CHAPTER 1 #2
Fine. I’m here to make certain that Harris Adams’s ignoble demise on the toilet is not the worst ignominy to be visited upon the Adams family. I knew there was a point to my existence.
“Sorry, Nina. Can’t run after him right now, since it would mean leaving Nicholas. Plus, I have brownies in the oven. I’ll have to take them out in a bit.”
“Thanks anyway, Mari. Don’t worry about it.” Half the town is getting the live view, anyway.
They’re all busy gossiping and sending me looks every so often to make certain I note their disapproval.
In the space of a few minutes, a party has broken out.
Sure, there aren’t any beverages except for the occasional take-out cup of coffee, or a random environmentally-conscious water bottle, but everyone below is having a high old time.
No one except Mari even bothers addressing me.
“Ooh, the firemen.” The way Nicholas sounds, it’s like he’s seeing some famous Hollywood actors. He’s a big fan of firemen, and has several representative plastic figures, not to mention a fully equipped truck, complete with an annoying siren. I know. I’ve gotten a headache from it often enough.
“This way, boys. Hey, Pete. Hey, Sampson. Miss Adams is up the tree with her cat, Mr. Mittens. You’ll want to take care of him first. Bit of a clutz, you know?”
I recognize Mayor Bowzer’s steely and dulcet tones. Last on the scene, first to give orders, that’s our silver-fox mayor.
But my thoughts only half-form, because Pete isn’t the problem. Pete is a sweetheart. He’s married to Darla, and they have three beautiful kids. He makes mean pancakes at the holiday breakfast every December. Pete is bound to have an extra sweater, shirt, or something to cover my ass.
But Sampson is another story.
If I grit my teeth any tighter, they’ll wear down to stone roots in a day.
Sure enough, I glance down to find a pair of green eyes laughing up at me from beneath shaggy auburn hair just waving into curls. The top of his head reaches the branch on which I perch, meaning I must be close to nine feet off the ground. Over eight, anyway.
How mortifying. I really should have jumped. Probably wouldn’t have even sprained my ankles.
“Miss Adams.”
“Mr. Dean.”
A hint of sunlight decides to chase a few lines of gold in his mane of decadent locks, and despite how much I despise the guy who grows them, I’m temporarily awed into silence by the beauty.
“Got yourself up a tree, I see.”
“There’s that amazingly quick intelligence you’re known for.”
He clicks his tongue. “Ever heard that honey goes a long way further than vinegar?”
“Ever heard of doing your job?” I snap back.
He rolls his eyes.
So, yeah. We have history, Sampson Dean and I. The asshole.
He taps the branch with his palm. The entire tree shakes. Even Mr. Mittens screeches. The firefighter is stronger than he probably realizes. “Sorry about that. Come on, little guy. How about we get you on firmer ground? Is he a flight risk?”
“Mr. Mittens? I wish.” The words escape me before I can draw them back. I don’t mean them, of course. It’s just my annoyance making me grumpy.
The eight-and-a-half-foot-tall giant of a man glares at me. “I’m sure there are lots of folks who’d be happy to take him off your hands and give him a loving home. He is yours, I presume, given he followed you up here?”
Fuck you.
I want to scream the profanity at him, but instead I squeeze my eyes shut and hold my breath to a count of ten, because… yeah. I’m up a tree and at his mercy. Plus, there’s a crowd.
When I open my peepers, I’m calmer. More or less. “Can you just get him, please? He’ll be fine once he’s on the ground.”
“Bit of a clutz, like I said,” Mayor Bowzer intones.
See? Witnesses. They may pretend not to listen, but those ears and eyes are always open.
The asshole fireman reaches up to the small twig next to me and quickly scoops Mr. Mittens into his cupped palms. The cat is a normal-sized cat, but he looks small between Sampson’s two enormous hands.
Enormous hands that could stroke huge swathes of me in one swipe and make me feel as dainty and ethereal as Mari. Plus, his dick probably matches the length of his palm, starting from the tip of his middle finger. And what would that feel like sliding into me?
Not now, Nina. Keep it in your pants.
Too late. Pants are ripped wide open.
Yes, sometimes I like to talk back to my inner voice.
It’s a thing. Also, my temporary moment of lust is perfectly normal.
It’s been a while. Some dry spells become deserts before you know it.
Also-also, Sampson is a looker. He might have the personality of ground-up paint, but if he could shut up and lie there, he’d be a mighty fine ride.
Unaware of my wandering thoughts, Sampson coos at Mr. Mittens before he allows the idiot cat to climb up onto his shoulder. My annoying pet curls up there into a ball of fur just as if it’s exactly the best place to take a nap.
And then wobbles. Without missing a beat, Sampson catches the cat and slips him into one of his enormous jacket pockets, where my idiot cat blinks out the top and smiles. Yes—smiles. Like he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.
“You’re next, Nina. Unlatch your arms. I’ve got you.” He holds his hands up and sort of shifts them to my waist level, as if he’s ready to catch me when I throw my leg over and jump.
Or hold me. Draw me into him and press me against the long, broad strokes of muscles that make up his body.
His eyes widen.
Fuck, did I say that out loud?
I look at the others gathered below him and relax. Nope. Unless he’s capable of mind-reading, I’m golden.
So why is he staring at me like he knows his asshole hands are making me wet?
Too many beats go by. Maybe he thinks I’m frozen by fear (please let him think I’m frozen by fear), because he sighs and moves another couple inches closer, so close, I can feel the heat of him wafting from under his fireproof fireman suit.
“Where’s your hat?” The non-sequitur escapes me as I debate the pros and cons of staying up in the tree forever.
“In the truck. Didn’t think I’d need it to rescue a damsel in distress.” His hands lock around my waist while he distracts me. “See? No worries, Nina. You’re safe with me.”
Is it possible to puddle with both embarrassment and desire for a guy I hate more than my stupid luck?
The answer, apparently, is yes.