big.
And he couldn’t just walk away from it.
He never could.
Chapter 1
BROOKE WAS A VIRGIN. Not in the classic sense of the word—that status had changed on her seventeenth Halloween night when she’d dressed as an evil, slutty witch and given in to a very naughty knight in shining armor—but that was another story.
She was a California virgin, but as she drove up the coast for the first time and into the small town of Santa Rey, she lost that cherry, as well.
Santa Rey was a classic West Coast beach town, mixing the best elements of Mexico and Mediterranean architecture, all within steps of the beach shimmering brilliantly on her left. There were outdoor cafés, shops and art galleries, skateboarders and old ladies vying for the sidewalks with surfers and snotty tourists, and if she hadn’t been so nervous, she might have taken the time to enjoy it all more.
She took a last glance at her quickly scrawled directions, following them to Firehouse 34. Parking, she peered through her windshield at the place, nerves wriggling like pole dancers in her belly.
A new job as a temp EMT—emergency medical technician.
One would think that after all the moves and all the fresh starts she’d made in her lifetime that new would be old hat to her by now, but truthfully she’d never quite gotten the hang of it.
The Pacific Ocean pounded the surf behind her as she got out of her car. The hot, salty June air brushed across her face as her nerves continued to dance. What was it her mother had said every time she’d uprooted them to follow yet another get-rich-quick scheme or new boyfriend or some other ridiculous notion?
It will be okay. You’ll see.
And though her mother had been wrong about so many things, somehow it really had always been okay. Today would be no different. The azure sky held a single white puffy cloud hanging high over a dreamy sea dotted with whitecaps and a handful of sailboats. Three-foot waves hit the sand, splashing the pelicans fishing for their morning meal. Nice…if she had to make yet another new start, this didn’t seem like such a bad way to go.
Hitching her bag up on her shoulder, Brooke started toward the station, a two-story brick-red structure with white trim and a yard filled with grass and wildflowers swaying in the breeze.
In the huge opened garage sat three fire trucks and an ambulance. One wall was lined with equipment such as hoses and ladders.
Surfboards leaned against the outside of the building. Oak trees dotted the edge of the property, and between the two largest, near the path to the front door, a man swung on a large hammock.
A man with broad shoulders, long legs and the unmistakable build of an athlete. His boots lay on the grass beneath him, as well as a discarded button-down shirt, leaving him in blue uniform pants slid just low enough on his hips to reveal a strip of black BVDs. His white T-shirt invited the general public to bite him. He had his hands clasped behind his head, and a large straw hat covered his face. His stillness suggested he was deeply asleep.
She slowed to a tiptoe, trying not to stare but failing. She was petite, and therefore constantly had to prove to people how strong she could be, but she’d bet he’d never had to prove anything; even from his prone position, he radiated strength and confidence. Of course that long, tough body didn’t hurt, with all that aesthetically pleasing sinew defined even as he snoozed.
She envied the nap. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d taken one. Or the last time she’d taken a moment to just lie on a hammock and soak up the sun.
Or even just to breathe, for that matter.
A lot of that came from being raised by a wild child of a mother, with little to no stability or security. And though Brooke had been on her own since high school, things hadn’t changed much. She’d followed suit, living how she knew, moving around, bouncing from junior college to undergrad to working as an EMT, all in different cities. Hell, different states. Some habits died hard.
But she’d never landed in California before. She’d come to deal with her grandmother’s estate, which included a great big old house and no cash to take care of the mortgage. Wasn’t that just like an O’Brien.
It left Brooke with no choice but to sell the place off before it dragged her down in debt. Except she had to pack up some sixty-plus years of living first. And hell, maybe while the house was on the market, she could learn more about the grandma she’d never known.
In the meantime, she needed money for the immediates—like, say, eating—and the temp EMT position was for six weeks.
Perfect.
At least on the outside looking in, which was pretty much how she lived her life. Someday she’d like to change that. Someday she’d like to find her niche.
Find where she really belonged…
But for now, or at least the next six weeks, she belonged here. As she moved past the dozing firefighter, the sea breeze stirred her hair and tickled her nose. Then another gust of wind hit, knocking her back a step, and still the occupant of the hammock didn’t move, breathing slow and deep, his chest rising and falling in rhythm. She kept tiptoeing past him, then pretty much undid all her careful stealth by sneezing. And not a dainty-girl sneeze, either.
The long body stirred, and so did something deep within her, which was so odd as to be almost unrecognizable.
Lust?
Huh. It’d been a while since she’d felt such instant heat for a guy, especially one whose face she hadn’t even seen yet.
His hand reached up to tip off his hat, revealing short, sun-streaked brown hair. When he turned his head in her direction, she caught a quick flash of a face that definitely matched the body, and more of that stirring occurred. He’d been blessed by the gene-pool angels, and freezing on the spot, Brooke watched as two light green eyes focused, then offered a lazy smile. “Bless you,” he said.
He had a voice to go with the rest of him—low, deep and melodic. Uh-oh. Lots more stirring and a rise of instantaneous heat, because, good Lord, if she’d thought him virile with his eyes closed, she needed a respirator to look at him now. “Sorry to wake you.”
“No worries. I’m used to it. Besides, you’re a much prettier sight than anything I was dreaming about.”
They were just words but they brought a little zing to her good spots. Good spots she’d nearly let rust. Whew. Suddenly, she was actually beginning to sweat. If someone had asked her before this moment if she believed in lust at first sight, she’d have laughed. No, she needed more than hot sexiness in a guy, always had.
But she wasn’t laughing now.
Wanting to hear him talk some more, she asked, “What were you dreaming about?”
“We responded to a fire last night and lost a kid.”
Some of that overwhelming lust relegated itself to the background of her brain, replaced by something far more real to her than mere physical attraction. Empathy.
