Falling for the Firefighter (Angel’s Peak #8)

Chapter 1 Collision Course

Collision Course

Late. I'm already fifteen minutes late.

My boots pound against the sidewalk as I clutch an unwieldy stack of topographical maps to my chest. Each step sends them sliding precariously in my arms, threatening to spill onto Angel's Peak's still-damp morning streets.

The spring air carries the scent of pine and possibility, but all I can focus on is the impending disaster of keeping twenty out-of-state hotshot firefighters waiting.

Especially their captain.

Captain Sullivan. The infamous "Smokeshow Sullivan" according to Eleanor, who briefed me over drinks at The PickAxe last night.

Apparently, he's some kind of wilderness firefighting legend from California with a chest full of medals and an ego to match.

Eleanor's friend Ruth googled him after Sheriff Donovan mentioned his crew was coming—former military, spotless record, and, according to Ruth's enthusiastic phone screen display, "criminally good-looking. "

Three local departments apparently got into a bidding war for his team's summer contract.

Just what we need—another hero type who thinks a few wildfires make him an expert on our mountains.

"Arrogant, know-it-all flatlanders," I mutter, dodging a woman with a stroller outside the general store. "Coming in here thinking their fancy GPS systems can replace actual knowledge of the terrain."

Scout trots beside me, her German Shepherd alertness taking in everything while somehow managing to look judgmental about my tardiness. She gave me that same look when I overslept, as if she's been punctual her entire life and couldn't understand humans who weren't.

"Don't start with me," I tell her. "You're the one who chewed my alarm clock last month."

The maps shift dangerously in my grip. I stayed up until three in the morning updating trail markings and evacuation routes, determined to prove that my hand-drawn maps show details no satellite imagery could capture.

The morning fog obscured the sunrise I counted on to wake me, and now I'm paying the price.

I round the corner near Maggie's Diner, picking up speed. The scent of fresh coffee and huckleberry pancakes wafts through the air, making my empty stomach clench. No time for breakfast when you've overslept by forty-five minutes.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. Again. Probably Sheriff Donovan wondering where the hell I am with the emergency evacuation routes. I quicken my pace, mentally rehearsing my opening remarks to the visiting fire crew.

Welcome to Angel's Peak. I'm Josephine Mackenzie, wilderness safety coordinator. These maps detail...

Scout suddenly veers left, distracted by something I don't see. I'm too focused on my destination to correct her.

One second I'm rushing forward, the next I'm slammed backward by what feels like a brick wall with a heartbeat. My maps explode into the air like startled birds, fluttering down around me as I land hard on my back, the breath knocked completely from my lungs.

Hot liquid splashes across my chest and onto my precious maps. Coffee. The rich aroma mingles with something else—cedar, smoke, and warm male skin. My body registers the scent before my brain does, sending an unwelcome jolt of awareness through me.

For a moment, I can only stare up at the impossibly blue Colorado sky, stunned.

Then my vision fills with eyes nearly the same shade—piercing, intense, framed by dark lashes and even darker brows. A face hovers above mine, all sharp angles and strong lines. Devastatingly handsome in a rough-hewn way that has no business existing outside of ridiculous romance novels.

The man's body is half-sprawled over mine, one muscled thigh shoved between my legs, his broad chest inches from my face.

"Are you okay?" The voice matches the face—deep, authoritative, with a hint of gravel that scrapes along my nerve endings like a physical touch.

Reality crashes back. I'm flat on my back in the middle of Angel's Peak, my carefully crafted maps scattered like confetti, and some... some tourist is practically on top of me. And my body—traitor that it is—notices exactly how he feels against me before my mind catches up.

"Do I look okay?" I push against his chest, the solid wall of muscle beneath my palms sends another unwanted spark through my fingers. "Get off of me."

He shifts back immediately, but the movement drags his leg against mine, creating friction that makes my breath catch. He notices—of course, he notices—a flicker of something hot and dangerous passing through those blue eyes.

I scramble backward, putting space between us as I push myself to my knees. Coffee drips from my shirt, the once-white fabric now clinging to my skin in a way that draws his eyes before he deliberately looks away.

I look in horror at the nearest map—my detailed rendering of Lookout Point Trail with all its hidden switchbacks and seasonal water sources. The coffee seeps into the paper, turning the blue waterproof ink into a muddy smear. Months of fieldwork are ruined.

"I apologize." He extends a hand. "Let me help you up."

I ignore his offer, rising on my own. "Great.

Just great." I survey the disaster around us—maps scattered in a fifteen-foot radius, most damp with coffee, others being stepped on by curious onlookers.

"Do you have any idea what you just did?

I'm already late for a briefing, and now I have all these ruined maps—"

"I said I was sorry." His tone shifts slightly, a spark of amusement lighting his blue eyes as he tracks my agitated movements. "Though you were running full-speed around a blind corner."

He crouches down and collects the nearest maps, the movement pulling his shirt taut across broad shoulders. The fabric stretches over chiseled muscle as he reaches for a paper that's skittered beneath a bench. I force my eyes away, furious at myself for noticing.

"I know Angel's Peak like the back of my hand," I snap, dropping to my knees to rescue a map from a puddle. "I don't need to slow down on my own streets."

We reach for the same map simultaneously, fingers colliding. The contact sends electricity racing up my arm, and I jerk back as if burned. His eyes snap to mine, pupils dilating slightly.

He felt it too.

"Clearly." A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he examines one of my maps, the curve of his lips unfairly distracting. "Did you draw these yourself?"

The question catches me off guard. Most people don't notice the difference between my hand-drawn maps and mass-produced ones.

"Yes." I straighten a bit, despite myself. "I update them seasonally."

He studies the map with interest, strong fingers tracing the detailed contour lines of Widow's Peak. I shouldn't be watching his hands. Shouldn't be imagining how those fingers would feel tracing other curves.

"These are incredible. The detail is remarkable." His voice has dropped lower, almost intimate, as though we're having an entirely different conversation.

Something warm coils in my stomach at the appreciation in his tone, but I quickly squash it. I don't have time for flattery from handsome strangers, especially ones who've just knocked me on my ass and ruined my work.

"They'd be more impressive if they weren't scattered across the sidewalk." I snatch the map from his hands, our fingers brushing again. This time, the contact lingers for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

Our eyes lock, something electric and dangerous crackling in the air between us. The noise of the street fades as we stare at each other, neither willing to break the connection first.

Scout chooses that moment to bound between us, her muddy paws landing directly on the one map that somehow remained pristine throughout the collision.

"Scout! Off!" I yelp, but the damage is done. Paw prints now mark the trail to Angel Falls.

Instead of staying loyally by my side, my traitorous German Shepherd immediately approaches the stranger, tail wagging as she nudges his hand with her nose.

"Good morning to you, too." He crouches, rubbing Scout's ears. My dog, who normally growls at strange men, melts under his touch, pressing against his leg like they're long-lost friends. "What's your name, beautiful?"

His voice on the word "beautiful" sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine.

"Scout." The word comes out huskier than I intend. I clear my throat. "And she's supposed to be guarding me, not fraternizing with the enemy."

"Is that what I am? The enemy?" His eyes meet mine over Scout's head, something dangerous and thrilling dancing in their depths. The question feels weighted with meaning beyond our sidewalk collision.

"You're a walking disaster who's making me even later than I already was." I stuff the maps back into some semblance of order, painfully aware of his gaze tracking my movements. "And now I have to present these ruined maps to… oh, never mind."

His eyes travel slowly up my body, lingering on the coffee stain spread across my chest before meeting my eyes. Heat blooms beneath my skin at his appraisal.

"These maps show exceptional skill, even with the... impromptu coffee staining." The pause before his last words suggests he might be talking about something else entirely.

I'm saved from responding by Scout's sudden alertness. Her ears perk forward, attention caught by something across the street. A squirrel, probably. At least she's remembering her job.

“I need to go.” I clutch my reassembled stack of maps tighter, the warped paper crinkling under my grip. They’re a mess now—soaked, smudged, months of work ruined in an instant. My jaw aches from clenching it. “Some of us have work to do.”

He nods, stepping back just enough to give me space, though his eyes linger like he’s not quite finished. “Can you point me toward the visitor center? I’m looking for information on local trail conditions.”

God, he’s got nerve. Strolls into town, wrecks my morning, then wants directions like I’m just another friendly local guide. My lips curve, but it’s not a smile.

“Two blocks down, then take a left at the aspen grove. Can’t miss it.”

He will. It’s the wrong direction—completely wrong. But let him wander in circles for a bit. Call it a teachable moment.

“And ask for Jo.” I tilt my head, adding that final dig with sugar-laced precision. “They’ll help you.”

I’m Jo, and I’m definitely not helping him.

Something flickers in his expression—amusement? Recognition? But I'm already turning away, whistling for Scout to follow. I don't have time to play tour guide to attractive strangers, no matter how nicely they handle my maps or how betrayingly my dog responds to them.

Or how my body hums with awareness even as I walk away.

Ten minutes later, I push through the visitor center doors, flustered and frazzled.

My maps are a disaster—coffee-stained, wrinkled, and in Scout's case, muddy paw-printed.

My white shirt now features an impressive coffee tie-dye pattern that no amount of dabbing with paper towels can fix.

Sheriff Donovan stands near the large central table, looking pointedly at his watch.

"Sorry I'm late," I mutter, arranging my maps on the conference table. "Had a collision with a tourist."

Eleanor Morgan, Hunter's grandmother and the town's unofficial matriarch, eyes me with knowing amusement. The morning light catches in her crown of silver braids as she pours coffee into mugs for the waiting hot-shot crew.

"Must have been some tourist to get you this flustered, Josephine," she observes, pushing a steaming mug in my direction. "Your cheeks are positively glowing."

I ignore the comment, focusing instead on arranging my materials. "Where's the hotshot crew? I thought they were supposed to be here at nine."

Sheriff Donovan checks his watch again. "Captain Sullivan should be here any—"

The door swings open behind me, and the temperature in the room seems to spike ten degrees.

“Apologies for my tardiness. Had a bit of trouble finding the place.”

That voice—low, gravel-edged—sends liquid heat sliding straight down my spine. I turn slowly, already knowing.

Blue eyes lock on mine, recognition sparking like dry kindling. The room contracts, the air too thick to breathe.

It’s him.

The sidewalk menace.

The map-wrecker.

The man I sent on a wild goose chase.

Only now he’s in full uniform—flame-resistant yellow shirt rolled to the elbows, green tactical pants slung low on lean hips, and captain’s bars gleaming at his collar like they own the damn room. The wet cotton and mischief from earlier have been replaced by dangerous control.

Authority.

Fire.

So much for him being a tourist.

My stomach plummets somewhere south of reason, taking several vital organs with it, as he steps forward with slow, deliberate confidence, extending his hand like this is a formal introduction and not the start of a war.

Captain Sullivan.

His lips curve into a slow smile that promises retribution as he steps forward, extending his hand formally.

"Captain Marcus Sullivan." His voice carries through the room, but his eyes never leave mine. "Everyone calls me Mac. Sorry I’m late. Took the scenic route,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Got turned around near a gorgeous little aspen grove. Sunlight streaming through the leaves, wind whispering through the branches…” His smile curves, slow and deliberate, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Almost made me forget I was looking for someone.”

His gaze drops to my mouth, lingers.

“Asked for Jo.” The way he says it —low and loaded — sends a lick of heat straight through me. He leans in and whispers. "Fair warning…" His voice lowers to a dangerous purr, meant only for me. “I like the chase. You should know that upfront.”

My fingers close around his reflexively. The moment our skin connects, that same electric current zings between us, stronger now, impossible to ignore.

His grip is firm, warm, and entirely too intentional. His thumb brushes over my pulse point, a deliberate caress that makes my breath catch.

He notices. Of course, he notices.

His pupils dilate as he holds my hand a heartbeat too long.

“Had to change after a little weather surprise. Got caught in a downpour. Soaked through.” He lets the words linger, rich with implication. “Lucky I packed a spare set in the truck. Always prepared.”

Scout, traitorous bastard, bounds over like Mac hung the damn moon. She presses against his legs and looks up at him adoringly.

Well, this should be interesting.

“Looking forward to working closely with you on those evacuation routes, Ms. Mackenzie.” His voice turns silk-edged steel, the emphasis on closely dragging heat through my veins. “And don’t worry—I’m very good at navigating… even when someone intentionally sends me off-course.”

He releases my hand, long after it’s appropriate, but the damage is done. This is going to be a very long and perilous fire season… for me.

And he just struck the match.