Spark Plug (Five-Alarm Flings #2)

1. Bree

brEE

The bay door is open, thank God, and I walk in sideways, balancing my tower of sugar and buttercream, and immediately start talking because silence makes me nervous and also I've never met a stranger in my life.

"Hi! I'm Bree. I've got the cupcakes for Saturday?

Mrs. Henderson sent me. There's vanilla and chocolate and the ones with the little fondant fire trucks on top—those took me four hours, please don't judge the wheels, fondant is a war crime. "

The firefighters gathered around the common room table look up and I get exactly the reaction I always get: amused warmth. A tall blond one with kind eyes—Tanner, I learn later—stands up and reaches for a tray. "Here, let me help."

"Oh, I've got it! I'm a professional. I once carried a three-tier cake up two flights of stairs for a parent-teacher night.

This is nothing." I'm lying. This is absolutely something.

The top tray is migrating and I'm compensating with my hip and my left arm is starting to shake, and I'm about to become the woman who dropped seventy-two cupcakes in a firehouse when a hand catches the tray.

One hand. Just appears from my peripheral vision and stops the slide like gravity is a suggestion he's declining to follow.

I feel his other hand land on my waist to steady me—not grabbing, just placed, solid and warm—and his palm spans half my side.

His fingers curve around the soft part of my hip and his thumb presses against the dip of my waist, and my entire body short-circuits.

I look up. Way up. I'm five-foot-three and this man is a building.

Broad shoulders that block out the overhead fluorescents, arms that stretch the fabric of his station t-shirt in a way that should be classified as a public safety hazard, a jaw that could cut sheet metal.

Dark hair, cut short. Eyes the color of whiskey that are staring down at me with an expression I can't read—it's not hostile exactly, but it's definitely not the amused warmth I got from everyone else.

It's more like I've personally offended him by existing in his firehouse with cupcakes.

He sets the tray down on the counter. He takes his hand off my waist. And then he walks away.

Doesn't introduce himself. Doesn't smile.

Doesn't say a word. Just turns on his heel and goes back to whatever dark corner he emerged from, and I'm standing there with seventy-one remaining cupcakes and a handprint still burning on my hip.

"Don't take it personally." Tanner is beside me now, collecting the trays with a grin that suggests he finds this very funny. "That's Bryson. He's like that with everyone."

"Like what?" I manage. "Terrifying?"

"Focused." Tanner's grin widens. He sets the trays on the table and the crew descends like polite vultures. "He's the station engineer. Best mechanic we've got. Not big on small talk."

"Or large talk, apparently." I smooth down my shirt where his hand was—I can still feel the heat of his palm, which is ridiculous because I'm wearing a cotton blend and he touched me for approximately three seconds. "Does he always look at people like they committed a felony?"

Tanner laughs and doesn't answer, which is an answer.

I stay for twenty minutes. I chat with the crew, hand out cupcakes, explain the fondant fire trucks to a guy named Ty who is so charming I almost forget about the giant brooding one in the corner.

Almost. Because I can feel him. Not looking at me—I can't catch him at it—but aware of me, the way you're aware of a storm system moving through. A pressure change. A shift in the air.

When I leave, I glance back once. He's leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, staring at the spot where I was standing like it personally wronged him.

Tanner was wrong. That wasn't "focused." I saw his face when he touched me. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked under his ear, and his eyes went wide for half a second before he locked it down. That wasn't nothing.

I just can't figure out what it was.