Until Captain Miller dragged him into the dayroom.
"Team, this is Julian Thorne," Captain Miller announced. "Transferring in from Chicago. Treat him like family."
I leaned against the kitchen counter, taking a slow sip of coffee, and evaluated the new meat. Physically? An absolute problem. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and possessed the kind of jawline that belonged on a billboard, not under a soot-stained helmet.
Then he opened his mouth.
"Nice to meet you all," Julian said, his voice a low, smooth baritone. His eyes scanned the room, bypassing the guys and locking directly onto me. A slow, infuriating smirk tilted the corner of his lips. "I’m sure I’ll have no problem keeping up with the local talent."
Local talent?
My coffee cup hit the counter with an intentional clink. I stepped forward, crossing my arms over my chest. "Just so we're clear, 'Chicago,' this isn't a modeling agency. We actually sweat here. Let's see if you can handle a real Nevada summer before you start handing out compliments."
Julian didn't look offended. In fact, his smirk widened. He took a step closer, close enough that I could smell his ridiculously expensive cologne over the scent of diesel exhaust. "I handle heat just fine, sweetheart. Don't worry about me."
"Don't call me sweetheart," I snapped, keeping my voice sweet as venom. "It's Firefighter Garcia to you."
He gave me a lazy, two-finger salute. "Copy that, Garcia."
I spun on my heel and marched straight down the hallway toward the bunk rooms, my blood absolutely boiling. He was arrogant. He was cocky. He was a walking red flag with a punchable, gorgeous face.
I locked myself in the supply closet, leaned my back against a stack of folded blankets, and let out a frustrated groan. Because here was the worst part, the absolute catastrophe of the entire situation: my heart was hammering against my ribs, and it wasn't just from anger.
When he had looked at me, a stupid, traitorous jolt of electricity had shot straight down my spine. He was an obnoxious jerk, but my body apparently didn't care about personality traits.
"Get it together, Elsie," I whispered to myself, slapping my own cheeks lightly. "He's the rookie. You're the veteran. You do not get butterflies for a guy who looks like he spends three hours a day looking in a mirror."
But as I heard his deep laugh echo from the dayroom, I had a sinking, terrifying feeling that this shift was going to be an entirely different kind of emergency.