefighters are running through their paces. Rowan leads by example, demonstrating proper hose deployment with an efficiency that shouldn't be attractive but somehow is.
Since when is professional competence sexy? Since always, apparently, when it comes with those shoulders.
The October night has turned cool, but the firefighters are sweating within minutes. And then—because the universe hates me or loves me, I can't decide—Rowan strips off his shirt.
Holy mother of?—
The headlights illuminate him like he's on stage, which he might as well be given how every person with ovaries in a fifty-foot radius has stopped what they're doing to stare. His torso is... architectural. That's the only word for it. Muscles carved by years of actual work, not gym vanity. Scars here and there that tell stories of saves and close calls. A dusting of dark hair that trails down past his navel to?—
Stop looking. Stop looking right now.
I can't stop looking.
He moves through the drills with liquid grace, every motion purposeful. When he demonstrates ladder carries, his back muscles shift and bunch in ways that make my mouth go dry. Sweat glistens on his skin, highlighting every ridge and valley, and his scent carries on the night air—cedar and vanilla mixed with clean sweat and something uniquely him that makes my omega hindbrain whimper.
"Ma'am? Ma'am, your change?"
I blink, realizing I've been holding a twenty-dollar bill for god knows how long while staring at Rowan like he's a particularly attractive car accident.
"Sorry! Sorry, I was just?—"
