Burning for the Fire Chief (Heroes of Whispering Pines #5)

Chapter 1 Kaia

Kaia

Some women clean their houses with ruthless efficiency. I require music, snacks, and a complete disregard for sequence.

I am dancing barefoot through my living room while folding laundry and singing into a wooden spoon.

This still counts as cleaning.

The basket sits open on the couch, full of warm clothes I pulled from the dryer twenty minutes ago and have so far managed to fold at a rate of approximately one shirt per song.

I toss a pair of shorts onto the neat pile beside me, spin toward the coffee table, and point my wooden spoon at the fern spilling over the edge of the bookcase.

“You are the only one here who appreciates my talent, Ivy.”

Yes, I talk to my plants.

I started doing it during my first few weeks in Whispering Pines, when moving to a town where I knew exactly one person felt brave during the day and a little lonely after dark.

Joyce, my college best friend and the person responsible for convincing me to move here in the first place, had a life of her own.

My new job at the community center had not started yet, and the old blue house made enough mysterious noises at night to turn silence into something I noticed.

So I talked to the plants.

They never complained.

Ivy’s leaves remain still, which I choose to interpret as support.

“Thank you.”

I turn the music louder.

My little rental house creaks around me while I dance back toward the couch. I have learned its quirks over time: one kitchen drawer only opens if I lift it first, and the upstairs hallway has a floorboard that announces every trip to the bathroom.

I love all of it.

Four months ago, everything I owned fit into my car and a tiny rental trailer hitched behind it.

Joyce had been waiting on the front steps when I arrived, holding a pizza in one hand and a bottle of cheap sparkling wine in the other.

By midnight, we had unpacked three boxes, touched none of the kitchen stuff, and eaten dinner directly from the carton on the floor.

Now my mugs fill the cupboards. My paintings lean against the dining room walls. My clothes are currently making a determined attempt to take over the couch.

No one chose any of it for me.

That matters more than I usually admit.

My mother would hate the orange cushions. She would hate the mismatched frames above the fireplace and the tiny paint smears near the back windows. She would probably take one look at my oversized yellow T-shirt and remind me that women with my figure should be more careful about what they wear.

Kaia, sweetheart, people notice these things.

People had noticed everything in my family.

My weight. My clothes. My laugh. The way I spoke too loudly when I got excited. The art degree my parents treated as if I had announced a long-term commitment to financial ruin.

By the time I left home at eighteen, I knew exactly how to enter a room and imagine myself through everyone else’s eyes.

I also knew I was tired of doing it.

I reach into the laundry basket and pull out a soft white bra, then pause when my gaze catches on the easel near the dining room window.

The canvas should be covered.

It is not.

“Oh, dear.”

I set the wooden spoon on the coffee table but keep the bra in my other hand as I cross the room.

Zain Carson looks back at me. My grumpy, ridiculously handsome next-door neighbor.

Well, an unfinished version of Zain does.

The portrait is only half complete. I have painted the shape of his face and the darkness of his hair, worked layers of shadow into the rough stubble along his jaw, and spent an embarrassing amount of time on one eye because I could not capture the exact way he looks at people.

I stand in front of the canvas.

“You are becoming a problem.”

Painted Zain remains silent.

That part is extremely accurate.

Zain has the kind of face that makes an artist greedy. Strong bones. Dark hair. Rough stubble. A mouth that seems permanently caught between irritation and silence. His expressions shift so little that every tiny change matters, and I have caught myself trying to memorize them more than once.

The slight tightening around his eyes when he is tired.

The rare softness when he talks to children.

The way his whole body changes when a siren sounds somewhere in town.

I saw that happen a few weeks after I moved in. He had been standing beside his truck with a grocery bag tucked against one hip when a siren started somewhere beyond Main Street. His head lifted immediately, and something in him changed before he even reached for his phone.

I had sketched him from memory that night.

Then I sketched his profile.

Then his hands.

Then the broad line of his shoulders.

The black sketchbook tucked inside the bottom drawer of my desk contains enough evidence to make moving again a reasonable option.

My gaze lowers to the unfinished shoulder on the canvas.

I have not painted his scars.

I saw them last month when he was working behind his cabin without a shirt, which should frankly require some kind of neighborhood warning system. I had gone into my kitchen for water, glanced through the window, and forgotten why hydration mattered.

Black ink curved over the side of his ribs. Burn scars crossed one shoulder and disappeared over his upper back.

I only saw them for a few seconds before guilt made me look away, but they stayed with me. The marks made me wonder about all the things he never says, which is probably why I have not been able to paint that part of him yet.

I lift my free hand toward the canvas, then stop.

“No. I am supposed to be folding laundry.”

This time, I do not wait for Ivy’s opinion.

I turn away from the portrait just as headlights sweep across my living room wall.

My pulse changes immediately.

The low rumble of an engine reaches me through the open windows, then cuts off.

I stand very still.

Do not go to the window.

I am a twenty-four-year-old woman with a college degree, a job, and enough self-respect to avoid spying on the neighbor.

I last four seconds, then I hurry to the side window.

Zain has just stepped out of his department truck, leaving the driver’s door open behind him.

My stomach performs a small, humiliating flip.

He is still wearing dark department pants and a black T-shirt stretched across shoulders that have been interfering with my peace since the day I moved in.

His dark hair looks slightly mussed, and even from here I can see the exhaustion in the way he pauses beside the open door and rolls one shoulder.

Thirty-eight.

I know because in a town the size of Whispering Pines, a woman can learn almost anything without technically asking.

One innocent question to Joyce about whether the fire chief had always been that grumpy somehow came back with his age, his former military career, and a warning that the expression on my face was becoming embarrassing.

Fourteen years older than me.

Fire chief.

Ex-military.

Quiet enough that every word feels important when he finally decides to use one.

I know all the reasons I should stop wanting him.

My body has reviewed the evidence and rejected the recommendation.

Zain shuts the truck door.

His head turns.

Toward my house.

I drop beneath the window so fast that my knee slams into the edge of the small side table.

“Ow!”

Pain shoots up my leg. I fling both hands out to catch my balance, forgetting I am holding a bra until it leaves my fingers and sails over my shoulder.

I hear a soft whump behind me.

For one second, I remain crouched on the floor with both hands pressed to my knee.

Then I look back.

My white bra is hanging from the lampshade.

I stare at it.

“Why am I not surprised?”

Outside, gravel crunches beneath footsteps.

My head snaps toward the window.

No.

I carefully rise just high enough to peek over the sill.

Zain is crossing the narrow space between our houses.

“Oh, no.”

I scramble upright.

The unfinished portrait.

My blood turns cold.

I rush across the room, grab the paint-splattered drop cloth folded beside the easel, and throw it over the canvas. I am still trying to arrange it so no suspicious corner of Zain’s painted jaw is visible when someone knocks on the front door.

“Coming!”

I freeze.

Why did I yell?

Another knock follows, heavier this time.

I smooth both hands over my hair, which makes absolutely no difference, then hurry to the door.

I open it.

Zain fills the porch.

He looks tired up close. There are faint shadows beneath his eyes, and dark stubble roughens his jaw. His gaze moves over me quickly, taking in my oversized shirt, bare legs, and probably the red mark already forming on my knee.

Then his eyes return to mine.

“You all right?”

“Yes.”

He studies me.

I smile.

His expression does not change.

“Why?”

“Thought I saw you fall.”

My knee throbs in accusation.

“I did not fall.”

One eyebrow lifts.

“I lowered myself unexpectedly.”

His gaze holds mine for several seconds, and I have the uncomfortable feeling that Zain Carson could make a guilty person confess simply by waiting long enough.

“You hit something.”

“The table.”

“So you fell.”

“I remained technically upright.”

“You disappeared below the window.”

My face warms.

There are several possible responses.

Unfortunately, all of them involve admitting I was peeking at him.

“I was stretching.”

His gaze sharpens.

“Behind the curtain?”

“Yes.”

“At ten at night?”

“I take flexibility very seriously.”

For one tiny second, something shifts at the corner of his mouth.

I narrow my eyes.

“Did you almost smile?”

“No.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“That was dangerously close.”

His gaze moves past my shoulder. His eyes stop. Silence stretches between us.

I turn my head slowly.

There it is. White lace draped over the lampshade like a deeply personal surrender flag.

I close my eyes.

“Please ignore that.”

When I look back, Zain’s mouth has tightened.

I point at him.

“You are doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Trying not to smile.”

“I’m not.”

“My lamp is wearing a bra, Zain. You are allowed to find this funny.”

His gaze returns to the lamp.

“It’s yours?”

I stare at him.

“No. The underwear fairy left it.”