“How about a race?”
“Easy for you to say, Fast Feet.”
“I’ll give you a head start. Quarter mile of three.”
“A quarter mile?” She did a little toe-heel to loosen her ankles. “You think you can beat me with that much of a spread?”
“If I don’t, I’ll have plenty of time to enjoy the view.”
“Okay, sport, if you want my ass in your sights, you’ve got it.”
She took the inside lane, cued her stopwatch, then took off.
Damn nice view, Gull thought as he strolled onto the track, plugged in his earbuds. He took a moment to loosen up, shaking out his arms, lifting his knees. When she hit the quarter mile, he ran.
And God, it felt good to move, to breathe, to have music banging in his head. Warm, dry air streamed over him, the sun splashed on the track, and he had Rowan’s curvy body racing ahead of him.
It didn’t get much better.
He built up his pace gradually so by the first mile had cut her lead in half. She’d changed into shorts that clung to her thighs, and a tank that molded her torso. As he closed more distance he let himself enjoy the sexy cut of her calf muscles, the way the sun played on those strong shoulders.
He wanted his hands on both.
Totally in lust with that body, he admitted. Completely fascinated with her mind. The combo left him unable to think of anyone else, and uninterested.
At two miles he advanced to a handful of paces behind her. She glanced back over her shoulder, shook her head and dug for more speed.
Still, at two and a half, he ran with her, shoulder to shoulder. He considered easing off—a sop to her labored breathing—but his competitive spirit kicked in. He hit mile three a dozen strides ahead.
“Jesus, Jesus!” Rowan bent over to catch her wind. “I ought to be pissed off. That was humiliating.”
“I thought about letting you win, but I respect you too much to patronize.”
She wheezed out a laugh. “Gee, thanks.”
“You bet.”
“Still.” She examined the stopwatch she’d clicked at the finish. “That was a personal best for me. Apparently you push me to excel.”
Her face glowed with exertion and sweat; her eyes held his, cool and clear.
He hadn’t run far enough, Gull realized. He hadn’t nearly run off the need. He hooked his fingers in the bodice of the tank, jerked her to him.
“Hold on. I haven’t got my breath back.”
“Exactly.”
He wanted her breathless, he thought as he took her mouth. Hot and breathless and as needy as he. She tasted like a melted lemon drop, tart and warm. The heat from the run, and from that dominating lust, pulsed off both of them while her heart galloped against his.
For the first time she trembled, just a little. He didn’t know whether it came from the run or the kiss. He didn’t care.
From somewhere nearby, someone let out a hoot and whistle of approval. And for the first time, like a lemon drop in the sun, she began to melt.
The siren sounded.
They tore themselves apart, their breath quick and jerky as they looked toward the barracks.
“To be continued,” Gull told her.
12
I
n the air the next afternoon, with a golf pro harnessed to him, Lucas watched the base scramble below. He and his daughter wouldn’t eat dinner together tonight after all.
The disappointment ran keen, reminding him how many times he’d had to cancel plans with her during his seasons. He wished her safe; he wished her strong.
“This is the best time of my life!” his client shouted.
You’re young yet, Lucas thought. Best times come and go. If you’re lucky enough, they keep coming.
Once they’d landed, once the routine of photographs, replays, thanks wound down, he read the text on his phone.
Sorry about dinner. Caught one. See you later.
“See you later,” he murmured.
Lucas called base to get a summary of the fire.
The one the day before had only required a four-man crew, and they’d been in and out inside ten hours.
This one looked trickier.
Camper fire, off Lee Ridge, load of sixteen jumping it. And his girl was in that load.
Though he could bring the area into his head, he consulted his wall map. Ponderosa and lodgepole pines, he mused, Douglas fir. Might be able to use Lee Creek as a water source or, depending on the situation, one of the pretty little streams.
He studied the map, considered jump sites, and the tricky business of jumping into those thick and quiet forests.
She’d be fine, he assured himself. He’d do some paperwork, then grab some dinner. Then settle in to wait.
He stared at his computer screen for five full minutes before accepting defeat. Too much on his mind, he admitted.
He considered going over to the base, using the gym, maybe scoring a meal from Marg. But it felt too much like what it was. Hovering.
It had been nice to eat in a restaurant the other night, he remembered. Drink a little wine, have some conversation over a hot meal. He’d gotten too used to the grab-and-go when Rowan wasn’t around. Not that either of them excelled at cooking, but they managed to get by.
Alone, he tended to hit the little cafe attached to his gift shop, if he remembered before business closed for the day. Or slap a sandwich together unless he wandered down to base. He could mic a packaged meal, he always stocked plenty at home. But he’d never gotten used to sitting down to one without the company of teammates.
There had been times, he knew, when he’d been jumping that he’d felt intensely lonely. Yet he’d come to know he hadn’t fully understood loneliness until the nights spun out in front of him in an empty house.
He pulled out his phone. If he let himself think about it, he’d never go through with it. So he called Ella before he had a clear idea what to say, or how to say it.
“Hello?”
Her voice sounded so cheerful, so breezy. He nearly panicked.
Iron Man, my ass, he thought.
“Ah, Ella, it’s Lucas.”
“Hello, Lucas.”
“Yeah, hello.”
“How are you?” she asked after ten seconds of silence.
“Good. I’m good. I had a really good time the other night.” Jesus Christ, Lucas.
“So did I. I’ve had a lovely time thinking about it, and you, since.”
“You did?”
“I did. Now that you’ve called, I’m hoping you’re going to ask to do it again.”
He felt the pleasure rise up from his toes and end in a big, stupid grin. This wasn’t so hard. “I’d like to have dinner with you again.”
“I’d like that, too. When?”
“Actually, I—Tonight? I know it’s short notice, but—”
“Let’s call it spontaneous. I like spontaneity.”
“That’s good. That’s great. I could pick you up at seven.”
“You could. Or we can both be spontaneous. Come to dinner, Lucas, I’m in the mood to cook. Do you like pasta?”
“Sure, but I don’t want to put you out.”
“Nothing fancy. It’s supposed to be a pretty evening; we could eat out on the deck. I’ve been working on my garden, and you’d give me a chance to show it off.”
“That sounds nice.” A home-cooked meal, an evening on a deck by a garden—two dinners within three days with a pretty woman? It sounded flat-out amazing.
“Do you need directions?”
“I’ll find you.”
“Then I’ll see you around seven. Bye, Lucas.”
“Bye.”
He had a date, he thought, just a little stunned. An official one.
God, he hoped he didn’t screw it up.
HE THOUGHT ABOUT ROWAN
while he drove home to change for dinner. She’d be in the thick of it now, in the smoke and heat, taking action, making decisions. Every cell in her body and mind focused on killing the fire and staying alive.
He thought of her when he walked in the house, only minutes from the base. A good-sized place, he reflected. But when Rowan was home, she needed her space, and his parents came home several times a year and needed theirs.
Still, during the long stretches without them, the empty seemed to grow.
He kept it neat. All the years of needing to grab whatever he needed the minute he needed it carried over to his private life. And he kept it simple.
His mother liked to fuss, enjoyed having
things
around the place, which he packed up whenever she wasn’t in residence and stored away until the next time she was.
Less to dust.
He did the same with the colorful pillows she liked to toss all over the sofa, the chairs. It saved him from shoving them on the floor every time he wanted to stretch out.
In his room a plain brown spread covered his bed, a straight-backed tan chair stood in the corner. Dark wood blinds covered the windows. Even Rowan despaired at the lack of color or style, but he found it easy to keep clean.
Shirts hung tidily in his closet, sectioned off from pants by a set of open shelves he’d built himself for shoes.
Nothing fancy, Ella had said, but what did that mean? Exactly?
When panic tried to tickle his throat, he grabbed his basics. Khaki trousers and a blue shirt. After he’d dressed, he checked in for another fire report.
Nothing to do but wait, he thought, and for a few hours, this time, he wouldn’t wait alone.
Because Ella had mentioned her garden, he stopped on the way and bought flowers. Flowers were never wrong, that much he knew.
He plugged her address into the GPS in his truck as backup. He knew the area, the street.
He wondered what they’d talk about. He wondered if he should’ve bought wine. He hadn’t thought of wine. Would wine and flowers be too much?
It was too late to buy wine anyway, plus how would he know what kind?
He pulled into the drive, parked in front of the garage of a pretty, multilevel house in a bold orange stucco he thought suited her. A lot of windows to take in the mountains, flowers in the yard, with more in an explosion of color and shape spiking and tumbling in big native pots on the stones of the covered front entrance.
Now he wondered if the yellow roses he’d bought were overkill. “Flowers are never wrong,” he mumbled to himself as he stepped out of the truck on legs gone just a little bit weak.
He probably should’ve gotten a burger and fries from the cafe, hunkered down in his office. He didn’t know how to do this. He was too
old
to be doing this. Women had never made any sense to him, so how could he make sense to a woman?
He felt stupid and clumsy and tongue-tied, but since retreat wasn’t an option, rang the bell.
She answered, her hair swept back and up, her face warm and welcoming.
“You found me. Oh, these are beautiful.” She took the roses, and as a woman would, buried her face in the buds. “Thank you.”
“They reminded me of your voice.”
“My voice?”
“They’re pretty and cheerful.”
“That’s a lovely thing to say. Come in,” she said, and, taking his hand, drew him inside.
Color filled the house, and the
things
his mother would have approved of. Bright and bold, soft and textured, a mix of patterns played throughout the living area where candles filled a river stone fireplace.
“It’s a great house.”
“I love it a lot.” She scanned the living area with him with an expression of quiet satisfaction. “It’s the first one I’ve ever bought, furnished and decorated on my own. It’s probably too big, but the kids are here a lot, so I like having plenty of room. Let’s go on back so I can put these in water.”
It was big, he noted, and all open so one space sort of spilled casually into the next. He didn’t know much—or anything, really—about decorating, but it felt like it looked. Bright, happy, relaxed.
Then the kitchen made his eyes pop. It flowed into a dining area on one side and a big gathering space—another sofa, chairs, big flat-screen—on the other. But the hub was like a magazine shot with granite counters, a central island, shiny steel appliances, dark wood cabinets, many of them glass-fronted to display glass and dishware. A few complicated small appliances, in that same shiny steel, stood on the counters.
“This is a serious kitchen.”
“That and the view sold me on the place. I wanted it the minute I saw it.” She chose a bottle of red from a glass rack, set it and a corkscrew on the counter. “Why don’t you open this while I get a vase?”
She opened a door, scanned shelves and selected a tall, cobalt vase. He opened the wine while she trimmed the stems under running water in the central island’s sink.