Page 6 of Wildfire
I give him my most innocent smile. “Is it a burglary if it doesn’t leave the premises?”
“Oh damn, I knew I should have studied law.” His lip quirks up in the corner, dimples appearing beside his mouth as he fights a laugh. “I think burglary is taking something that doesn’t belong to you.”
“What if the owner never finds out?”
“Well, if the owner never finds out then surely that’s just negligenceon their part,” he says, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck. I try to keep looking at his face, not his bulging arms, but I’m weak. “What’re you looking for?”
He takes a step toward me, the strong smell of sandalwood and vanilla reaching me. He presses his hand against the door I’m still clinging to, closing it gently.
What am I looking for? “Glasses.”
“There are only plastic ones, sorry.”
“Do you know how much plastic ends up in the ocean? No one who lives here will know.” This is the longest conversation I’ve ever had about glasses. It’s possibly the longest conversation anyone has had about glasses, but I find myself thinking about what other kitchenware I can bring up to keep this going.
“So, this crime is for the sharks?”
“Well, not just the sharks. Fish, turtles, whales are all included.” His eyes close as he fights a smile, shaking his head. “Maybe an octopus or two. My good deeds don’t discriminate.”
Reopening his eyes, his hand lingers on the cabinet door for another few seconds before he takes a step around me and heads to cabinet six, opening it to reveal shelves of various mismatched glasses. “Don’t throw it at anyone or we’ll both be in trouble.”
Stretching onto my tiptoes, I take one with a Maple Hills emblem on it and one for Emilia that says “My friends went to LA pride and all I got was this glass.”
“You found those quickly. Have you burgled here before?” Stop talking, Aurora.
Placing them on the counter, I reach for the nearest liquor bottle, pouring its contents into what I’m calling my victory glasses. The helpful stranger laughs and opens a bottle of soda, sliding it in my direction. He waits until I’m about to pour to answer me. “No, I live here.”
Oh shit. His words catch me off guard and the soda bottle missesthe rim of the glass, covering the counter in fizzy, sticky liquid. Double shit. “Sorry, sorry, sorry!”
Before I even have a chance to react, he’s mopping up my mess with a dishcloth. “I’m s—”
“Don’t worry,” he says softly, stopping me before I can apologize again. “It’s just soda. Stand over there so you don’t get wet.”
I do as I’m told and watch as he produces a disinfectant spray, cleaning the counter properly among the drunk and oblivious people still trying to make their own drinks. When he’s done, he grabs the soda bottle and carefully fills both glasses, handing them to me.
“So you’re the one who dusts,” I mutter.
“What?”
“Nothing. Thank you… and sorry again.”
He leans against the counter “Sorry for breaking the stay-out-of-our-cabinets rule or for trashing the kitchen?”
Folding my arms across my chest, I purse my lips playfully. “I don’t see a sign.”
This time he really laughs. A deep rumble in his chest that seems genuine. I notice the way he watches me, discreetly looking me up and down. His attention makes my body buzz and I immediately want more of it. “You don’t strike me as the type of woman who would pay attention to a sign anyway.”
“And why is that?” It’s a loaded question. I know it. He knows it. The guys, who I assume are his teammates hovering close by trying to listen in, know it. “Answer carefully, we’ve got an audience.”
He pulls his eyebrows together as he turns to check behind him, and by the time he turns back to face me, the tips of his ears have turned pink. Our spectators scurry off, but it’s enough to have killed this guy’s confidence. I find his sudden shyness endearing. I’m used to being hit on, but I don’t think anyone has ever blushed in front of me. I want to find out what his first impression of me is. I wanthim to keep looking at me like he did thirty seconds ago. I want to murder his friends a little.
I’m about to come right out and ask him, when a warm hand settles on my arm and Emilia appears from behind me. “I’m so thirsty.” She takes one look at Mr. Helpful and me and grins at him. “Hi, I’m Emilia.”
He gives her a polite nod. “Hey, nice to meet you. I’m Russ.”
“Are you Jaiden’s Russ?” she asks, grabbing her drink and rolling her eyes at me when she reads the slogan.
He looks almost bashful as he registers what Emilia just said. Why are you so cute? “Uh, yeah. I think so anyway. I don’t think JJ knows anyone else called Russ.”
