A Firefighter's Fight for Her

1. Alex

ALEX

The first thing I see is smoke escaping windows, doors, and any other way it can.

The second is wet asphalt, as I try to avert my eyes from the fiery catastrophe in front of me.

The third thing I see, which is entirely inconvenient, is Ryder Cook, standing in front of it and looking so much like a hero that my entire nervous system decides to lose its mind.

Fantastic.

I lower my camera long enough to glance at him just as another wave of smoke rolls out of the apartment building across the street. Emergency lights flash hard against the wet pavement, painting everything red and gold while firefighters move through the chaos like they belong inside it.

Which honestly feels insane to me.

There are actual flames coming out of a second-story window.

People are screaming.

A woman wrapped in a blanket is sobbing into somebody’s shoulder near the curb.

And somehow Ryder still looks calm as he walks straight through all of it.

Not relaxed, though, because he’s not an imbecile.

Controlled.

I swear the fire bends around him instead of trying to tear its way through his body.

I hate how attractive that is.

I really, truly, hate it, because I shouldn’t even notice it. Or him.

My life is really turning into something pitiful if I’m spending my working hours thinking about my brother’s best friend like I am.

“Alex.”

I look up instinctively when he reaches me, and immediately regret it because now he’s standing too close while smelling like smoke and cold air and man.

His turnout jacket hangs open at the throat where he must have grabbed at it, exposing an inch of soot-streaked skin, and his dark hair is damp from sweat beneath the streetlights where I can see it sneaking out of his helmet.

This should not be a thing for me.

Unfortunately, it has apparently been a thing for years because my body is a traitorous slut where this man is concerned. At least in my fantasies.

“Please tell me you’re not about to walk back in there,” I say.

One side of his mouth twitches slightly. “Hello to you, too.”

“I’m serious, Ryder. The fire’s just about done.”

“So am I, but I’m headed back in when they need me.”

That does not help my blood pressure.

I shift the camera strap on my neck while trying very hard not to stare at the muscles flexing in his neck when he tilts his head to the side.

It doesn’t work.

Nothing about Ryder really works in my favor, honestly.

Especially not tonight when I’m seeing him at his best, and I look like I’m ready to crawl into bed.

Of course his job is to save people from disaster. All I’m doing is reporting on the fire for the local paper, and my audience online.

“Older wiring?” I ask instead, forcing myself back into work mode.

“No idea yet, but it wasn’t an accident. Off the record.” His eyes move over my face briefly. “You come alone?”

The question catches me off guard enough that I blink at him.

“Yes?”

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

“It’s late.”

“I’m aware of how time functions, Ryder.”

That actually earns me a quiet laugh, which is rude because his laugh does unfortunate things to me. Everything about him does unfortunate things to me lately.

Or maybe not lately.

Maybe always.

I really don’t want to unpack that standing in front of a burning apartment building.

Somebody yells Ryder’s name from near the engine.

He glances over, and they sign something between them before Ryder looks back at me again.

That look does things to me..

I want and crave and hate it at the same time.

It’s too intense.

Too focused.

Too aware.

Like he notices every single thing about me all at once. I’ve been waiting and dreading that look since the moment I saw him. Because it’s the only honest thing between us.

The only truly honest thing.

Ryder watches me like I’m his everything, and I’m too afraid of ruining our friendship to acknowledge it.

It only lasts a moment, but the naked adoration and lust I imagine I’m seeing from him makes heat crawl slowly up my throat.

“You cold?” he asks suddenly.

“What?”

His eyes flick downward toward my legs.

Only then do I realize I’m standing outside in November wearing leggings beneath an oversized hoodie and absolutely nothing resembling weather-appropriate clothing. Oh, and on my feet are a pair of Hey Dudes that I’m wearing without any socks.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re shivering.”

“I’m literally standing beside a fire.”

“You’re still shivering.”

God.

Why does he notice everything?

“I didn’t realize the fire department was so committed to public service,” I mutter.

His mouth twitches again.

“Only for difficult reporters who don’t understand they should wear warm clothes when they’re covering news.”

Before I can answer, somebody nearby starts screaming.

“My cat!”

Every head on the street turns instantly.

An older woman pushes toward the building while another firefighter catches her arm before she can run inside.

“My cat is still in there!”

I see him tense next to me, and fight to keep from grabbing him.

Absolutely not.

Nope.

The roof groans overhead loud enough to make my stomach tighten.

Smoke pours through the broken windows, thicker now. Meaner.

Ryder doesn’t even hesitate. He starts toward the building immediately while I stare at him like he’s lost his entire mind.

“You cannot be serious.”

He looks back once while securing his turnout gear. “Stay here.”

Oh, absolutely not.

Something hot flashes through my chest, so fast it surprises me.

“Ryder—”

But he’s already disappearing back into the smoke.

My pulse climbs into my throat. I hate this. I hate this so much and I can’t even figure out the reason why.

Logically I know this is literally his job, but my body doesn’t seem interested in logic right now. My fingers tighten around the camera hard enough they ache while smoke continues pouring out of the building in thick black waves.

One minute passes.

Then another.

The woman beside the ambulance is still crying, and I can’t blame her. She’s probably lost everything in this fire. And Ryder went back into the damn building to try and rescue her cat.

Emergency lights flash across the wet street over and over and over, a muted symphony to the discord all around us.

And all I can think about is Ryder still being inside.

“Jesus Christ,” I whisper.

A familiar voice appears beside me.

“You look nauseous.”

I jump slightly before glaring at my big brother, Josh.

“Don’t sneak up on me, you dick pickle.”

“You weren’t paying attention.” He hands me a coffee. “You okay?”

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

“No.”

Josh snorts softly like that’s the answer he expected.

Unfortunately, my brother knows me too well. Which means he notices the fact that I keep staring at the building like my life depends on it.

“I hate that he does this,” I mutter. “That you both do this.”

Josh takes a sip of coffee. “Running into burning buildings is kind of the whole job description. Not to mention the fact that we’re good at it.”

“You know what I mean.”

His eyes slide toward me. “Ah.”

“Oh my God, stop.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You made the face.”

“That wasn’t a face. That was observation and a little bit of understanding.”

I glare at him while he grins into his coffee cup, and all I want to do is slap it out of his hand because he shouldn’t see me so clearly. Not when he missed so much before.

Then movement appears through the smoke. Relief slams into me so hard my knees almost give out.

Ryder emerges from the building with a furious orange cat tucked inside his turnout jacket, coughing hard while the entire street erupts around him. Or maybe I hallucinate that part because all I can hear is the sound of my heart racing.

The woman bursts into fresh tears and uncontrollable sobs as she stares at her cat in Ryder’s arms.

Somebody starts laughing at the absurdity of the situation.

Another firefighter yells, “You’re fucking insane, Cook.”

Ryder just shrugs like risking death for a cat is a completely normal Tuesday night activity.

Which tracks.

He hands the cat back carefully before lifting his head, and immediately finds me in the crowd again with my camera pointed right at him.

Something in my stomach flips over hard.

God.

I am so unbelievably screwed because of my attraction to him.

“You should stop looking at him like that,” Josh says beside me.

I nearly choke on air.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Alex.”

“I’m serious.”

“You stopped breathing for a second.”

“That is medically impossible, dick pickle.”

Josh grins wider.

I hate him. Mostly because he’s right.

Ryder starts walking toward us again, and every survival instinct I possess immediately screams at me to act normal, to not give away the childhood crush that’s apparently decimating my insides.

Which would probably be easier if he didn’t look like a fucking action hero.

Smoke curling around him. Soot streaked across his throat.

Broad shoulders filling out turnout gear in a way that should honestly be illegal.

And those eyes.

Jesus.

The closer he gets, the worse the problem becomes.

“You get your pictures?” he asks me.

“Some.”

“You eat dinner yet?”

I blink at him.

“What?”

Josh actually coughs into his coffee beside me.

Traitor.

Ryder doesn’t even look embarrassed.

“You heard me.”

“No, I heard you. I’m just confused why you’re asking.”

His gaze holds mine steadily.

“Because you forget to eat when you work or are on a deadline.”

The answer lands somewhere low in my chest hard enough to hurt.

Because that means he’s noticed.

Not once.

Repeatedly.

Josh makes another deeply entertained noise beside me.

I’m going to kill him, and then murder Ryder, and finally I’m going to burn the entire world down around me so that I can die alone of embarrassment.

“I can feed myself,” I mutter.

“I know.”

Something about the way he says it makes my pulse stumble again.

Like he’s trying very hard not to say something else and can barely contain himself.

A piece of ash drifts down between us before landing against my cheek.

Ryder reaches for me automatically.

His thumb brushes softly across my skin.

One slow stroke.

The entire world seems to stop moving for a second.

His hand is huge against my face.

Warm despite the cold.

And the look in his eyes—

Oh.

Oh, that is dangerous.

My breath catches, embarrassingly hard.

Ryder notices.

Of course he notices, because the man standing in front of me hasn’t missed a single thing since we were in high school and he caught me trying to sneak out one night.

His gaze drops briefly to my mouth before lifting again, and suddenly I’m hyperaware of everything going on around us.

The noise from the trucks and the last dredges of the fire being put out, the smell of the smoke and the sight of it filling the air in spurts, the heat fading instead of growing, his hand which is still touching my cheek, my heartbeat hitting almost painfully, how close he’s standing. All of it.

Nobody should be able to look at someone like that in public. He shouldn’t be able to look at me like that… anytime.

Josh clears his throat loudly beside us, and I’d almost forgotten he’s standing there.

Ryder steps back immediately, taking his hand and the brief warmth it offered with him.

I hate that I notice that too.

“You parked near the alley?” he asks suddenly.

I frown slightly. “Yeah? I wanted to be out of the way and able to escape once I got everything I need for the story.”

His expression hardens instantly. “Don’t do that again.”

There’s something sharp beneath the words, and it has my hackles rising at the protective and controlling tone.

I cross my arms stubbornly. “You don’t get to tell me where to park.”

His jaw flexes once.

“I know, Allycat.”

And for one strange second, something unsettled moves quietly through me and settles between us.

Because Ryder’s attention always feels good.

That’s the problem. That’s always the problem.

I crave that warmth. Even when I shouldn’t.

Especially when it shouldn’t feel as good as it does.

I look away first.

Again.

Just like I always do.

“I should finish working,” I say quietly.

Ryder watches me for another second, his eyes lingering just a fraction of a moment too long before nodding once.

“Text Josh when you get home.”

I roll my eyes automatically to hide the sudden bite of rejection that he wants me to text my brother and not him. “You are so dramatic.”

Something unreadable flickers across his face before the mask slips back into place.

“You don’t worry enough.”

The words follow me all the way home.

So does the look in his eyes.

By the time I pull into my apartment lot a little over two hours later, my brain feels loud in the worst way.

All I’m doing is thinking about Ryder and the way he’s always there. Always watching.

The hallway light outside my apartment flickers overhead while I dig through my bag for keys.

Buzz.

Buzz.

Buzz.

I didn’t even notice that the light made noise until tonight, and it’s setting my teeth on edge.

Creepy.

Love that for me.

While I’m digging, I tap on my neighbor’s door just to let Mrs. Vance know I’m home. The older woman is nosier than anyone else I’ve ever met, but I love her to death. She appreciates the taps on her door to let her know I’m back and safe, so I don’t mind giving her that piece of me.

I unlock the door and step inside, kicking it shut behind me before dropping my camera bag onto the counter and not bothering to lock the door. The deadbolt automatically engages thirty seconds after unlocking, anyway.

But then I pause. Something feels wrong. Not obviously wrong like my house being trashed or things out of place that I can see.

Quiet wrong… like someone is here. Watching me.

My stomach tightens as the fear creeps in.

The apartment is dark except for the kitchen light glowing faintly near the stove.

I stop moving, cataloging what feels wrong.

I know I turned that light off before I left.

Slowly, carefully, I look around and try to figure out where the nearest weapon is and if someone is here.

Nothing appears disturbed or broken or moved.

The couch looks normal, with all of my pillows and the throw blanket exactly where I left them before I got the alert on my phone about the fire.

My laptop still sits open on the kitchen island, asleep with the screen black.

Everything seems exactly where I left it.

But every instinct in my body starts screaming anyway.

Run. Get out.

Then I notice the bedroom window.

Open, a precise three inches.

Cold air drifts softly through the screen.

Terror crashes into me instantly.

Because I know—

I know—

I locked that window before I left.

Even if I mistakenly left the light on and just think I turned it off. Even if I’m hallucinating and afraid for no reason because of everything else, I know I didn’t leave the window open.

And standing there alone in my apartment with my pulse hammering violently against my ribs as I slam the window shut, I’m forced to face a realization that turns my blood cold.

Somebody has been inside my home.