Page 2 of Stuck With the Smokejumper

Heat climbs into my face. “I wasn't—I tripped. The cat—”

“Fascinating trajectory,” her mouth twitches.

I don't respond. There is no answer that improves this situation.

Beck lifts his head and looks over his shoulder. “It'd be weird if she called dibs on the other guy. Since they're related.”

Other guy? I turn my head. There's a sleeping bag on the floor a few feet away. A man is sprawled across it, one arm thrown over his face. I stare. “Reid?”

My brother doesn't move.

I look at the distance between him and Beck. Then at my flip-flop, which is no longer on my foot. “I tripped over Reid?”

I look up at Beck. He's still braced over me. There's a lot of him. That's what I register — the actual weight and size of a person I've only ever seen from across a porch or a dinner table. His forearm is planted an inch from my ear. His knee is somewhere near my hip. I am, physically speaking, trapped.

His eyes meet mine.

“You're still on top of me.”

He looks down, as though this fact has only now occurred to him. “Right. Sorry.” He pushes himself up and gets to his feet in one smooth movement.

I sit up and grab my missing flip-flop beside Reid's sleeping bag.

Beck holds out a hand. I take it. His fingers close around mine, and he pulls me easily to my feet. I end up closer to him than I expect, close enough to catch the faint scent of soap on his skin. Then he releases me.

I take a step back. I've had more physical contact with Beck Hale in the last sixty seconds than I have in the previous four summers combined. Which is the entirety of the time I’ve known him.

Tessa walks over to Reid. “Reid.” Nothing. She nudges his leg with her foot. “Reid. Wake up.”

He doesn't even twitch.

She looks at me. “Is he alive?”

“Probably.”

Beck picks up the edge of Reid’s sleeping bag and gives it a tug. Nothing. “We got in around midnight,” he says. “He'll be out for a while.”

“You got in then too,” I say.

“I'm a lighter sleeper,” he responds.

“I gathered.”

Tessa nudges Reid again, harder this time. He rolls slightly onto his side. That's it. She considers my brother for another second. “Impressive.”

A sharp meow comes from the kitchen doorway. We all turn. Mabel sits there watching us, expressing her dissatisfaction over not yet being fed.

“This is your fault.” I point at her.

Mabel trots into the kitchen.

I follow, mostly because putting a wall between me and the place where I just spent the last minute underneath Beck seems wise. Tessa flips on the kitchen light. I squint against it while she fills the cat's bowl. The second it hits the floor, Mabel starts eating. No gratitude. No acknowledgment of the trouble she's caused. Just breakfast.

“You woke the wrong person,” I tell her. She ignores me.

Beck walks into the kitchen behind us. He's wearing gray sweatpants and a faded navy blue T-shirt. I turn my attention to the coffee maker. Very deliberately. I measure coffee into the filter. Tessa gets three mugs from the cabinet. Behind us, Beck remains silent.

I look toward the common room. “Why are you two sleeping on our floor, anyway?”