seen eyes like that before—actually, two sets of eyes that had looked exactly like hers. So maybe they weren’t that unusual. Hell, hers could have been colored contacts, but he was close enough—staring intently enough into them—that he would have noticed the telltale rims of the lenses.
She was really that naturally beautiful. His uneasiness grew, and he drew in a deep breath. Big mistake. She smelled of sunshine and wildflowers. Was it her or some expensive perfume made to smell like nature?
She leaned even closer, but thankfully she was much smaller than he was, so her lips were nowhere near his mouth. Just his throat...
He swallowed hard when her warm breath slid over his neck, as she asked again, “How am I bothering you?”
He eased back as far as he could in the booth. And reminding himself, he said, “You’re a reporter.”
The media had made the biggest tragedy of his childhood—hell, his life—even worse. They had exploited his mother’s pain and his.
She laughed. “You make it sound like I’m a serial killer.” But he hadn’t offended her; amusement sparkled in her eyes.
“You might be as dangerous.”
“Why?” she asked. “I only report the news.”
He snorted. “Or you make news out of nothing.”
“Nothing? That fire wasn’t nothing,” she said.
“No,” he agreed. “But it was several weeks ago. It’s time to let it die now.” Like the fire had died—except for the hot spots that sprang up every once in a while. That was why, except for the occasional trip out West to relieve crews there, his team was sticking close to Northern Lakes—to protect the town.
“There’s more to the story,” she said.
He wasn’t supposed to comment. But he hadn’t been told not to question. And since he wanted to know what she knew—or suspected—he asked, “What?”
“You.”
And he laughed, even as nerves clutched his stomach.
“I know,” she said. “I know that Wyatt Andrews wasn’t the real hero that day—you were.”
He tensed. He hated that word—hated even more how easily it was used to describe someone who was just doing his job. He shook his head.
“I know,” she said. “I have sources.
He laughed again. “Your sources are wrong.”
“My sources were there,” she said. “In a shelter that you brought when you and another firefighter found the campers and Wyatt Andrews. My sources were with you—in one of those shelters.”
“Kade and Ian,” he said. That was where he’d seen her eye color before—when those terrified twins had stared up at him as they’d asked him if they were going to die. No, he’d told them, and had hoped like hell he wasn’t lying. “Your younger brothers?”
“Nephews,” she said, and pride and affection warmed those beautiful eyes. “They are alive today because of you.”
“Wyatt—”
“Wyatt Andrews didn’t have enough shelters for all of the campers. If you hadn’t brought the extra ones...” She shuddered.
He lifted his arm to the back of the booth, tempted to slide it around her—to offer her comfort. But the boys were fine. He hadn’t had to lie to them.
“Everybody survived,” he said.
“Because of you!”
He shook his head. “Because of the team.”
“But you deserve to be personally acknowledged like Wyatt Andrews was,” she insisted. “Let me do a special feature—about you.”
At the thought of all those reporters focused on him, shoving mics in his face, asking him questions, he shuddered. He’d endured too much of that as a kid. “Hell, no!”
She flinched, making him regret the harshness of his refusal.
But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t be hounded by the media again—couldn’t have his life laid bare for all the world to see. Because they wouldn’t be happy reporting just the current event. They would drag up his past and his pain...
“Why not?” she asked.
He forced a grin and told her, “There’s nothing special about me. I’m just a man doing my job.”
“A dangerous, heroic job,” she said.
He shrugged. “It’s not the only dangerous profession. You have plenty of other subjects for your special features.”
“But I want you.” She reached out and brushed her fingertips over his chest.
Beneath her touch, his heart slammed against his ribs; it began to pound fast and hard. If only...
But she was playing him, just working him over so he’d agree to her interview. He shook his head.
“Let me do the feature on you,” she said, “as a thank-you for saving my nephews.”
He chuckled. “That’s the last way I’d want to be thanked.”
Her eyes narrowed for a moment, and she studied his face as if trying to figure out why he wanted no publicity. Then her eyes brightened as they sparkled again with amusement. “Well, I did have another idea of how to thank you...”
He knew he was going to hate himself for asking, but he couldn’t resist. “How’s that?”
She pitched her voice to that low, husky whisper again and leaned closer—so close that her lips nearly brushed his throat. “With a kiss.”
He couldn’t resist her, either. His heart hammering now in his chest, he closed his arms around her and drew her even closer.
AVERY’S PULSE QUICKENED, and her breath caught in her lungs as Dawson’s arms tightened around her. He was going to kiss her.
But he lifted her, instead, right out of the booth. He moved with her and set her on her feet. Her legs trembled beneath her. Maybe it was just that her heel was on a peanut—maybe that was the reason. It couldn’t be because she’d wanted him to kiss her, that just anticipating his kiss had weakened her knees.
No man had ever weakened Avery’s knees before. Not even while kissing her. She had never felt an attraction like this. His photo had intrigued and interested her. But in person...
He was even more handsome. More muscular. More serious and tense...
She clutched at his arms before he could
