Chapter 17
Seventeen
Colter
It had finally happened. Some dumbass—in this case, Theo Drummond—completely ignored the wind conditions and decided to just “take care of” some of the debris accumulated in his yard from the flood by having himself a good old-fashioned bonfire.
He’d even gone to the trouble of buying fucking marshmallows and graham crackers, making a whole damn event of it.
It took less than an hour for the evening winds to kick up like they always did this time of year, sending sparks flying into the nearby trees, which had been absolutely decimated by pine beetles over the last two seasons and marked for takedown.
But nobody had gotten around to removing them yet, and so it was all hands on deck to contain the blaze before the entire fucking mountain burned down.
That led to a call for assistance from the hotshot crew stationed in Asheville and a mandatory double shift for all of us, no exceptions.
But we’d managed to lock it down before we became the next major catastrophic news story. Again. Thank Christ.
I was bone-deep tired by the time I’d showered off the layers of soot and smoke and gotten off shift. The exhaustion went all the way down to my marrow. I only wanted two things: eight straight hours on a horizontal surface to zonk out, and to see Swayze.
I’d had that almost kiss in the back of my brain for most of a week despite the grueling, filthy conditions we’d been working under.
Every spare moment my mind wasn’t actively focused on containment lines and wind patterns, it drifted right back to that moment in her office—the way her breath had hitched, the soft flush that had crept up her neck, the way those hazel eyes had gone dark and unfocused when I’d leaned in close.
Multiple fantasies about how that whole scenario could have played out had been on constant repeat in my brain, running like a highlight reel I couldn’t shut off no matter how exhausted I was.
My personal favorite involved us using that brand new desk of hers for things that were decidedly not work-related, her legs wrapped around my waist and all those carefully organized supplies scattered across the floor.
That was my frustrated libido talking; I knew that much.
I was self-aware enough to recognize when my dick was doing the thinking instead of my brain.
I absolutely did not think we actually would have ended up banging on her new desk if my kid hadn’t interrupted at precisely the wrong moment.
We weren’t teenagers, and Swayze wasn’t the kind of woman who’d appreciate being rushed into anything.
But God, I’d wanted to get my mouth on her.
The want had been damn near overwhelming in that moment, a visceral ache that had nothing to do with common sense and everything to do with pure, undiluted need.
The need to find out how she tasted and what that caramel-colored hair felt like threaded between my fingers, silky and thick.
The need to know what kind of sounds she made when she enjoyed something, when she was lost in the moment and forgot to be guarded.
I’d spent my entire shower working through the logistics of how I was going to achieve all of that, running through various scenarios and approaches like I was planning a tactical operation instead of just asking a woman to dinner.
I’d cycled through casual invitations that might not seem too forward, more formal date proposals that showed I was serious about this, and everything in between.
Finally, after I’d rinsed the shampoo out of my hair for the second time because I’d gotten so distracted I forgot I’d already done it, I’d reached what seemed like an obvious conclusion: I needed to do the straightforward thing and ask her out on an actual, honest-to-God date.
A proper one, with advanced planning and maybe even a reservation somewhere nice.
The kind of date that would—please Universe—not be interrupted by my daughter bursting in at a critical moment, or by my over-enthusiastic dog deciding someone’s crotch needed investigating, or by my well-meaning-but-sometimes-oblivious baby mama showing up unannounced with some parenting question that could’ve waited.
At the sight of Swayze’s Rogue sitting in the driveway, I veered straight toward her front door instead of heading to my own place. No time like the present, right?
She took longer than I expected to answer the door after I knocked, each passing second stretching out as I stood there on her doorstep like some lovesick teenager.
Maybe she was busy with work, deep into some complicated design project with her headphones on, oblivious to the outside world.
Maybe she was napping, catching up on some much-needed rest after another late night at her computer.
Maybe she was in the shower, washing her hair and—
My brain took another dangerous detour at the thought of hot water sluicing over all that bare skin, running in rivulets down her neck and shoulders, trailing between her breasts and down lower to places I had no business imagining.
Especially not while standing in full view of anyone who happened to drive past.
The door swung open, and my brain short-circuited since half the blood in my body had already drained south at the speed of light.
At the sight of Swayze standing there in some kind of dark leggings that hugged every single curve like they’d been painted on and a form-fitting sweater in a deep forest green that made those hazel eyes pop, I almost lost the last shred of my senses and took her mouth right then and there.
The urge to back her into the apartment and up against the nearest wall to finish what we’d almost started the other night was so strong I had to actually lock my knees to keep myself rooted to the spot.
“Colter.” The tone of her voice stopped me cold, like a bucket of ice water.
There wasn’t anything overtly wrong with it, except that it just… wasn’t right. It wasn’t full of the welcoming warmth I’d gotten used to. There was no sign of the happy, flirty smile she usually shot my way when she saw me, the one that made something fluttery bloom in my chest.
“What’s wrong? Did something happen?” The questions tumbled out of my mouth before I could think better of them.
Her brows drew together in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
What the hell was I supposed to say now? You didn’t smile when you saw me, and I’m used to you doing that, and your lack of smile is making me panic. Yeah, no. I’d come off like a complete lunatic or some weird chauvinistic asshole who expected women to perform happiness for him.
I backpedaled quickly. “Nothing. You just had a look on your face, and I wanted to—never mind. Forget I said anything.”
Those expressive brows arched up expectantly, waiting for me to explain what the hell I was doing standing on her doorstep looking like something the cat dragged in.
When she didn’t invite me inside like she normally would have—like she’d done every single other time I’d shown up at her door—a more horrifying scenario occurred to me, sending a spike of something uncomfortably close to jealousy through my gut.
What if someone else was already here? What if somebody else had asked her out while I was busy trying to get my head screwed on straight and my feelings figured out?
What if some other guy—or woman—from town had noticed what I’d been too stubborn to admit to myself?
There was no other car visible in the driveway, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything.
My mind raced through possibilities. They could have walked over from one of the neighboring properties, or parked somewhere else down the road, or maybe they’d ridden over on an ATV through the back trails.
Hell, for all I knew, they could’ve been dropped off.
The silence was beginning to stretch into awkward territory, expanding into that uncomfortable space where someone needed to say something, anything, before the whole interaction became unsalvageable.
Swayze glanced past me, scanning the area. “Where’s Ludo?”
I flashed what I hoped was a charming smile, trying to lighten the strange mood. “Oh, I see where I fall in your personal lineup. Good to know my position.”
“The mountain of floof will always be first in my heart,” she said, and there was a ghost of warmth there, but not the full wattage I was used to. “I’ve missed seeing him around for the past several days.”
But not me? I didn’t say that out loud, swallowing the words down. “He’s with Lisa and Oakleigh right now. I had a double shift at the station.”
“Ah.”
That was it. Just one syllable, no follow-up questions, no concern about why I’d been on a double shift.
I suspected she didn’t know about the nearby forest fire that had nearly gotten out of control. With her working from home like she did, if she hadn’t ventured into town or nobody had thought to mention it to her, there was no real reason why she would have heard about it.
Of all the scenarios I’d imagined about how this conversation would go—and I’d imagined plenty during those long hours fighting the fire—none of them had involved this particular brand of weirdness.
I couldn’t help but feel like I’d stepped in something, made some misstep I wasn’t aware of, and I sure as hell didn’t feel like this was the right moment to ask her out on a date.
Was it me? Had I done something wrong without realizing it?
Had something happened elsewhere in her life, and she just wasn’t in a good headspace for company right now?
What the hell was going on?
Before I could formulate a polite way to ask what was wrong without sounding like I was prying, another vehicle turned into our shared driveway.
Swayze stepped out the door, moving past me, and we both watched in silence as a white sedan parked behind her Rogue, blocking it in.
An objectively great-looking guy slid out of the driver’s side—tall, well-dressed, the kind of polished that spoke of city living—bracing his arms against the top of the car as he grinned broadly in our direction.
“Well, hey there, gorgeous. Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”