Page 1 of Safety Hazard

Prologue

The moment I stepped out of my sensible hybrid car onto the gravel parking lot of Liberty Lake’s fire station, I knew this assignment would be a problem. For one thing, my freshly polished oxfords were immediately coated with dust. For another, the man stomping toward me looked like he might actually breathe fire.

“You must be the fun police,” he growled, crossing arms the size of small tree trunks over a chest that strained the fabric of his Liberty Lake Fire Department t-shirt.

I adjusted my glasses and extended my hand. “Evan Matthews, Senior Safety Inspector for the State Department of Regulatory Compliance, Fire Safety Division.”

He ignored my hand completely, amber eyes scanning from my meticulously combed hair down to my dust-covered shoes. “Shepherd Blackwood. Everyone calls me Shep. I’m the Chief here.”

Of course he is. Because the universe hates me and wants me to suffer.

The Fire Chief looked like he’d been carved from granite and then deliberately roughed up to appear more rugged. His dark hair was just this side of too long, with surprising touches of silver at the temples despite him appearing to be in his mid-thirties. A perpetual five o’clock shadow darkened his jaw, and was that—yes, that was definitely soot smudged across one cheekbone. My fingers twitched with the urge to wipe it clean.

“I understand you’re here about our fireworks display,” he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through my chest. “Let me save you some time. We’ve been doing them for fifty years without incident.”

I tapped my clipboard, the sound sharp and efficient. “And yet your permit application indicates you’ll be launching Class B fireworks within 300 feet of a densely wooded area during one of the driest summers on record.”

The Fire Chief’s nostrils actually flared. “I know my woods. I know my lake. I know my town.” He stepped closer, and I realized with a start that he was at least half a foot taller than me. “What I don’t know is why some pencil-pusher from the capital thinks he understands our safety better than I do.”

Did he just sniff me? And why am I noticing how good he smells under that layer of smoke?

I straightened my windbreaker with its official embroidery and lifted my chin. “Perhaps because this ‘pencil-pusher’ has a master’s degree in fire safety engineering and isn’t blinded by small-town sentimentality.”

Something flickered in those amber eyes—a gleam that wasn’t entirely human—before he threw back his head and laughed. The sound was surprisingly warm, wrapping around me like smoke.

“Oh, you’re going to be trouble,” he said, sounding almost delighted by the prospect. “Come on then, Inspector. Let me show you the launch site so you can tell me everything we’ve been doing wrong for half a century.”

He turned and walked toward an enormous red pickup truck with the fire department logo on the door. Each step revealed how perfectly his worn jeans hugged a truly spectacular ass. I swallowed hard and made a note on my clipboard.

Distraction hazard: severe.

As he climbed into his truck, I caught him watching me in the side mirror, that same strange gleam in his eyes. He smiled, and for just a moment, I could have sworn his canines looked unusually sharp.

Get it together, Evan. You’re here to inspect fireworks, not the Fire Chief.

Little did I know, the real explosion hazard in Liberty Lake had nothing to do with pyrotechnics.

Chapter 1

Three days. Three days of following Shepherd Blackwood around this lake town, and I was no closer to signing off on their death-wish of a fireworks display. What I was closer to was a complete nervous breakdown.

“This is the third fire extinguisher I’ve found that’s past inspection date,” I announced, running my finger along the dusty tag in the town hall corridor.

Shep leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching me with that infuriating half-smile that made my stomach flip. “We’ve never had to use it.”

“That’s not—” I pinched the bridge of my nose beneath my glasses. “The point of safety protocols is to be prepared before you need them.”

“The point of fire safety is to prevent fires,” he countered, pushing off the wall and stepping into my personal space. “Which I’ve done. Successfully. For twelve years.”

He’s standing so close I can feel his body heat. Is he running a fever? No one is naturally this warm.

“Through luck, not compliance,” I muttered, making another note on my clipboard.

His hand suddenly covered mine, stopping my pen. His skin was blazing hot, calloused fingertips rough against my knuckles. “What exactly are you writing now?”

I tried to ignore how my pulse jumped at the contact. “I’m documenting the violations I’ve observed so far. The fire extinguishers, the lack of evacuation maps, the blocked emergency exit at the community center—”

“The one blocked by children’s art projects?” he growled, leaning even closer. “You want me to throw away kindergarteners’ finger paintings?”