But it did.

A faucet turned on, and she heard something tap against the sink. “You crashing here, Blondie?”

“Going home.” She had to clear her throat. Were her cheeks on fire? It felt like her cheeks were on fire. Had that been a tattoo on his shoulder?

Don’t look. Do not look.

God, she’d just been thinking of Michael falling apart in the ambulance, and now she was gawking at another firefighter. Someone she had to work with.

“You need something?”

Now she was standing here like a stalker. She forced herself to look at him. He was just shaving, for goodness sake. It wasn’t like she was watching him in the shower.

If her brain would stop supplying images, it would totally be okay.

“Aren’t you going home?” she said.

“A bed’s a bed,” he said. “I’m back on at noon.” He looked over. “How’s your boyfriend?”

Her boyfriend. Michael Merrick. Right.

“I don’t know. I texted him, but he hasn’t responded yet.”

“I didn’t know he had a history with arson in this town.”

“He doesn’t. Not really.”

“I walked through that house, Blondie. That fire wouldn’t have stopped unless someone put it out.”

A low whistle sounded from behind him. “Look at Blondie getting an eyeful. Your daddy know you’re into the dark boys?”

Hannah jerked back, sure her cheeks were flaming—though now she couldn’t decide if she was more furious or embarrassed.

Irish didn’t stop shaving. “Jealous, Stockton?”

Joe Stockton, one of the older guys who’d sit in the kitchen and shoot the bull all night, snorted from behind her. “Yeah, that’ll be the day. Me, jealous of a n—”

“Hey!” She whirled, ready to get in his face. Furious—definitely furious.

He just laughed and moved away into the men’s dorm area.

“Ignore them,” said Irish, his voice low and close.

She turned and he was right there, close enough to touch. She could smell the menthol of his shaving cream, and for an instant it reminded her of her father, from when she was a little girl.

She swallowed some of her fury. “He was about to call you—” She faltered. “He was about to say—”

“You think I don’t know?”

“You don’t care?”

“Of course I care. But they’re just looking to start trouble. I care about my job more.”

They. She thought of the slamming lockers and male laughter she’d heard earlier. “Who else? You should report them.”

He snorted and turned away, returning to the sink to let the water out. “You’re funny. You going to report Stockton for what he just said to you?”

She thought about that for a second and wasn’t sure what to say. Of course she wasn’t going to report him. The best she could hope for was an eye roll and a promise from the chief that he’d talk to the guys.

And then the next time would be worse.

“It’s not the first time, Blondie. Won’t be the last.”

All of a sudden, her firehouse nickname sounded belittling.

“Hannah,” she said.

Irish smiled. “Hannah.” Then he shook his head. “We can do better than that.”

“What do you have in mind?”

Crap. It sounded like she was flirting.

Was she flirting?

She had no idea. Her brain was too tired, and the conversation had gone in too many directions in the last three minutes.

“I’ll work on it,” he said.

She turned away. “Close the door next time, okay? I don’t need to see what else you guys have to offer.”

Then she was through the door and into the parking lot before anyone could mistake the blush on her cheeks for anything more than a reaction to the early-morning chill.

CHAPTER 7

Michael sat on the edge of the concrete patio and put his bare feet in the grass. Sunlight beat along his neck and shoulders, fighting a losing battle against the lingering chill in the air. His breath made quick clouds that drifted away. He didn’t have a sweatshirt, but Marshal Faulkner had allowed him to check his laundry room to see if any clothes had survived the smoke damage. Luckily, there’d been three pairs of jeans and a ton of T-shirts in the dryer.

Unluckily, those were all the spare clothes he had for five people.

Adam had some old sweatpants that made up the difference for now. Michael added clothes to the mental list in his head. He’d drive to Target right now if he weren’t deathly afraid to separate from his brothers.

Every time he blinked, he saw the destruction of his neighborhood. Adam didn’t have a television, but he did have a laptop. He’d pulled up the local news coverage of the damage, but Michael had walked out here to get away from the conversation. He didn’t want to hear names and details. He didn’t want to know who was battling for life—or who hadn’t even gotten a chance to fight.

Now he’d been out here for an hour, and he could barely feel his fingers. At least his brothers had taken the opportunity to find a space to sleep for a while.

Michael unlocked his phone, tapped his text message icon, and then sat there, his thumb hovering over the keys.

He’d done this four times now. He had no idea what to say to Hannah. Was he okay?

No. He wasn’t. She’d seen him near breaking, and if he let go, just a little, he’d completely fall apart with no hope of gathering up the pieces.