The Mountain Man’s Want (Blue Mountain Burn: The Firefighters of Hartley Ridge #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Tony Gibbo

Phone sandwiched between ear and shoulder, I study the tomato in my hand. “Hey, sis? Is it tomato season?” I frown, turning the bright red vegetable from side to side.

“Isn’t it always tomato season?” Albie, my little sister, asks, her voice somewhat scratchy thanks to the weak connection.

Hartley Ridge’s mobile phone towers are being upgraded this weekend, making for some patchy coverage.

“And also,” she continues, a laugh in her voice, “how the hell should I know? I’m currently in New Zealand. ”

Returning the tomato to the pile in the grocery store, I blink. “Since when?”

“Since yesterday. The New Zealand federal election is this weekend. Kind of a big deal in the Australian news circuit, you know?” She pauses for a beat. “It hurts me, Tones, that you don’t pay any attention to the news, given what I do for a living.”

With a snort, I pick the tomato up again, deposit it in the shopping cart, and swap my phone to my other ear. “It hurts me, Albs, that you are in a different country for my birthday.”

“Ah, I see. Emotional manipulation.” She laughs again. “Tsk-tsk, brother. Don’t you know I’m impervious to your underhanded machinations?”

I chuckle. “Of course you are.”

The pocket rocket that is my little sister is one of Australia’s best journalists, with a cutting intellect and the strongest sense of right and wrong in anyone I know.

If Albie could be here for my birthday, she would.

But she loves what she does, and she’s damn good at it.

No matter where she was in the world, nothing could stop me getting there if she needed me, not even a fire.

We’ve got each other’s backs and have since we were kids.

“Please tell me you’re actually going to do something exciting for your birthday, though?” she says. “Go to the pub and have a beer or two with the rest of the brigade?”

Grinning, I cast a look around at the other vegetables. Do I need lettuce? A BLT needs lettuce, but do I have any in the fridge at home? “Absolutely, I’m doing something exciting. I’m making myself a BLT when I get home, downloading an update for my DJI drone, and watching the game.”

“Which game?” Resigned exasperation laces her voice.

I shrug. “I don’t know.”

She snorts. “Remind me when I’m back in the country to punch you in the arm.”

Laughing, I select a head of cos lettuce, dump it beside the tomato, and head for the deli section. “Will do. When do you get back?”

“Probably Tuesday. Depends on if it’s a controversial outcome or a cakewalk. I’ll keep you posted.” In the background, someone calls out her name. “I’ve got to go. The incumbent is about to make a speech. Love you.”

Before I can reply, she’s disconnected.

Chuckling again, I shove my phone into my pocket, halt at the deli, and frown.

There’s no bacon. Hmm, a BLT sans B?

Studying the cold-cut options, I puff out a sigh. Albie’s right. It is my birthday, and I should do something more than a sandwich. You only turn thirty-seven once, right?

Pulling my phone out again, I open my contact list and scroll through it, directing the shopping cart away from the counter.

The other Hartley Ridge fire brigade members had planned to hit the pub tonight to celebrate the day with me until I nixed the idea.

If I tell them I’ve changed my mind, they’ll be there in a heart—

My cart collides with something the exact second someone lets out a surprised yelp.

I jerk my attention from my phone and am confronted with the most incredible green eyes I’ve ever seen.

“Ow!” the owner of those eyes protests, bending a little to rub at her bare shin.

Before I can stop myself, I rake a look over the woman in front of me.

Fuck, she’s gorgeous.

She’s short and curvy with skin a creamy brown that I instantly want to explore from ankle to ear and has a waist just made for my hands.

A flippy little yellow dress with red flowers on it hugs her hips and waist and breasts, teasing me with a flash of upper thigh that makes my blood quicken.

Dark brown hair falls over her shoulders in a curtain of waves as she inspects her shin, hiding her face from me.

“Sorry,” I say on a choppy chuckle. Damn, I’ve never had such a physical reaction to a woman like this before. “Didn’t mean to—”

She straightens and looks at me, and I forget how to speak.

“It’s okay,” she says, lips curling. They’re full and plump, and my cock throbs at the idea of tasting them, of feeling them against my own. “Honestly, I wasn’t looking where I was going either. Came to buy bacon and was sinking in abject despair at discovering none.”

“Me too,” I say with a grin. “I had big plans for that bacon, and now…” I sigh with melodramatic dismay.

She lifts an eyebrow. “Oh, yes? What plans were those?”

“A five Michelin-star worthy BLT.”

“Five Michelin stars?” A grin plays with her lips. “That’s impressive. I didn’t know they went up to five stars. Shame there’s no bacon left. I’d love to try it.”

A heavy beat throbs through my groin. An invisible vise bands around my chest. “There’s gotta be a butcher open, right?” I say.

Are we flirting? Surely not? She looks barely twenty-five.

Holding my gaze, she lifts her shoulders in a slight shrug. “We could go see? If you’re not—”

The sound of cellos playing AC/DC’s Thunderstruck blasts out from her handbag, and she startles, letting out a little gasp.

“Sorry.” She gives me a smile that confuses the hell out of me as she digs out her phone. Is it sheepish? Is it disappointed? Is it save-me-from-this-call-oh-handsome-stranger?

Ha! My ego.

“Hello?” she says into the phone, her gaze holding mine.

Hmm, maybe my ego isn’t out of—

An unreadable tension flickers over her face. She lowers her phone from her ear and shrugs, eyebrows knitting. “I hope you find some bacon.”

And with that, she turns away, mumbling softly into the phone.

With a wobbly chuckle, I shake my head. Okay, definitely my ego after all. Damn it.

Pub, here we come.