The guys were gathered around the kitchen island like a pack of golden retrievers welcoming a new alpha. Miller was nodding approvingly, and Henderson was practically drooling over a box of fresh, flaky pastries Julian had apparently brought as a peace offering.
"I'm just saying, Chicago winter hits different," Julian was telling them, leaning casually against the island with his forearms crossed. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing forearms that looked like they’d been sculpted by Michelangelo himself. "You haven't lived until you've thawed out a frozen nozzle at three in the morning in a sub-zero blizzard."
"Oh, please," I scoffed, crossing the room to pour myself a fresh cup of coffee, ignoring the way my eyes automatically mapped out the lines of his shoulders. "Are we supposed to weep for you? Try dragging a hundred-and-fifty-pound hose line through dry brush when it's a hundred and ten degrees outside and the air smells like a bonfire. That’s real firefighting, Thorne."
Julian turned slowly, his hazel eyes locking onto mine with an annoying sparkle of amusement.
"Ah, Garcia. I was wondering when you'd grace us with your presence again. I figured you went to go put some ice on that ego of yours."
Before I could fire back a devastatingly witty retort, a loud, piercing tone echoed through the station rafters.
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
The dayroom instantly transformed. The easy camaraderie vanished, replaced by pure, practiced instinct.
"Station 12, Engine 12. Structure fire, residential. 442 Maple Lane. Cross street Vine."
"Let's move!" Captain Miller barked.
I dropped my coffee cup into the sink and sprinted down the hallway toward the apparatus bay. The rush of adrenaline was instantaneous, flooding my veins and wiping out everything else.
I threw open the heavy doors to the bay, my boots slapping against the concrete as I ran toward my turnout gear.
I scrambled to pull my heavy Nomex pants and boots up, clicking the suspenders into place, when a massive shadow crossed over me. I spun around to grab my turn-out coat off the rack, and smack.
I ran dead into Julian’s broad chest.
The impact knocked me back half a step, but his large hands shot out, gripping my shoulders securely to steady me. For a fraction of a second, the chaotic sounds of the station—the truck engines roaring to life, the guys shouting—faded into a dull hum. His grip was firm, warm, and entirely too distracting.
"Whoa there, Garcia," Julian murmured, his face inches from mine. A slow, infuriating grin spread across his face despite the emergency. "I know I’m attractive, but you don't have to throw yourself at me. We have a fire to put out."
I yanked myself out of his grip, grabbing my heavy yellow coat and shoving my arms into the sleeves. "In your dreams, Thorne. You were in my blind spot. Maybe if you weren't taking up half the bay with your massive head, people could actually get to their gear."
"Just making sure you don't trip over your own feet," he shot back smoothly, hoisting his own turnout coat over his shoulders with a practiced, effortless motion. "Don't want the 'local talent' getting hurt before we even get to the scene."
"Watch your mouth, rookie," I snapped, pulling my helmet off the hook and slamming it onto my head, tightening the chin strap. "Try to keep up. I'd hate to leave you behind in the smoke."
"I'll be right behind you, sweetheart," he whispered with a wink, his tone dripping with a dangerous mix of arrogance and undeniable heat. "Don't get lonely."
"Drop dead!" I yelled over the roar of the engine, though a traitorous smirk tugged at the corner of my own lips.
We both broke into a run toward Engine 12. I swung myself up into the cab, my heart hammering twice as fast as it usually did before a call. Julian climbed in right after me, taking the seat directly across from mine. As the heavy garage doors rolled up and the sirens began to wail, our eyes met through the vibrating cab of the truck.
This was going to be a very, very long shift.