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He didn’t respond for the longest time, and finally she had to get dressed or deal with hypothermia. She put the phone back on the counter and reached for her clothes.
Another locker slammed from the other side of the wall, then more male laughter. Hannah pulled on a long-sleeved tee and wished her hair were long enough for a ponytail. She didn’t have time to dry it—not if she wanted to get home in time to be a responsible mommy.
She slung her bag over her shoulder and flung the door open.
It left her staring straight into the men’s locker room. The door was propped open, steam in the air.
Irish was standing at a sink, wearing jeans and nothing else, shaving his face with slow, even strokes.
Hannah was standing there with her mouth hanging open. She quickly shut it and looked away before he could notice.
They’d been next to each other all night—at one point performing joint CPR on a woman they’d found in the basement of the fourth house—so it shouldn’t have felt so intimate.
But it did.
A faucet turned on, and she heard something tap against the sink. “You crashing here, Blondie?”
“Going home.” She had to clear her throat. Were her cheeks on fire? It felt like her cheeks were on fire. Had that been a tattoo on his shoulder?
Don’t look. Do not look.
God, she’d just been thinking of Michael falling apart in the ambulance, and now she was gawking at another firefighter. Someone she had to work with.
“You need something?”
Now she was standing here like a stalker. She forced herself to look at him. He was just shaving, for goodness sake. It wasn’t like she was watching him in the shower.
If her brain would stop supplying images, it would totally be okay.
“Aren’t you going home?” she said.
“A bed’s a bed,” he said. “I’m back on at noon.” He looked over. “How’s your boyfriend?”
Her boyfriend. Michael Merrick. Right.
“I don’t know. I texted him, but he hasn’t responded yet.”
“I didn’t know he had a history with arson in this town.”
“He doesn’t. Not really.”
“I walked through that house, Blondie. That fire wouldn’t have stopped unless someone put it out.”
A low whistle sounded from behind him. “Look at Blondie getting an eyeful. Your daddy know you’re into the dark boys?”
Hannah jerked back, sure her cheeks were flaming—though now she couldn’t decide if she was more furious or embarrassed.
Irish didn’t stop shaving. “Jealous, Stockton?”
Joe Stockton, one of the older guys who’d sit in the kitchen and shoot the bull all night, snorted from behind her. “Yeah, that’ll be the day. Me, jealous of a n—”
“Hey!” She whirled, ready to get in his face. Furious—definitely furious.
He just laughed and moved away into the men’s dorm area.
“Ignore them,” said Irish, his voice low and close.
She turned and he was right there, close enough to touch. She could smell the menthol of his shaving cream, and for an instant it reminded her of her father, from when she was a little girl.
