AVERY WAS USED to everyone looking at her when she returned home. Reporting the big news in the big city—despite her limited airtime—had made her big news in the small town where she’d grown up. She was also used to men looking at her—usually with admiration. Not the hostility with which the men in the back booth were regarding her.
Apparently they knew who she was. But she extended her hand anyway—toward Dawson Hess—and said, “I’m Avery—”
“I know who you are,” he interrupted, his voice gruff with irritation. “How do you know who I am?”
“You’re a Huron Hotshot.” She glanced at the other men. They were no more welcoming than Dawson Hess. “You all are.”
“How did you know where to find us?” Superintendent Zimmer asked. His voice was even colder than Dawson’s.
“The curly-haired kid who was washing trucks at the station told me you had all come here,” she said. He’d also told her Dawson’s last name.
“Damn kid,” the superintendent murmured.
“I’ll talk to Stanley,” the blond firefighter said. He slid from the booth, and as he did, his glance traveled from the top of Avery’s head to her toes peeping out of her high heels.
She’d purposely dressed up for her trip into the village of Northern Lakes. But she hadn’t dressed up for him. The man she’d dressed up for had barely glanced at her.
The blond guy shook his head and murmured, “What a shame...a damn shame...”
The superintendent slid out behind the blond firefighter. “As every other reporter has been told, Ms. Kincaid, the US Forest Service is not granting interviews at this time.”
“Why not?” she asked. “This is a great time to bring more attention to the heroic work you and your team do.” And especially to the heroic work that Dawson Hess had done. He had saved her nephews. And he deserved some of the accolades Wyatt Andrews had monopolized.
“I’m not giving any interviews,” Wyatt said. The dark-haired man sat at the end of the booth between her and Dawson Hess. But, until he’d spoken, she hadn’t really noticed him.
“I don’t think she’s interested in talking to you,” the blond firefighter remarked with a deep chuckle.
“None of us are giving interviews,” the superintendent told her. “We don’t need attention. We just need to do our jobs.”
She tilted her head and remarked, “I don’t hear any sirens. There isn’t a fire right now. I wouldn’t be keeping you from your work.”
But she wasn’t keeping them at all. Wyatt Andrews stood up with the other two men, and the three of them walked out together—leaving Dawson Hess alone in the booth. Before he could slide out, too, she perched on the seat next to him. Not that she would be able to physically hold him in the booth if he wanted to leave. His shoulders were so broad that her arm inadvertently bumped his when she sat down. He was so muscular—big arms, big chest—that he could easily move her out of his way if he wanted.
“Please, give me just a few minutes of your time,” she implored him. “I’m sure I’m not keeping you from anything.”
Or anyone? She glanced down at his left hand. He wore no ring, but that didn’t mean anything. She knew a lot of men—in professions less physical than his—who chose not to wear their wedding bands.
“Just because we’re not at a fire doesn’t mean we’re not at work,” he told her.
She glanced at the pitcher of beer in the middle of the table and arched a brow. “Hard at work apparently...”
Those light eyes turned out to be a pale brown—like gold or amber—until they momentarily darkened.
So much for sweet-talking him into granting her an interview or a kiss.
“We’re not on duty right now,” he admitted. “But we were discussing work.”
They had looked intense when she’d walked up.
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” she said. “I was just teasing.”
He shrugged, and his arm rubbed against hers. “You didn’t offend me.”
Heat rushed through her—starting at the contact with his body. Her dress had long sleeves, but they were thin and silky, so she could easily feel him through the light material. His arm was bare, the muscle taut as if he were tense.
All of the men had looked tense. Before the blond guy had noticed her, she’d noticed them—had seen their heads bent together in what had appeared to be an intense exchange. Over a pitcher of beer?
Why had they looked so serious? So preoccupied?
As Dawson had said, just because they weren’t at a fire didn’t mean they hadn’t been working.
Her instincts were as trustworthy as they always were. There was more going on with the Huron Hotshots than a regular wildfire season.
And she intended to find out exactly what.
* * *
SHE HADN’T OFFENDED HIM, but Avery Kincaid had damn sure affected him—so much so that he hadn’t been able to move as fast as his friends. He wasn’t going to hear the end of that back the firehouse. They would tease him mercilessly.
And with good reason.
He wasn’t like Wyatt and Cody. He didn’t chase after every female who had a pretty face and a great pair of legs. Even Braden had let a woman mess with his head and his heart. Dawson had always been smarter than that—until Avery Kincaid had stared at him with those gorgeous eyes of hers.
Her beauty wasn’t what worried him the most, though. She was smart and ambitious, or she wouldn’t be working for a national network at her young age. Everyone in Northern Lakes bragged about the hometown girl who was making it in the big city.
“If I didn’t offend you,” she asked, “what is bothering you?”
She turned toward him now, so that her breast rubbed against his arm. And her knee pushed against the side of his thigh. Every muscle tightened in his body.
“I said you hadn’t offended me,” he replied, “I didn’t say that you weren’t bothering me.” She was bothering the hell out of him right now. She was so damn hot that he felt as if his skin was sizzling despite the fabric between them.
Her mouth—wide and sexy, with full, shiny lips—curved into a smile. She leaned a little closer—maybe because it was loud in the bar, maybe just to tease him. In a husky, seductive whisper, she asked, “How am I bothering you?”
By breathing...
Every breath she drew pushed her breast against his arm. It was full and soft and warm. He struggled
