Page 3

He hits the button for our floor without asking, then leans against the rail with easy, contained energy. The elevator hums to life, and with nothing else to do, I sneak a glance at him in the mirror. His arms are still crossed, forearms bared, and I can see the faintest outline of a tattoo wrapping around his left bicep. My brain goes full monkey mode, wondering what the rest of him looks like under that shirt, and it’s a minor miracle I don’t trip over my own feet.

The elevator quickly moves up to the second floor and dings as the doors slide open. I start forward, but Hunter beats me to it, placing one massive hand against the door so it won’t close. As I slip past him, his fingers brush mine, just for a split second. An electric buzz ricochets from my hand all the way up my arm and slams into my chest.

“See you around,” he says, low and quiet.

“Uh-huh,” is all I manage as I stumble down the hallway, struggling to get my apartment key in the lock. My hands are shaking a little, so I have to try twice before it actually turns. I can hear his heavy footfalls behind me and his unhurried pace as he walks past.

I duck into my apartment, close the door, and press my back against it. Through the wall, I hear Hunter’s door open and shut with a soft, decisive thud.

For a second, I just stand there in the darkness, hand pressed to my chest as my heart pounds double-pace. My brain is a mess. I replay the moment in the elevator, the sound of his voice, the static jolt from his fingers brushing mine. I can still feel the heat, the way the touch lingered just a heartbeat longer than it should have.

I’m starting to think that living next door to Hunter Hartwell is going to be a lot more complicated than I thought.

I’m never late. I’m the kind of person who sets alarms for her alarms, who triple-checks the time and lays out her outfits with military precision the night before. But I forgot to plug my phone in last night, and it died sometime in the middle of the night, so instead of waking to my favorite song, I snap awake to sunlight stabbing through my window and the horrifying realization that I have exactly nine minutes to get my shit together and make it to work.

Cue the panic.

I rocket out of bed, trip over my own pajama pants, and stub my toe so hard on the bed frame that I actually see stars. There’s no time to wallow. I brush my teeth with one hand while wrangling my hair into a ponytail with the other. I barely have time for a swipe of mascara. I pull on my gray suit and matching three-inch pumps. By some miracle, I get out the door fully dressed, clutching an armful of folders, my half-zipped purse, and an emergency I keep hidden in the refrigerator for days just like this.

I rush out my front door and run face-first into something large, warm, and unyielding. The impact sends papers and folders tumbling through the air in a perfect reverse snowstorm. Thank God, I haven’t opened my emergency energy drink yet.

Hunter’s arms instantly close around me, steadying me with a grip that’s firm but not rough. My brain short-circuits. His hands are huge, splayed across my shoulders, and his chest is right there, right in my line of sight, and it takes a good second before I realize that it’s not his usual gym clothes or battered T-shirt but an actual uniform—a red polo shirt with “WHFD” embroidered over the heart in bold white letters, and black tactical pants.

“Shit, sorry,” I blurt, trying to step back, but he doesn’t let go right away.

“Careful,” he says. His voice is the same as ever—low, barely above a growl—but there’s something softer at the edges this time. A small smile teases the edge of his lips as he stares down at me.

I look up and meet his eyes. They’re brighter today, less guarded. “Thank you,” I tell him and force myself to take a step back.

He grunts out a reply I don’t quite understand and finally lets go, and I nearly lose my balance again, knees a little wobbly from the whole episode. I crouch to scoop up my fallen folders, mortified, but before I can grab them all, Hunter kneels beside me and gathers half the papers in a single sweep. He moves efficiently, stacking them and straightening the edges. I can’t help but notice his hands again—broad, strong, careful with the paper.

“Thanks again,” I mutter, feeling my face go red-hot as I try to smooth the crumpled edges and not stare at the way his biceps flex under the sleeve of the polo. He offers me the stack of folders. As I reach for them, our fingers brush, and I get a rerun of the electric current from last week’s elevator incident.

My brain is still focused on his muscular chest. “You’re a firefighter?” The words come out before I can stop them.

He nods, still crouched at my level, so we’re eye-to-eye. “Yeah.”

“That’s—wow.” I sound like an idiot, but my brain has shut off the filter. “I mean, I guess it makes sense. You have that… firefighter vibe.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I try to dig myself out. “Like, you know. Calm under pressure. Good with emergencies. Strong arms. I mean, obviously, you’re strong, but—” I cut myself off before I start listing additional attributes that make me sound like a stalker or something. “Never mind. Sorry.”

He smirks down at me and stands, which is less standing and more unfolding, and helps me up with one hand under my elbow. His touch is surprisingly gentle.

We both start toward the elevator at the same time, and this time he doesn’t bother to keep a three-foot buffer between us. I can smell him now—not cologne, but something clean and sharp, with a faint note of smoke that I decide is either the world’s best marketing ploy or just his entire lifestyle.

The elevator arrives, and we step inside together. There’s a brief moment where he stands behind me to let me in first, and I swear I can feel the heat radiating off him.

I mash the “L” button because my hand is shaking and I don’t trust myself not to hit the emergency stop. The doors close, and now we’re sealed in, just like before. I risk a glance at his reflection in the mirrored wall, and he’s looking straight ahead, jaw set.

I can’t handle the silence, so I open my mouth and say, “Do you have a shift today?”

He nods. “Yeah. Twenty-four on, forty-eight off. I’m headed in now.”

We reach the ground floor, and the doors part with a pneumatic hiss. I start forward, and Hunter follows me out of the elevator.

As we cross the lobby, I half expect him to walk in the opposite direction, but he falls in beside me. We walk in silence for a few steps before he says, “Where do you work?”