26. Brooks
Brooks
“Heat does not create tension.
It reveals where it already exists.”
— Field Note
The sun is barely clawing its way over the eastern ridge, but I’ve been up for an hour. I grab my gear, the heavy leather straps biting into my shoulder as I head out into the damp, my boots sinking deep into the grass of Ember’s property.
She’s a total disaster of nervous energy in the kitchen.
She looks like a walking catastrophe in those baggy, faded overalls.
The sides are completely unbuttoned, hanging low at her hips, and underneath, she’s wearing nothing but a skimpy, neon-yellow bikini top that is doing a pathetic, losing job of containing her.
“Chief,” she says, spinning around. Her hair is pulled into a chaotic, messy bun, and the rising humidity is already making sweat bead and stick to the curve of her neck. “You’re late. They are going to be here in less than eight hours, and this place is still a disaster.”
“I’m right on the dot, Ember,” I say, dumping my heavy tool belt onto the table.
“And maybe we start with the actual woodwork before you decide to renovate the entire house in an outfit designed for a goddamn beach club. If someone walks through that front door, the whole county’s going to be buzzing about your slutty little labor wardrobe. ”
She puts a hand dramatically against her chest. “Wow. Slutty little labor wardrobe?”
“That’s exactly what I said.”
“You make me sound like I’m running an illegal construction-themed brothel.”
I look her up and down slowly. “That outfit is definitely violating several workplace regulations.”
“Oh my God.” She laughs. “You’re impossible.”
“You’ve got both sides of your overalls hanging open.”
“It’s called ventilation, Brooks.”
“It’s called distracting.”
That makes her grin sharpen instantly. “Oh, so now we’re admitting you’re distracted?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You implied it.”
“I implied you dress like you’re trying to start incidents.”
“And yet,” she says sweetly, stepping even closer, “you still came over here at sunrise.”
“Against my better judgment.”
She smirks, that slow, dangerous, teasing curve of her lips. She steps closer, the space between us shrinking until I can feel the radiating heat coming off her.
“It’s a heatwave, Brooks,” she says. “A girl has to dress for the weather. Besides, you didn’t seem to mind the lack of fabric when you were here last time. You were actually a pretty big fan, if I remember correctly.”
I let out a low breath, stepping into her personal space until I’m towering over her. The kitchen suddenly feels very, very small.
I lean down, my mouth a fraction of an inch from the shell of her ear.
“If you keep running that loud, defiant mouth, I’m going to remind you exactly how you taste. Sweeter than sugar, Emmy. You want to see if you can handle that kind of intensity, or are you just going to keep playing the brat until I lose my patience?”
She gasps, a sharp, delighted sound, her cheeks flushing a vivid, beautiful crimson.
“Is that a threat or a promise?” she whispers. “Because you sound like you’re trying to convince yourself more than me.”
“Get back. If I’m doing this, I need room to work, not a distraction.”
The kitchen is stifling. The air is thick with the smell of old pine and the sweet, dizzying scent of her perfume.
I work for a while, sweat soaking through my shirt, sticking to my back and chest. I pull at the collar, trying to get some air, but it’s no use.
I look at Ember, who is watching me with heavy-lidded, hungry eyes, her gaze tracing the muscles in my arms every time I swing the hammer.
“You look like you’re about to overheat, Brooks,” she murmurs, her voice a low, teasing hum. “Maybe you should take that off. It’s just us. Unless you’re worried you’ll lose your professional composure?”
I look at her, really look at her, and the fire in my gut turns into a raging inferno.
“It is hot,” I mutter, my voice gruff. “But don’t think I don’t know exactly what you’re doing.”
I reach up and grab the hem of my shirt, pulling it over my head in one fluid motion. I toss it onto a chair and stand there, bare-chested, the muscles in my back and shoulders coiled tight.
She stares, her throat working as she swallows hard. The teasing vanishes, replaced by something much hungrier and darker.
“Well,” she says, her voice a little breathless, “that certainly helps the airflow.”
“You were absolutely trying to get me to do that,” I say.
Ember blinks innocently. “Do what?”
“Take my shirt off.”
“Brooks.” She places a hand against her chest like she’s offended. “I would never manipulate you.”
“You stared at me for ten minutes straight.”
“You have very distracting shoulders.”
I laugh under my breath despite myself.
Then her eyes drift lower again. This time she doesn’t even pretend to hide it.
“You’re flexing on purpose now,” she accuses.
“I’m holding a drill.”
“You’re emotionally showing off.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It absolutely is.” Her eyes flick back up to mine. “And it’s working.”
I step into her space, closer than I’ve ever allowed in the daylight. I reach out, my hand covering hers on the table, and I guide her hand lower. I press her palm against the rigid line of my abdomen, right above my jeans.
She gasps, her fingers curling into my skin, gripping.
“You like that?” I taunt. “You like being teased, city girl? I could have you bent over this table in five seconds, and we both know you wouldn’t lift a finger to stop me. You’d probably beg me to do it harder.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” she shoots back immediately. “You’ve been glaring at me like you want to throw me over your shoulder for weeks, Brooks. I was starting to think the fire chief handbook prohibited fun.”
I let out a laugh. “Trust me, sweetheart, there’s nothing professional about the thoughts I’m having right now.”
“Good,” she murmurs. “Because I’d be really disappointed if this was your version of self-control.”
My grip tightens instinctively. “Careful.”
“Or what?” she asks, tilting her head with that reckless little smile. “You’ll finally stop pretending you don’t enjoy this?”
I slide my hand down, right to the edge of the waistband of her overalls. I press my palm against the curve of her hip, kneading the soft, warm flesh, feeling her go slick and heavy against me.
I lean in, nipping at her neck, right where the pulse is jumping, making her arch her back into my hand.
“I could show you exactly how little control you actually have. I’d strip you bare, leave you trembling on this wood, and show you what happens when you play games with a man like me.”
“Brooks,” she pleads.
I pull back just enough to see her eyes, glassy, dilated, and blown-out. “That’s my name. But you’re going to have to do more than moan it if you want me to keep going.”
I let go of her, but I don’t walk away. I stay close, my chest brushing hers.
“Let’s just get the table steady so we can stop rocking every time someone leans on it. You hold the level. I do the work. And if you touch me again—if you even try to goad me—I’m going to make you regret it.”
She smirks, the spark of mischief returning to her eyes. “You wouldn’t. You’re too obsessed with perfection to walk away now. Besides, who else would you have to yell at in the mornings?”
“Try me.”
? ? ?
“You’re holding that wrong,” she says, pointing at the drill.
“I’ve been doing this for fifteen years, Ember. I think I know how to hold a drill,” I fire back, a grin tugging at my mouth despite myself.
“Clearly not, given how much you’re struggling with this one board.”
“I’m not struggling. I’m being precise. Something you wouldn’t understand with your ‘everything is a movie scene’ approach to life.”
She laughs. “Hey, if I lived my life like a boring safety manual, I’d be miserable. You love the drama. You just hate that you love it.”
“I don’t love the drama. I love order,” I say, though I can’t help but look at her, at the way her eyes dance.
At one point, she drops a screwdriver near my feet. When she leans down to get it, one of her bikini straps slides down her arm. She lingers there a second too long, her eyes looking up at me through her lashes, daring me to look.
“Careful, Emmy,” I rumble. “You keep dropping things, and I’m going to start thinking you’re trying to set a trap.”
“And what makes you think you wouldn’t walk right into it?”
By two, we’ve finished the list and even fixed other things. I’m packing my gear, trying to purge the lingering electricity from my skin.
Ember is leaning against the kitchen counter, arms folded tightly, watching me with a look that is equal parts frustration and fascination.
“You’re really leaving?”
I snap the buckle on my tool belt with a final, metallic click.
I walk toward her, crowding her space until she has to press her back against the granite counter. I lean in, placing my hands on the counter on either side of her hips, boxing her in, keeping her trapped.
“The table is steady,” I murmur. “The floorboards aren’t going anywhere. Everything is exactly where it needs to be.”
I see her swallow, her eyes darting to my lips. She tries to find a comeback, her mouth opening, but all that comes out is a soft, jagged breath.
“What’s the matter, Ember?” I tease, letting a slow smirk spread across my face. “Did you run out of witty, bratty remarks?”
She flushes, a deep, crimson wave creeping up from her chest. She stammers, “I—I just meant—I thought you’d want to stay for coffee.”
“I don’t want coffee, Emmy. I want to know if you realize just how far over the edge you’ve pushed yourself,” I respond, leaning even closer.
I reach out, my finger tracing the line of her jaw, dragging it down to her throat, right where her pulse is hammering like a trapped bird. She gasps, her hands gripping the edge of the counter until her knuckles turn white.
I slide my hand down, tracing the valley between her breasts, my knuckle grazing the edge of that yellow fabric. She lets out a hitching sound. I linger there, letting the tension coil tight enough to snap.
“You’re shaking,” I mock. “Tell me, Emmy. Does your body ache because of the humidity, or because you’re waiting for me to finally quit talking and just bend you over this counter and show you exactly what you’ve been begging for?”
Her eyes are wide, glassy, and utterly focused on me.
“I want you to,” she manages to gasp.
I slide my palm lower, tracing the line where her overalls meet the swell of her hip, pressing in just hard enough to make her gasp.
“You’ve been preening all morning, teasing with your gear, waiting for me to dive in. Do you really think I’m going to give you the satisfaction of finishing this on your terms?”
I watch her eyes flutter, her body swaying forward into my touch.
“You want it, don’t you?” I murmur. “You want me to drag these straps down and show you exactly what I want to do to a mouthy little city girl like you. You want to feel every single inch of me. You want me to fill you up until you’re crying, until you can’t think about anything but the way my body feels inside yours. ”
“Yes,” she breathes.
I smile, pulling my hand away just as she leans in, leaving her clutching at empty air. I watch the frustration spark in her eyes—the raw, needy ache I’ve been building in her all morning.
“Patience, Emmy,” I smile. “Try not to ruin the finish on this table while you’re busy daydreaming about me.”
I push off the counter, turning my back on her before she can recover, before she can find that sharp, biting tongue of hers again.
I walk to the door, feeling her eyes burning holes into the back of my head.
I reach my own house, the silence of my place feeling like a sanctuary after the chaos of hers. I sit in my chair, leaning back and closing my eyes, a slow, dark smile creeping across my face.
I’ve never enjoyed a job more.