Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Sami
What? What did I just suggest?
“Sorry.” I force out a laugh. “That was weird. Ignore that. My writer’s imagination is getting the better of me.
Who knows what that box was, right?” And seriously, no one but Allen knows I’ve gone away.
“Plus, I have no food. And it’s your birthday.
The last thing you want to do on your birthday is hang out with a stranger. ”
“Plenty of food at my place.” He shrugs. “And didn’t we decide back at the pub you were my date for the night? We were going to hunt for bacon together. The perfect birthday, remember?”
“Alright, Gibbo,” the captain says. “The rest of the crew can finish up here. Your priority is Ms. Miller.”
Tony turns to me, and my sex throbs. Oh, I so want to be his priority.
Hudson clears his throat. “I’ll leave you two to work out the arrangements.”
He leaves. I think. I can’t stop looking at the man I’ve just thrust myself upon. “I’m sorry, Tony. I hope I’m not being an inconvenience.”
“Gibbo.” He smiles. “And you’re not. Not at all.”
“All part of Hartley Ridge hospitality, Gibbo?” Making a joke is my go-to when I’m nervous. “Normal, run-of-the-mill practice for you? Rescuing damsels in distress?”
“Nope,” he says. “You’re my first.”
A tight heat throbs between my thighs, and all thoughts of the box burnt from my mind as sheer lust for him sweeps through me. I swallow at the idea of going to his place. I’ve never wanted to go back to a man’s place before.
You’ve never wanted to strip a man naked and climb him like a tree before, either. And yet here you are.
His stare holds mine for a long heartbeat, and then he looks over at my cabin. “Are you okay with me checking inside before you get what you need for tonight?”
I want to say there’s no need, but then a soft breeze fills my nose with the acrid tang of burnt wood. The chances the fire was something nefarious intended for me is absurd, but that doesn’t stop unease fluttering in my stomach.
I nod and hand him the keys. “Thank you.”
With his own nod, he heads off, the confidence and surety in the way he moves making my nipples harden. A heartbeat later, I realize I’m staring at him when I should be following, and I hurry after him.
He steps back out onto the front porch as I reach the door, an easy smile on his face. “All good.”
His calm assurance is like melted butter over my frazzled emotions. “Okay.”
“Hey, Gibbo,” someone shouts behind me. “We’re heading off. Need a lift?”
Gibbo gives me a questioning look. “Want me to tell them to wait while you pack up? I’m parked back at the station. Reckon we could squeeze you in the backseat of the truck.” He pauses a beat. “Or we can go straight to my place in your car?”
His place. “I don’t want to hold them up,” I reply, my heart smashing into my throat.
“All good, Riggs. Thanks, mate,” he calls to the waiting firefighter before turning to me. “Need help grabbing your stuff?”
“One suitcase and a laptop bag?” I shake my head, trying to appear casual. “I travel light.”
It doesn’t take me long to collect my belongings.
Gibbo is waiting for me on the porch when I’m finished.
He’s surveying the night, his bulky yellow firefighting jacket in one hand.
I steal an indulgent moment to devour the solid perfection of his muscular back and shoulders that are barely contained by a snug blue T-shirt.
It seems all those charity firefighter calendars lied, insisting firefighters wear nothing under their uniforms.
Heat licks through me at the thought of Tony Gibson naked, and a soft, hitching moan falls from me before I can stop it.
He turns at the sound. “Everything okay?”
Everything is not okay. I’m falling utterly in lust with him, and I have a sneaking suspicion lust is merely the beginning. I grip my laptop bag’s strap. “Yes. Thank you for this. I feel a bit foolish.”
“I’d feel a whole lot of guilt if I left you alone.” His lips curl in a playful smile. “Consider this a part of that Hartley Ridge hospitality you asked about earlier.”
The roads he directs me onto are dark, narrow and empty, winding through the mountainous terrain like asphalt creeks.
I’m barely able to engage with him as he chats about the convict history of Hartley Ridge, a subject I’d typically be entranced by.
Did I think getting weird boxes every Friday was stressful? Ha! These roads!
Ten minutes into the trip, I turn onto a road I swear to God looks like it’s carved into the side of a sheer cliff, and he clears his throat. “I promise there’s no misogynistic intent behind this question, Sami,” he says, “but would you like me to drive instead?”
Jaw clenched, I flick him the quickest of looks. “Why?”
“I’m a bit worried you’re going to snap the wheel in two with how tightly you’re gripping it.”
A shaky laugh bursts from me. “I’m a big-city girl. I’m used to driving on busy, well-lit streets that don’t plunge down to a bottomless void on the side.”
A low chuckle rumbles from him. “If it helps, you’re doing a much better job than our rookie, Jared Shaw did when he first joined the crew. No one would drive with him at all.”
“Poor guy.” I let out another breath, this one—surprisingly—far more relaxed. What is it about Tony Gibson that makes me so contented? I throw him a smile. “I’m okay. But thank you.”
“Not much further. Just around a couple of bends.”
“Have you lived in Hartley Ridge for long?” I ask. Perhaps this raw ache for him will go away the more I know about him? That’s usually how my relationships with people go. My mum used to say I’m anti-people. Probably why I write horror, when I think about it.
“I’m a third-generation Ridger,” he answers, the warmth in his voice unmistakable. “And a third-generation firefighter. Careful on this corner. It’s notorious for possums crossing the road.”
Lifting my foot off the accelerator, I take the bend slower than a tortoise. “So you’ve always lived here?”
“No. I lived in Sydney for five years. My first post was with Station 025 in Mosman, but I came back here as soon as I could.”
Mosman. One of the most expensive suburbs in Sydney. Right on the harbor with views to die for. “You didn’t like living in Sydney?”
“Sydney’s hectic. Lots of pointless drama.” He snorts. “A lot of callouts to smoke detectors going off in multimillion-dollar homes. The occasional car accident. Something about saving nature and the bush’s beauty up here fulfills me more.”
A heavy beat makes itself at home in my chest. Well, that does it. I think I’m in love with him.
“Here we are,” he says, pointing to a metal letterbox on the side of the road made to look like a bright-purple, goofy emu. “This is my driveway.”
Resignation sweeps through me in a prickling, tight heat.
Yep. I’m definitely in love with him.
Damn it.