The Playboy Firefighter's Proposal

Forbes Emily

There was a lot more to Sarah Richardson than looks and brains. If he didn’t figure out why he couldn’t get her out of his head, he was going to go crazy.

‘What does the rest of the day hold for you?’ Sarah asked as they came into sight of the station.

‘More paperwork for the CBR training and when that’s done I practise looking busy.’

‘How do you do that exactly?’ Sarah looked at him, a gleam of amusement in her eyes. Her question gave him the flash of inspiration he was waiting for. Genius!

‘Come in and I’ll show you. There’s a knack to it.’

They’d reached the station and were standing before the massive glass doors that were tall enough to allow the biggest of the engines to exit and enter. A row of shiny red fire engines was visible through the glass. ‘Can I?’

He did a mental punch of the air. He should have invited her for a private tour of the station weeks ago.

‘You can and you shall.’ He placed a hand on the small of her back, relishing the body warmth coming through her shirt, telling himself the desire kicking up and down his spine wasn’t anything out of the ordinary.

It was all about the challenge.

Why, then, was he filled with a sudden urge to show her how good he was at his job and a rush of excitement that he was about to get the opportunity?

The equation was simple: if she wanted him and he wanted her, chemistry would take care of all the little details. He could sit back and enjoy letting the attraction unfold.

The niggling sense of pressure to make a good impression didn’t mean anything.

It was craziness, pure and simple, but she could have clapped her hands with glee when he’d asked her to see the station. She resisted giving such a physical demonstration of her pleasure. Just. She didn’t manage to disguise it completely, though. The cool, calm and collected woman she’d intended to present herself as wouldn’t have said quite so excitedly, ‘What can I see first?’

‘Enthusiastic tour groups, that’s the sort we like.’ He led her through one of the open doors, between two huge fire engines, until they were standing in the central area of the station, looking past the vehicles out to the city street.

‘The fire trucks are all different,’ she said, waving a hand along the row of vehicles while mentally giving her fears about men a swift kick into submission. It was just a visit to the fire station, something she’d be keen to do with or without Ned playing tour guide, she tried to convince herself.

‘Appliances,’ Ned said.

She must have looked confused. For a moment she had almost looked around for a white-goods section.

‘They’re called appliances, not trucks.’

She thought about it for a moment and then nodded.

‘You’re not going to make a crack about us driving around in toasters and washing machines?’

‘The thought never crossed my mind,’ she lied, as she smiled innocently at him.

‘In that case, it’s settled. You get the extra-special tour reserved for extra-special people who don’t make cracks about firemen. The burden we bear for the good of the city,’ he added on a dramatic note.

‘A thespian in a fireman’s pants?’

‘You’d be surprised what you’d find inside a fireman’s pants.’ The sparkle in his eyes told her he was fully aware of the innuendo in his comment.

Who could blame her if her cheeks flamed to match the appliances?

‘Get your mind out of the gutter,’ he teased. ‘I’m speaking figuratively.’

‘Like I should know that. But you can’t stop now. Titillate me with tales of firemen’s pants.’

‘There you go again,’ he said, shaking his head at her as they walked to the largest of the engines and he leant against it with a casual air, perfectly in his element and posing more danger by the minute to her already wobbly equilibrium. ‘But since you really want to know, I’ll let you inside just a few of the pairs of pants around this joint. We have an artist, a nurse…’ he held up a hand and counted them off on his fingers ‘…a carpenter, several professional footballers…’ He started the count again with his right hand. ‘A builder and a chef.’

‘So I shouldn’t be surprised at what I find? Even a thespian?’

‘Sure, why not?’ He straightened up and pulled open the door of the vehicle as if it was made of paper, not the huge, heavy thing she knew it was. ‘And if I ever come across one, I’ll be sure to introduce you.’

He sent her a wink that turned her insides to jelly and then motioned her over. She floated across as if under a spell. That was some wink. And now, between his bulk, all broad shoulders and long, lean height, and the huge vehicle rising up beside them, she felt delightfully feminine.

Was this why firefighters were so attractive? They made women feel small and delicate and safe? Even a woman who prided herself on never needing to rely on a man for protection? She shrugged off the thought as being the crazy bit of fluff it was. Since when had feeling like a guy could, and would if the need arose, protect her become a turn-on?

‘Climb aboard. Your magical mystery tour is about to begin.’ Once again he placed his hand on the small of her back as she started to climb up into the cab. The feel of his large hand through the cotton of her shirt was delicious and far too distracting. So much so she could mentally outline exactly where the tip of each finger was resting.

But the familiar anxiety was there, too, that always came with a man’s touch. The anxiety wasn’t as powerful as she would have expected, though, not as powerful as the attraction she was feeling. Normally her anxiety would increase proportionately, but strangely it wasn’t happening. Yes, the niggle of self-consciousness was there, but here she was, experiencing an attraction more intense than she could ever remember feeling, and she wasn’t feeling totally overwhelmed.

On the contrary, he was so close his scent was filling her head and making it spin in a way that left no doubt she was drawn to him. Each time she took a breath, the rush of desire was strong and coursed through her body. He smelt of woods and the outdoors, the blend heady and original. She just knew it hadn’t come out of a bottle, or, if it had, it had mixed with his own natural scent so that it was now his own. If a company could package it, they’d be on to a sure hit. Women would buy it simply to put on their pillows and go to sleep dreaming of a man like Ned.

She lost the smell of him when he closed the cab door behind her, but in seconds he had come around the other side of the truck—oops, the appliance—and was springing into the driver’s seat beside her. She edged closer to take another breath. If scent could be addictive, she was already there and it was a struggle to get her mouth to work and form any words to break the silence.

‘You didn’t tell me which one of those descriptions fits you.’ When he looked at her, she added, ‘Are you the poet? The footballer? The chef?’