Station #24 sat at the end of commercial row, between the pier and downtown. Once upon a time, the two-story brick building had housed the town’s saloon and theater, but it’d long ago been converted to a firehouse.

There were three large garage doors out front, opened to reveal a fire engine, a ladder truck, an ambulance, and the county OES Hazardous Materials response vehicle. Beyond the garage, there was a utility-sized kitchen and a big open living room. Upstairs was a large sleeping area that looked like a frat dorm meets Three Little Bears, except it was the Six Little Bears with rows of twin beds.

Over the years, they’d added a pool table, an X-Box, a flat-screen TV, and some huge, comfy couches. Home away from home or, as they all spent more time here together than they did with their various loved ones, just home.

Half the staff were great cooks, and the other half knew how to order in with equally great skill. Eat Me, the local café, served the station on command, as did the Love Shack, the bar and grill down the street.

The station was staffed on a full-time basis with a rotating staff. They shared the site with Washington State Fire—where, by no coincidence, Jack had gotten his start in the first place as a rural firefighter, aka a Hotshot.

As head of shift, Jack usually arrived before anyone else, but today Tim was already there, head buried in a laptop. “Hey,” the rookie said, barely looking up. “The B rotation caught a fire yesterday at the auto-parts store. Lucky bastards.”

Jack had already heard from Ronald since the fire was of suspicious origin, but he looked over Tim’s shoulder at the pictures of the scene on the laptop.

“Burned hot,” Tim said. “Real hot. Bad luck for Lenny Shapiro.”

Shapiro owned the auto shop. “Maybe it wasn’t luck at all.”

“You think it was arson?” Tim asked, surprised. “Nah, man, those rags shoved in that bucket…stupid place for them. Real stupid. Lenny should have known better.” He shut his laptop. “You watch, on our rotation we’ll get all medical calls. Or a false alarm. We never get the fun ones.”

Jack went to his office and brought up the fire pictures on his computer. As Tim had noted, there’d been oily rags left in a bucket near a stack of boxes, and they’d ignited. But this was now the second fire in two weeks where oily rags were discovered in a bucket.

Jack went over everything he had on the fire and moved on to the paperwork required of him as the LT, while his unit worked their daily chores, pulling the equipment out onto the long driveway to be washed, stocked, and inventoried.

Jack had deposited the proceeds from the Firemen’s Breakfast the week before, but he still had to make the statements for the beneficiaries. The breakfast itself had been made possible through the generous donations from the local businesses such as the B&B, the café, the art gallery, and many more, and they each would get a statement and an individual thank you. The FD had set a new record this year for number of meals served, and the profit would guarantee that the seniors would be getting three square meals for the rest of the year without cutting into the town’s general budget.

He was just finishing up when they got their first call of the day from the library. As Tim had groused, it was a medical call, but then again, at least fifty percent of their calls were. A teenager—there with his entire class—had found the staff ladder irresistible. He’d climbed up twelve feet before his belt had gotten caught on the shelving unit, leaving him hanging upside down over the rest of his delighted class.

Jack was going to guess that it would be college before the kid lived it down.

After that, in quick succession they were called to a traffic collision and then a near drowning in the harbor. Later, they took the engine and truck to the elementary school for their annual Firefighters at School Day. By the end of that visit, every single kid between the ages of five and ten wanted to be a firefighter when they grew up.

Jack had once been one of those kids. He could still remember the day his dad had brought an engine to school. Jack had already known every inch of the truck and gear—hell, he’d been playing with it all since before he could walk—but he’d still been as enthralled as his friends. He’d remained enthralled until the day his dad died on the job. But by then, Jack’s fate had been sealed. Because how did the son of a devoted legend do anything other than follow in his father’s footsteps?

After the kids had gone back to class, Jack began reloading all the supplies and gear. He heard the click-click-clicking of a pair of heels, and his pulse jumped once as he thought Leah, but it wasn’t her. It was one of the teachers, coming around the back of his truck, seeking him out.

Rachel Moore was a pretty brunette he’d met at the gym. They’d been flirting back and forth for a few weeks now, and the last time they’d run into each other during a workout, she’d suggested maybe having a drink sometime.

“Heard about what happened at the Love Shack,” she said, carefully neutral.

Since this statement could cover a lot of ground, and he wasn’t sure if she was on a fishing expedition or simply making conversation, he made a noncommittal sound.

“People are saying you’re…engaged.”

Yep. Fishing expedition.

“Is it true?” she asked.

Jack looked into Rachel’s pretty green eyes and suppressed a sigh. A deal was a deal, and though Rachel wasn’t—as Leah had so delicately put it—a blond bimbo, Jack had agreed to the insanity. Sort of. “I’m not engaged,” he said. “But—”

“No, stop. I understand.” Her smile was a little forced now. “But you should have told me, Jack. When we were at the gym, we flirted. Or so I thought.” She shook her head. “I didn’t realize it was just flirting. My mistake.” With that, she turned on her heel and took her very hot self back inside the school.

Jack blew out a breath and headed around to the front of the truck, where Tim was waiting with a wide grin. “Hey, at least she didn’t toss her drink in your face.”

Jack narrowed his eyes, and Tim sighed. “Let me guess. The senior center again, right?”

Back at the station, they were in the middle of carrying hoses up and down the five flights of stairs on the training tower in the yard when the alarm went off.

They were sent to the senior center with reports of smoke pouring out of the kitchen. Knowing the seniors of Lucky Harbor, this could mean anything. Last year, Mrs. Burland had been making soup for herself when she’d had a heart attack. No one had known she was down until her soup had evaporated and the pan had caught fire. Mrs. Burland had lived. The kitchen, not so much.

Tim was in his seat, leaning forward, as excited as if he’d hit the lottery. “Please be a fire,” he said. “Please oh please be a fire.”

Ian slid him an annoyed look. “Remember, Rookie, follow our lead.”

“Let me take point this time,” Tim said. “Please?”

“No point,” Ian said. “LT’s point.”

But this time when they got there, the only person in the kitchen was Lucille, wearing a neon-green velour track suit and bright-white athletic shoes.

“Jesus,” Tim muttered, holding up a hand to block his eyes. “She’s brighter than the sun.”

Lucille gave him a Vanna White smile. “Hiya!” Then she snapped his picture.

“You reported a fire,” Jack said. “Where is it?”

Concentrating on her phone now, messing with the camera setting, Lucille was distracted. “I realize this is going to sound so wrong, but…” She looked at them. “Could you all take off your shirts?”

Ian laughed.

But Jack wasn’t finding the humor. “Put the phone down, Lucille.”

“Aw. Please? Just one shirtless pic? You can’t even imagine the online traffic boost we get from shirtless pics.”

“The fire, Lucille,” Jack said. “Where’s the fire?”

“Oh. That.” She blew out a sigh. “It’s all that fuddy-duddy Mrs. Burland’s doing.”

“She have another medical emergency?”

“Does being a pain in the behind count?”

Jack resisted pointing out that she was the pain in the behind. “Is there a fire or not?”

“My goodness, you’re in an awful hurry today. I tell you, storytelling is a lost art nowadays. A real shame too, because—”

“Lucille.”

“Fine!” She sniffed in irritation. “I wanted to make everyone my cheesy toast special. Except a little piece of bread got caught in the toaster and a tiny little flame popped up, and Mrs. B called you.”

Jack turned to the toaster. No smoke. No flames.

“I tried to tell her she was overreacting,” Lucille said. “That she at least needed to pass out or something to make it worth her while.”

“Don’t you mean our while?” Tim asked.

“No.” She smiled at the rookie. “Because if she passed out, she’d have had a shot at CPR from one of you hotties.”

For the first time ever, Tim looked relieved to not be point.

Chapter 11

At the end of the week, Leah stopped by the station with a box of fresh pastries. The big doors were wide open to the bright sun, and the trucks were out in the driveway, being washed by the platoon of Station #24.

Cindy and Hunter were on top of the ambulance. Ian and Sam were head deep in the open compartment. Tim was untangling some hoses. And Jack was on top of the fire truck, wearing his navy-blue firefighter BDUs and reflector sunglasses.

No shirt.

Leah tripped over her own feet but managed to catch herself.

“Aw,” Tim said, getting to her first, quickly relieving her of the pastry box. “You’re the best girlfriend ever.”

Jack had straightened on the fire truck and was looking right at her. She could tell because her ni**les got perky.

Tim leaned into her. “Hey, when you’re done playing with the old guy, you let me know.”

“Why?”

Tim grinned. “So I can show you what a young guy can do.”

Leah laughed and waved at Jack.

He didn’t smile or wave back, but he did hop down agilely. By the time he ambled over to her, he had to push his way through the crew. Leaning in, he looked into the empty pastry box.

“Two kinds of people here, LT,” Tim said with mock sympathy. “The quick”—he flashed a grin—“and the hungry.”

Jack slid Tim a look that might have had a smarter guy messing his pants. Pretty sure she was saving Tim’s life, Leah pulled a white bag from her purse and handed it to Jack.

“What’s this?” he asked as if she were handing him a spitting cobra.

“Look for yourself.”

He opened the bag and peered inside, his expression not changing one iota.

“What is it?” Tim wanted to know. “You leave your tighty-whities at her place?”

Jack turned his head in Tim’s direction. Leah couldn’t see what Jack’s expression was exactly, but Tim heaved out a sigh and headed back to the hoses.

“So,” she said when they were alone. “Hi.”

“What are you doing here?” he asked quietly.

“Pretend dating you,” she said, watching him take a second look into the bag at the two cream cheese croissants she’d packed. “How am I doing at the pretend-girlfriend thing so far?”

“My girlfriends all greet me with sex,” he said.

She laughed and his mouth twitched, and she knew she had him. The relief that hit her made her knees wobble. Or maybe that was just Jack and all that bronze skin stretching across the tough, sinewy muscles in his arms and chest that tapered to a set of abs that had her mouth watering.

“Don’t do this,” he said, and her smile faded. “Don’t make it a spectacle.”

“Is that what you think I’m doing?”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re doing, which is my point.”

And oh, how he hated not knowing every little last thing. “Maybe I just wanted to bring you a treat,” she said. “You telling me I don’t remember your favorite?”

“I’m telling you that you no longer know me. And my mom isn’t even here, so there’s no point to this now.”

“Fine.” She reached for the bag to take it back, damn him, but he was much quicker than she, lifting it out of her range.

She wasn’t a small girl. Never had been. From the fifth grade, she’d been taller than most of the boys in her life. But not Jack. Jack had a way of making her feel petite.

Feminine.

Sexy.

Damn him anyway.

He shoved his hand into the bag, pulled out a croissant, and took a large bite. Then he closed his eyes and groaned.

“Good?”

“Shh. I need a moment.”

She found herself fascinated by his Adam’s apple as he swallowed.

“Oh yeah,” he said, voice thick and husky. Hypnotic. “This is the stuff. Save me the rest of these, whatever you have at the bakery. I want them all.”

“Let me see if I have this right,” she said. “No to the playing-the-girlfriend thing unless your mom’s watching—” She broke off when he licked some sugar off his thumb, the sound of the suction making her quiver just a little bit. “But,” she managed with what she hoped sounded like utter disinterest, “you want me to save you the rest of the cream cheese croissants.”

He tilted his head down enough to eye her over his dark lenses. “Problem?”

She sent him a smile that had far more vinegar than honey. “Not even a little bit.”