Free Into The Flames (Firehouse Fourteen Book 4) by Lisa B. Kamps Page A

the color of strong-brewed tea, like dark sepia with just a few flecks of gold that captured the light. A strong face, like a warrior's. Not pretty but definitely captivating, with strong lines and planes.
    He was well-built, with broad shoulders and broad chest, sculpted abdominals that she had seen up close that very first time they met. A trim waist and lean hips and strong legs. Not muscle bound, not like the pictures of bodybuilders and even some models she had seen. His muscles were honest. Though how muscles could be honest, she didn't know. She just somehow knew that his build wasn't really from working out, but from actually working.
    She wasn't sure if that should comfort her—or scare her.
    He was dressed casually in worn faded jeans and a long sleeve t-shirt with some kind of eagle logo on it. The sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, revealing the light spattering of hair on his muscled forearms.
    "Are you done staring?"
    Melanie started then took a quick step back, her gaze travelling up his body to meet his eyes. Small lines crinkled at the corners. Laugh lines, to match the amused gleam in his eyes and the crooked grin that teased the edges of his mouth. Melanie frowned and tilted her chin up.
    "I was not staring."
    "Sure you weren't, Smurfette." His gaze travelled from her head to her feet and back up again. It was a clinical glance, not an appreciative one, and Melanie fought the urge to be insulted by it.
    "Is that what you're wearing?"
    She glanced down at herself, not sure of his comment. Long skirt, loose blouse, comfortable sandals. She frowned. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"
    "Nothing. It's just a little dressy. Don't you have jeans or something?"
    "No."
    He— Dale —opened his mouth to say something then quickly closed it. His brows lowered over his eyes and he frowned and Melanie didn't understand why.
    "You really don't have any jeans?"
    "No." Why did he look so surprised at that? She thought he might say something else but he just shook his head and stepped back, letting her out into the hallway. She was ready to pull the door closed when he stopped her.
    "Wait. Are you sure you have your keys?"
    "Yes, I'm sure."
    "You sure you're sure?"
    "Oh sweets! I am not an idiot. Yes, I have my keys." She rattled the small bag resting against her hip, the metallic jingling of keys unmistakable.
    "Just checking."
    She pulled the door closed then followed him downstairs and out to the parking lot. He turned left while she turned right.
    "Smurfette, where are you going?"
    "To my car."
    "But we're driving together, remember?"
    "Of course I remember. My car's over here."
    "But my car is this way."
    "I don't want to go in your car. I want to go in mine." And that was exactly what she was going to do. If he didn't like that, well, too bad for him. It was bad enough she had no control over the overall coming evening, being forced to go to a barbaric sports event with people she didn't know. She didn't want to be forced to rely on someone else—a virtual stranger—for her way home. Melanie was going in her car, so she could leave if she wanted to. If he didn't like it, he could drive himself.
    She almost thought he was going to do just that. In fact, a small part of her wished she would. To her amazement, he changed directions and followed her across the parking lot, muttering under his breath when she stopped at her car and unlocked the doors. He stood on the other side, his arm resting against the white metal of the hood, his brows lowered in another frown.
    Did the man not know how to do anything but frown?
    "I don't think I'm going to fit into this thing."
    "Don't be silly. Of course you will. My paintings fit with no problem, so will you." She opened her door and climbed in, smiling at the new car smell that greeted her. The Fiat 500L had been her gift to herself several months ago and she still loved it. She had wanted one of the smaller models, one with two doors, but her mom had wisely suggested she