Chapter 2 Professional Tension
Professional Tension
Inhale. Exhale. Remain professional.
I square my shoulders and force a neutral expression onto my face. The heat in my cheeks refuses to subside, along with the lingering awareness of how his hands felt gripping my arms during our collision. Every nerve ending in my body remains traitorously alert, as if he's still touching me.
"Let's begin the briefing, shall we?" I retrieve a fresh stack of maps from my bag—thank god I always bring backups—and spread them across the conference table. "I've prepared detailed evacuation routes for each sector of our jurisdiction."
Mac leans casually against the wall. Like he’s got all the time in the world. He doesn’t move, but his eyes never leave me, tracking every shift in my body like he's already memorized the way I breathe.
The lazy curve of his smile deepens as the door swings open behind me and his team filters in, boots scuffing, laughter low and familiar.
They enter in a loose, confident wave—nineteen men and women in flame-resistant yellow shirts and green tactical pants, exuding calm authority and casual competence.
They fill the room with the controlled chaos of seasoned professionals, peeling off in small clusters, claiming wall space, or leaning against the edges of the table.
Mac doesn’t sit. He remains standing. The position pulls his uniform taut across his shoulders, revealing the contours of muscle beneath. That infuriating half-smile plays at the corner of his mouth, promising trouble.
He watches me. Not the maps. Not the sheriff. Not his team.
Just me.
His gaze drags over my body like a slow touch, unapologetically focused. My coffee-stained shirt is dry now, but the pattern clings in a way that feels too revealing. I resist the urge to cross my arms or tug at the fabric.
Professional. Stay professional.
Sheriff Donovan clears his throat. "Captain Sullivan, would you like to introduce your team?"
"Of course." Mac straightens, the movement fluid and dangerous, like a panther unfolding just before a kill. My eyes betray me, following the way his uniform shifts with every subtle stretch of muscle.
He gestures toward the firefighters now settled in around the room. "Angel's Peak, meet California Hotshot Crew 37."
They nod, expressionless but alert, taking in every detail with the silent focus of people used to crisis. I catch a few raised eyebrows aimed at my coffee-stained shirt.
"Rodriguez, Martinez, Burke." Mac gestures to three firefighters near the windows. "Best sawyers in the business. Sanders, Williams, Nguyen—our medical specialists."
His voice fills the room, deep and assured, commanding without trying. And I hate how much I feel it—low and warm, curling under my skin like smoke. Like it could wrap around my spine and tug.
I imagine that voice against my ear, darker now, whispering orders I’d actually obey. My skin flushes traitorously at the thought, heat pooling low, sharp, and aching.
No. Don’t go there, Jo. Stay professional.
He continues through the crew, each name paired with a nod and their role in the team. They move with the instinctive rhythm of people who’ve faced down hell and walked out breathing.
"And Sergeant Parker." He gestures toward a tall woman with a silver braid and a sharp, knowing gaze. "My second-in-command and the person who keeps all of us alive when we're too stubborn to do it ourselves."
"Someone has to." Parker's weathered face cracks into a brief smile, her knowing eyes drifting between Mac and me. "Especially this one." Her gaze flicks from Mac to me, then back again, full of private amusement and something unspoken, like she’s figured out a storm is brewing.
The tension in the room shifts—still professional, still contained—but there's a current now, undeniable and charged.
And Mac?
He’s at the center of it.
Still watching me like I’m the next challenge he intends to conquer—the next mountain to chase down and claim.
I see the threat in his eyes.
The promise.
He likes the hunt? The chase?
Isn’t that what he said?
The slow unraveling of resistance until there's nowhere left to run. Maybe that’s why I hate him so much—because some cruel, secret part of me wants to be caught.
Wants to be dragged down, pinned beneath him, and forced to admit I care. That I feel every look, every word, every subtle threat he layers with a smile.
Okay, where the hell did that come from?
Let him blow off this mountain for all I care. Let him vanish into the smoke. I dismiss him with a shake of my head, then turn my attention to his team.
"Welcome to Angel's Peak." I gesture toward my maps, determined to regain control of the room. "I'm Josephine Mackenzie, wilderness safety coordinator. I'll be your primary local resource for terrain navigation and evacuation planning."
"Jo?" Mac's eyebrow quirks upward, my name on his lips a deliberate provocation. The room temperature rises several degrees. "You’re Jo?"
"That’s what I said."
He gives me a look—slow, dangerous. Like a predator recognizing its prey. His smile sharpens, dark amusement flickering beneath the surface.
His gaze holds mine, heat and promise simmering behind the professionalism. The warning is silent but unmistakable: Retribution is coming, and he's going to enjoy every second of it.
The crew exchanges glances, and I catch a few smirks.
Great. He's already talked about our collision. About how I sent him in circles.
"As I was saying," I continue firmly, "Angel's Peak presents unique firefighting challenges due to our elevation, complex wind patterns, and microclimate variations."
I launch into my briefing, pointing out key features on the maps—the ridge lines where downdrafts can suddenly change a fire's direction, the hidden springs that provide emergency water sources, the narrow game trails that can serve as escape routes when main paths are compromised.
To my surprise, the crew leans in with genuine interest. A lanky firefighter—Ramirez—whistles softly at my detailed rendering of Widow's Peak.
"This is incredible detail. You've hiked all these areas personally?"
"Every inch." I tap the north ridge section, aware of Mac watching my hands, my face, and my mouth as I speak. "Twice yearly at minimum. Conditions change constantly in the high country."
"What about satellite imaging?" Mac pushes off the wall and approaches the table, his stride confident, predatory. The room seems to shrink with each step he takes. "Our tech team uses GPS overlays accurate to within three feet."
The challenge in his voice is unmistakable, as is the glint in his eyes. This isn't about maps. This is about territory—his versus mine, technology versus tradition.
"GPS can't tell you which trails will wash out after the spring thaw.
" I meet his gaze directly, refusing to be intimidated by his proximity as he stops across the table.
"It can't identify which rock faces become unstable during August thunderstorms, and it certainly can't mark the seasonal water sources that don't appear on any official survey. "
"Technology adapts. Updates happen hourly now." Mac leans over the table, bracing his weight on his palms. The position brings his face closer to mine, close enough that I can smell coffee and mint on his breath. "The margin for error decreases with each satellite pass."
"Unless those satellites are blinded by tree cover or confused by rock formations.
" I don't back away, even as my body responds to his nearness—pulse quickening, skin warming.
"When was the last time your GPS warned you about the false ridge on Lookout Trail that's collapsed three hikers to their deaths? "
The crew's heads swivel between us like they're watching a tennis match. Mac's eyes darken, pupils expanding as our verbal sparring intensifies. I realize, too late, we're giving them quite a show.
"You're suggesting we disregard standard operational protocols in favor of—" he taps my hand-drawn map, his finger deliberately brushing against mine in a touch that lingers a beat too long, "—artistic interpretations?"
The simple contact sends an electric current up my arm. His eyes confirm he felt it too, and did it on purpose.
"I'm suggesting your protocols are designed for California chaparral, not Colorado alpine wilderness." I resist the urge to pull my hand away, refusing to give him the satisfaction. "And there's nothing artistic about accurate terrain mapping."
A firefighter with a buzz cut—Martinez?—chuckles. "She's got you there, Cap."
Mac shoots him a look that would wither a lesser man, but Martinez just grins wider.
"Told you she'd be a match for you," he mutters, just loud enough for me to hear.
My cheeks burn at the implication. Mac ignores the comment, but his jaw tightens.
"Ms. Mackenzie clearly knows her territory," Parker interjects, studying my maps with a professional eye that doesn't quite hide her amusement at our exchange. "Perhaps a practical demonstration would settle this debate?"
"Excellent idea." I flip to my map of Angel Creek Basin, grateful for the diversion. "See this tributary here? Your GPS will show it flowing northwest. Every official survey for the past eighty years shows the same thing."
I trace the blue line with my finger, hyperaware of Mac leaning closer. His presence at my side radiates heat that seems to seep through my clothes.
"But three years ago, a rockslide altered its course.
It now flows northeast, creating a seasonal marsh here—" I tap the location, our shoulders nearly touching, "—that becomes impassable during spring runoff.
It's not on any official map, but it could trap your crew if you relied solely on satellite data. "
Mac studies the map, his brow furrowed. He's close enough that I could count his eyelashes if I were so inclined. Which I'm not. Obviously.
The silence stretches for five heartbeats before he straightens, his arm brushing mine in a touch that feels deliberate.