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“The first guy in line. That’s the dare.” Rosalie crosses her arms over her ample chest where large letters declare Firefighters light me up and with which statement I am in whole-hearted agreement. It’s like mountain scenery. Sometimes, you just have to stop and stare.
“I dare you,” she continues. “We all had to do it. You want to be a summer cook and one of us, you kiss the guy.”
“I’m hardly new,” I point out. “I’ve been working here for over a month.”
Rosalie grins at me. “Yeah, but none of us thought you’d last this long.”
She makes a good point.
What she doesn’t know, however, is that the sad state of my checking account combined with my secret escape plan means that I have plenty of incentive to stick with the job, even if it isn’t fantasy fodder material. You know. Except for the sexy hotshots that parade through my line every day.
“I’m a sticker,” I say virtuously. It’s not like I’m pro-quitting, after all. I can totally polish my halo on this one.
“Uh-huh.” Rosalie snorts and points at my pancake. The one I’ve flipped over to hide the burned bits. “Hope you kiss better than you cook.”
Rising to the bait is stupid, but I’ve never liked backing down from a dare. I can do this. I just have to hope that the first man in line is decent looking. Yes, I’m shallow that way, but if I’m getting my first kiss in months, I want a good one.
“Hostile work conditions,” I grouse, pouring more batter out of the ancient Tupperware container. The griddle spits and hisses, trying to christen my forearms with second-degree burns. My flannel is multi-purpose—camouflage and protective gear.
“Honey, you want hostile, you go out there.” Rosalie jerks a thumb southeast where a thick column of oily black smoke punches up over the horizon. Seen from a distance, the fire is little more than a thick, sluggish haze right now. The hotshots headed out early this morning, on a mission to keep the fire small. Early is the perfect time to catch a fire and put it out. Later, when the sun rises and the day heats up, fire becomes a bear to stop, or so I’ve learned. I eavesdrop on a lot of conversations while I’m serving pancakes.
“You really did it?” I have to ask.
“Kissed the first man I saw? Honey, you bet I did. That hotshot didn’t know what hit him. Took him home with me, too, and kept him.” Rosalie laughs, amusement shaking her entire frame.
“This isn’t some kind of weird dating service, is it?” My suspicion is a hard-learned lesson. If a perfectly lovely, noble white steed popped its ass onto my front lawn I’d absolutely look it in the mouth. I’d run a background check on it too because no matter how pretty a horse is, it’s still going to shit all over your grass and generally make a public nuisance of itself.
Case in point? I went out with a perfectly respectable deputy sheriff, no questions asked, and that ex-boyfriend burned a house down around my ears and blamed me for the ensuing property destruction. To avoid certain legal charges, I’ve transplanted my city-loving self here to fire camp. Big Bear is my second chance, and sex isn’t on my to-do list. Although a kiss hardly counts as sex. A quick peck on the lips, a flirty answer to the girls’ dare, and my place here this summer is secured. Ka-ching.
The other cooks already have questions. Fitting in usually isn’t a problem for me even if irreverent is my middle name and I’m never quite certain when to shut my mouth and when to let her rip. But most people like a good laugh and I enjoy the company. Based on the super charred state of the pancake in my frying pan, however, I’ve still got fitting-in issues to resolve.
The noise of the returning crew drowns out Rosalie’s laughter. Battered pickups bounce over the rutted road, disgorging a load of hot, sweaty, buff hotshots and the unmistakable smell of smoke, outdoors, and something else indefinably masculine. If I could bottle the eau de hotshot, I’d never need to flip another pancake because I’d be a billionaire with a private island in Fiji.
The horde approaches. It’s refreshing that they eye my food and not my boobs.
