Page 17

We hit the end of the block and the entrance to Worthington Hills Park, and I’m pretty sure Buster’s about to take flight from his excitement. He hits the grass running, nose to the ground, little beagle ears flapping as he sniffs every blade of grass.

Hunter squeezes my hand, thumb brushing over my knuckles in slow, lazy circles. Every time our arms brush, electric shocks vibrate through my skin. I can barely remember my own name as my stomach does a somersault.

I break the silence first. “Did you always want to be a firefighter?” I ask, needing to discuss something ordinary.

His jaw tics. “Ever since first grade, when Mr. Tullen came to career day in his full gear.” He shrugs, smirking down at me. “I knew I’d look good in the uniform.”

I can’t believe it. He’s actually joking.

My jaw drops. I gawk at him, and then just start laughing. It slips out before I can stop it—the kind of laugh that’s half wild giggle, half delighted snort.

Holy shit. This man really is trying to kill me.

“Mr. Tullen must’ve been pretty impressive in his gear,” I tease, bumping my hip into his as we walk.

Hunter gives me side-eye. “He was fifty, balding, and needed to lose a pound or fifty. So, no.”

I can’t help myself; I press, “But you were still inspired?”

“Yeah. He let us spray the hose at orange traffic cones.” He shrugs, totally unbothered, like this is the most normal origin story ever. “I was hooked.”

The mental image slays me. Tiny, grumpy Hunter aiming a hose at plastic cones, probably glaring at kindergarten girls for giggling too loud.

“What about you?” Hunter glances down at me. “How did you land your job at The Hartmann Group?”

Oh. This story is really boring. I roll my eyes, making a face. “Prepare to be wildly unimpressed, but… I graduated from college two years ago with a business degree, mostly because it was practical, and my scholarship covered most of it. The Hartmann Group posted an opening for an admin. I figured it’d give me an inside look at how business actually works, before I commit to anything long-term. That’s the whole story. No burning passion. No origin story involving fire hoses.”

Hunter glances down at me, lips curled at the edge. “You act like that’s nothing. Most people don’t know what the hell they want. You actually figured out how to get paid for learning.”

He has a point, but it still feels like the laziest superhero backstory ever. “Yeah, well. My superpower is showing up early and color-coding my inbox. Not exactly badge-and-hose material.”

Hunter gives me this intense sideways look, like he’s trying to solve a Rubik’s Cube using only his jaw muscles and stubbornness. “Doesn’t matter. You show up. You get shit done. That’s all that’s important.”

My cheeks flush, and my heart beats in a funny rhythm from the compliment.

Hunter’s thumb keeps tracing circles on my hand, and it’s doing such unspeakable things to my nervous system that I’m shocked I don’t just short-circuit and collapse on the sidewalk. We walk deeper into the park, the path shaded by huge old oaks and dotted with kids, joggers, and, oh look, another two dozen dogs. Buster is beside himself, nose to the ground, tail whipping like a metronome on Red Bull.

I glance up at Hunter, and he’s just watching me. Not the path. Not the dog. Oh man. I’m in so much trouble here.

“Before this goes any further,” Hunter glances down at me and tilts his head, “I need you to know my deepest, darkest secret.”

Uh-oh. I don’t think my heart will survive if it’s really bad. “Okay.” I take a deep breath, bracing myself for the worst.

“I like reality shows. The trashier the better,” he admits, catching me off guard so hard I almost drop Buster’s leash.

I blink several times. “Wait, seriously? Like… which ones?”

He glances at me and winks. “Love Island, Love is Blind, Survivor…”

I nearly double over. “I have a hard time picturing you watching those shows.”

He shrugs, eyes twinkling in the sunlight. “The assholes at the station got me addicted to them.”

I bite my bottom lip and stare up into his eyes. “You just got ten times hotter. For the record.”

“Good to know.” The look he gives me almost causes me to self-combust on the spot. There’s a tiny, dangerous smile at the corner of his mouth.

He leans in, brushing my hair back from my face with his free hand. His fingers linger at the nape of my neck, and I swear I feel every single nerve ending in my entire body fire at once. “You keep looking up at me like that,” he rumbles, “and I’m going to forget we’re in public.”