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Pick is a bear of a man. When cooking gets boring—and since I’m no Michelin chef, I’m usually bored—I amuse myself by imagining him as a frontiersman. My brain likely has too much free time, but I’ve spent a lot of time lately contemplating the honed muscle and disciplined focus that is Pick. He’s precisely the kind of man who knows his way around the forest, and I’ve invented an entire resume for him. Fantasy Pick is comfortable with a hunting rifle or a ten-mile hike because he’s grown up on a diet of outdoor activities. He also moves with an easy confidence that does unspeakable things to my insides.
Because you just have to wonder if he knows his way around a bed and a woman’s body just as well.
Nope, there’s no missing this particular Big Bear Rogue. He loves what he does, showing up for more fires than even Hunter Black does. First in, last out, those two are practically joined at the firefighting hip. Perhaps I should add a ménage a trois to that spank list…
“She’s thinking about it,” a feminine voice gleefully calls me back to earth.
Snap.
“You don’t think an uninvited kiss smacks of”—I wave my spatula for emphasis before prying the slightly charred pancake off the griddle I’m manning—“sexual harassment? Won’t I be setting myself up for a sure meet and greet with a pink slip?”
I totally need to hang on to this job. Paychecks don’t magically deposit themselves into my checking account. I was down to my last few dollars when I stopped for gas in Big Bear Lake, California and saw the avalanche of Help Wanted and For Rent posters pinned to the wall. Old-fashioned kind of cute, I thought, tickled that someone still went the 8-x-11 route with a strip of tear-off numbers on the bottom.
Since being unemployed and on the run meant that I had time to kill and nowhere to be, I read while I worked my way through a car-warmed Coke. And it’s like Karma or God herself tapped on my shoulder because that’s how I’d found out about the Break Up Club. Or maybe my attention had been grabbed by the Craigslist posting printed out on hot-pink construction paper decorated with copious swirls of glitter glue. The sign screamed Look at me! and practically blinded me when a ray of sun hit the paper. Apparently, I had a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to join said Break Up Club and “work through” the demise of a recent relationship. The poster promised an eight-step master plan guaranteed to purge douches, exes, and troublesome penes from every area of my life.
Since I didn’t want my ex finding me under any circumstances, purging sounded right up my alley. Even better? The Break Up Club was a sleepaway camp. Members got dibs on “charmingly rustic” cabins “situated in a pristine mountain environment.” I dialed the number pronto and became founding member number three. Finding semi-permanent shelter of the non-car variety had been step one in my Reinvent Sarah Jo plan, and even if I’ve ended up in a cabin that made tiny living look palatial, I’m happy. I have a roof, running water, and my own bathroom. It’s a definite step up from the cardboard box I’d envisioned when I bolted from Auburn. It’s possible that situation there could have sorted itself out, but I’ll take my chances on the cabin and the hotshots.
Work even magically fell from the sky and landed in my lap. I called on a few of the Help Wanted posters, and thanks to a completely understandable lack of people willing to make millions of pancakes for minimum wage, I ended up here. Thank God no one actually tested my cooking abilities before saying the magic words you’re hired. With my phone and Google, I can fake anything. I also flipped a digit on my Social—close enough to excuse if and when someone notices—and gambled no one had time to run a full background check when they were shorthanded. Hotshots can eat their weight in pancakes, I kid you not.
But back to the whole sexually-assault-a-hotshot thing. I’m sure you want to know how that turns out. I know I do.
Rosalie’s shaking her head. She’s still stuck on the whole kissing thing. “Those boys like a good joke.”
“Uh-huh.” Frowning, I examine my pancake. One side is definitely edible. The other? Not so much. With a mental shrug, I carefully position the pancake on the stack. Show only the good side. I’ve learned that, haven’t I? Strategic cover-up is the story of my life.
