Page 9 of Burning for the Mountain Man

Three consecutive nights.

That's how long I've been sleeping in Nash Deveraux's arms. One night on the ridge, tangled in his sleeping bag while the wind howled outside the tent. One night back at the station, in my apartment, where he came upstairs at ten PM with the excuse of checking the lock he already fixed and didn't leave until his five AM alarm went off. One night at his cabin on the ridge above town, where his sheets smell like him and the second pillow hasn't been used in so long it still had the crease from the packaging.

His toothbrush is next to mine in the apartment bathroom. He put it there on night two without asking, and I didn't move it.

Bobby knows. Bobby's known since we hiked back into the station parking lot with my hair loose around my shoulders because the braid tie broke on the trail and Nash's hand was on the small of my back as I stepped over the tailgate. Bobby took one look, pulled out his phone, and texted Maria. The response was audible from across the parking lot. Screaming, then laughter, then Bobby saying, "Maria! You owe me twenty bucks!"

Now it's Thursday. Nine PM. My apartment.

Nash is on the floor with his back against the bed, fuel moisture reports spread across his thighs, reading glasses on. My feet are in his lap because he pulled them there twenty minutes ago without looking up from the data, and his thumb traces absent circles on my ankle while he reads.

My preliminary assessment is open on the tablet. Fuel load data from the north ridge. Defensible space compliance maps. Prescribed burn recommendations with cost projections. Everything I came here to evaluate, organized into a report that will go to the state by the end of the month.

"Your prescribed burn proposal is good," I tell him. "State should approve it with the supporting data we collected. Spring timeline, start with the east drainage, work north."

"Mmm." His thumb moves to the arch of my foot. A move that should not be this distracting. "Torres said he can clear brush on the Hernandez property Saturday if Mrs. Hernandez agrees."

"She won't."

"She will if Maria brings empanadas. Bobby's already working on it."

A laugh escapes. He glances up from the reports, reading glasses sliding down his nose, and the smile that crosses his face is small. Quiet. Real.

God, he's beautiful when he smiles. The reading glasses, the worn department shirt, the burn scar catching the lamplight. His hand wrapped around my ankle like he's been doing this for years instead of days.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Owen:

you haven't called in a week. either you're dead or you're getting laid. hoping for the second one

Rolling my eyes, I type back.

Me:

busy with the assessment

Owen:

uh huh. how's the grumpy fire chief

Me:

he's sitting right here

Owen:

OH so you ARE getting laid. tell him I said hi and also if he hurts you I'll drive there

"Your brother?" Nash asks, reading my expression.

"He says hi. Also that he'll drive here if you hurt me."

"Sacramento's seven hours. I respect the commitment." He squeezes my ankle. "Tell him I said noted."

This. This easy, comfortable, fits-right warmth that's settled into every corner of the last week. Morning briefings where his knee presses against mine under the table. Windshield surveys where his hand finds my thigh on the drive back. Bobby pretending to gag while simultaneously giving me a thumbs up behind Nash's back.

Tuesday night, Nash cooked dinner at his cabin. Rotisserie chicken, salad from a bag. We ate on his porch looking at the mountains, then I pulled him inside by his belt loop and we didn't make it past the kitchen counter.