Page 58 of Crash and Burn

So I have an hour of this. Of floating, and saving myself—the way I’ve had to do all my life—then it’s time to shake this shit off and get on with my day.

I have work to do, a business to run, and the man who stole my heart doesn’t get to derail my plans just because he’s back in town.

* * *

At four o’clock that afternoon, I walk into the Checkmate office across town in fresh clothes; though the long braid lining my back is still damp from the lake. It would have taken too long to dry and style my hair properly, and a plait is so utterly versatile.

Mascara lines my eyes, if only to hide how red and puffy they are, and lipstick coats my lips, to draw attention away from the ache I hold in my expression.

Walking through the front door, arms filled with two boxes of piping-hot goodies, I shuffle across the threshold and stop with a smile for the sweet and exceptionally busty receptionist, Dolly.

She’s short, round, boasts massive hair, and has no qualms commanding a room filled with men who wear enough firepower to win a war.

She’s somehow the craziest one of the lot. Quite a statement, when rumors around town say that the guys at Checkmate may or may not take a life if they deem the act necessary.

Though of course, no one discusses such things in polite company.

“Oh hey, Beanpole.” Dolly pushes up from her chair and circles the tall desk in a leopard print bodysuit and skyscraper heels, though she still struggles to come up to my shoulders. She uses a long, leopard print fingernail to open one of my boxes and peeks inside. “Whatcha got for us?”

“Final samples for the party on Saturday.” I glance past her in search. “Preston here?”

“Mmhmm. He sure is.” She steals an eggroll I personally wrapped at five this morning and takes a bite off the end. “He’s real sexy, ya know that? Not a Bishop,” she qualifies around her food. “Which means he’s not quite up there in quality. But I’d be lying if I said he doesn’t walk into my dreams and join those brothers, doing what they do for me.”

My brows shoot high in surprise as I process the fact that Dolly speaks of her sex dreams. “Well… I guess.” Warmth colors my cheeks and forces me to clear my throat. “I mean, if you’re into thattattoo on a man’s throat, guns on his thigh, filthy-minded type.”

“M-m-mmm.” She literally growls in the back of her throat before fanning her face. “I sure am. And I get to work with three of them. And you…” she wrinkles her nose and looks me up and down, “seem to be attracted to the clean-cut, firefighter type.” She rolls her eyes, which means she doesn’t catch the way my smile falters. “Such a goodie-goodie. Do you want a man that’ll put your fire out, Miss Beanpole? Or one who’ll light your fire and slay anyone who comes for you?”

“Uh…”Save me! Someone, please help me. “Well, th-that’s a good question. And seeing as how I’m painfully single, I’d say I have no clue what I’m doing or who I’m looking for.”

“Get you a Bishop.” She pops the last of her eggroll between her lips and grins. “Or Preston Danes. He’s got that X Factor, ya know?”

“Dolly.” Preston charges through the hall with a goofy grin on his face and a chest bouncing with laughter. He grabs my arm with quick movements and draws me from the front desk. “Leave her alone.”

Snatching up my boxes, he leads me into a large, open plan office lined with desks, each of which has a man or woman sitting behind. They’re all armed. Firepower. Expressions that make my palms sweat.

Danger, Will Robinson. Danger!

“These the samples?”

“Uh… yeah.” I clasp my hands and watch nervously as he sets the boxes on a desk in the middle of the space and opens them wide. “I brought you some of each to taste and approve before Saturday.”

He grabs a tiny potato gratin and tosses it into his mouth as his coworkers converge to get their own samples.

“You know them?” Preston waves around the crowd, but without offering names, since, in this town, everyone knows everyone. Maybe not personally. Maybe not intimately. But faces are almost always recognizable. “Guys, this is Hannah.”

“Hey, Hannah.” Sophia Solomon, who is a wafer-thin, long-legged, prima ballerina that just so happens to be the most dangerous of them all, picks up an eggroll and takes a hefty bite. “How’s it going?”

Well, Sophia, my life is on fire, and my firefighter is the one burning me.

“Uh, good. Busy. You know how it is.”

“Mm.” She stands over the boxes and selects another sample. “Have a good swim today?”

My heart jumps in my throat as our eyes meet, but she only winks and piles her afternoon snack into her palm.

“I hope it helped. And don’t listen to anything Dolly says. She’s single and feeling a little desperate.”

“I am not single!” The boisterous woman in tan and black bolts to the end of the hall, chest heaving and eyes narrowed. “I’m enjoying an affair of sizzling, late-night trysts and hours long orgasms. What’ve you got?”

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