Chapter Two

Timber Harris eased her eyes open, and tried to focus her blurry vision on the white ceiling tiles above her.

Where was she?

She looked around the room and took in the bag of fluids hanging next to her, and the IV in her arm. Wait, what?

She pushed up in the hospital bed and sat up. There was a vase of pink roses that sat on a table near the window. She'd…she'd been driving. She'd been angry at her ex for texting her and hadn't been able to sleep, and she'd taken a drive. And then on a bridge, her tire had blown out and she'd lost control. She'd hit a red truck on the back end and went off the side of the road, and…and…

Her head ached, and her arm was burning something fierce. She winced at the light above, closed her eyes, and tried to remember.

There had been a man, and fire. A man had been standing near the tree her car had crashed into, and he'd had his hands out, and he'd been pulling the fire from her car wreck into himself. Right?

She frowned, eyes closed. She could see the intensity on his face so easily, and the flames that consumed his eyes.

"You had a pretty big knock on your head," Sasha said from the doorway.

Her sister looked worried, but a forced smile stretched her lips. She was wearing lavender-colored scrubs, which meant she was probably on-shift. Her sister was a nurse here. Timber had been brought to the right hospital. Sasha had probably bullied extra care for her.

"When…how long was I out?"

"Two days," Sasha said as she took her place in a chair that had been pulled up beside the bed. "Which is wild because you didn't really have any injuries. We couldn't figure out the cause for the coma. We did brain scans and everything. Other than a burn on your arm, you are healthy as a horse. We knew you would wake up. We just didn't know when. I've been visiting you when I can."

Sasha leaned over to Timber's bed and hugged her up tight. "You worried us."

"Everyone knows?"

"Of course. I called the family right away."

Timber stared at the pink roses as she hugged her sister. "Did Mom and Dad send the flowers?" she asked.

Sasha stiffened, and then eased back and sat on the edge of the bed, pity in her eyes. "I don't know who the flowers are from. They just showed up. Look, Mom and Dad thought about coming to visit you. Really, they did. It's just busy for them right now and—"

"Sasha, it's okay. You don't have to cover for them. I'm not a baby anymore." She smiled and squeezed her sister's hand. "As long as you are here, I'm completely good."

Sasha offered her a sad smile, then stood. "I'm going to have them check you. If everything is okay, they will probably release you sometime today. Just let me know if you need a ride. I can take you to your place after my shift."

She turned to leave, but hesitated at the door. "You scared me."

"I'm okay."

The sadness disappeared from Sasha's lips and her smile brightened. "Thank God. Who else would listen to all of my boy problems?"

"Your dog?" Timber teased.

"He's sick of me," Sasha joked as she disappeared out the door.

Timber looked out the window. Okay, that made sense. She'd had a big knock on the head. The fire-man was probably a trauma response to her crashing. The impact of the car hitting the tree and the volume of her scream pierced her memory, and she winced hard.

It had hurt.

The airbag had deployed, and her leg had felt like it had been snapped in half.

She frowned. She'd been sure her leg was broken. Timber looked down at the sheets that covered her. She moved her right leg, testing it. There was no pain, no stiffness. Okay. Okay! Maybe she had imagined the broken leg? She rotated her legs to the edge of the bed and gripped the mattress as she prepared to put weight on her feet. She stood easily enough, if not a little clumsily, which was normal for her.

There was no pain. Her brain at war with itself, she pulled up her hospital gown to expose her legs, but there wasn't even a scratch. What the hell?

She turned her legs this way and that, searching for even a bruise, but they just looked normal.

Another flashback of the impact of her car flashed through her mind and made her wince hard, close her eyes, and wait for the vision to pass.

When she opened her eyes again, she was even more determined to figure out what had happened. Her phone was sitting on a bedside table, just out of reach with the cord from the heart-rate monitor, so she plucked the monitor off her finger and ignored the beeping machine as she stretched forward, lost her balance a little, but caught herself. She grabbed her phone and opened up the camera function to check her face. Her reflection looked normal. No broken nose, no cuts from the glass, but she remembered—there had been blood dripping down her face. She'd felt the warm liquid oozing from the painful cuts on her cheeks, and her nose had been pounding with pain.

But looking in the camera now, it was as if none of that happened. Was she going crazy?

She remembered the man again. The fire siphoning into his body. The way his face had been strained with some effort she didn't understand, and he was frozen mid-scream like he was in pain. "Are you okay?" She'd asked him that, and he'd looked confused.

Had she created him in her imagination as a response to the pain, or the impact of the car?

Another flashback of the moment her car hit the tree made her wince again. Her heart was hammering.

She'd made it all up. She felt her body, it was okay. The only thing that ached was a burn under some bandages on her left upper arm. She had survived something horrible. She needed to send a thank-you into the universe and accept her brain's response to something awful. If it made up a story around something traumatic, perhaps it was to protect her. She had majored in psychology in college, and now worked as a therapist. The brain did incredible things in order to protect a body from trauma.

A nurse was in her room now, griping at her for taking off her heart monitor. She was put through the process of checking vitals and removing some of the tubes. Timber complied until the nurse seemed satisfied. The minute she left the room, Timber slipped off the bed, dragging her IV bag, and scurried to the vase of pink roses to find a card. There was none. Dangit!

Were they from Brandon? He'd been texting her again, pissing her off. He'd never gotten her flowers while they were together, but maybe this was the move. She huffed a sigh and canted her head, studied the flowers. That didn't seem right. Brandon wasn't a flowers type of guy.

It took an hour to get her discharge papers because apparently she had to be checked by a doctor and two more nurses, even though she felt perfectly okay.

They gave her a huge stack of paperwork, and a few packets of burn-relief gel. She thanked them and scrambled into her clothes.

Two days. That meant she'd missed a bunch of appointments, and her clients would be worried. Her plants needed to be watered! She needed to figure out where her car was, and if it was salvageable. Her phone was nearly out of charge. Hopefully she had enough battery left to order a ride to her house. She grabbed the pink roses and cradled them in her arm—the unbandaged one, because the burned one was throbbing with pain in rhythm with her heartbeat—and then waved to the nurse at the counter and made her way to the elevator.

Sasha would be working for a while yet, and Timber was ready to put some distance between herself and this place. She didn't like hospitals much. Sasha was built to be a nurse, but not Timber. She didn't like the chemical-clean smell in here, and hated the white walls and the way her sneakers squeaked on the sterile tile floors.

Most of all, she hated the pain that was soaked into the walls of hospitals. People had been saved in here, yes, but many had been through awful trauma here. Families had been told heartbreaking news here. Hospitals had always unnerved her.

She hit the button for the elevator, checking behind her to see if anyone would be piling inside with her. The hallway was mostly empty. Impatiently, Timber poked the button three more times, and the elevator dinged with the announcement that it had arrived.

She scrambled in, ignoring the guy standing inside. "What floor," she murmured to herself, trying to remember if she needed the lobby or the parking garage level.

The guy was just standing there, and hadn't backed up to give her space. She tossed a glance over at him and froze. It was the vase of pink roses in his hand she noticed first. It was a replica of the one she held.

Her attention darted up to his face, and he looked just as shocked as her as she recognized him.

It was the fire-man.

"You," she whispered.

The man was tall, very broad in the shoulders, and fit. The curves of his muscles pushed against the thin material of his navy blue T-shirt. He was six feet tall, but his presence made him feel even bigger. He seemed to take up every molecule of space in the elevator. The faint scent of smoke clung to him. His hair was short on the sides, and longer and lighter up top, as if he spent a lot of time outdoors in the sunshine. His jaw was chiseled like some model's on a billboard, and he had that two-day designer scruff that accentuated his masculine lips. He was intoxicating.

"I know you," she whispered. "I remember…" she frowned. Remembered what? That he ate fire? He looked perfectly normal now.

"Here," he said gruffly, shoving the flowers at her.

She flinched as the vase settled against her burned arm. "Um, thank you."

"I was just making sure you didn't die."

"Oh. Okay."

"I didn't crash into you. You got a flat tire. I just happened to be around."

The elevator made a grating buzzing sound, and she realized she had moved in front of the doors and was standing in the way of them closing.

"Glad you lived," the man gritted out, almost angrily. And then he stormed past her, out of the elevator.

"You can take the elevator back down!" she said lamely.

As the doors closed, she could see him turn, and his eyes were hard as glass as he said, "I would rather take the stairs."

The doors closed, and the elevator started going up. Crap, she had forgotten to choose a floor level. She hit the lobby button, and picked up a couple on the sixth floor before they headed back to the lobby.

Once there, she did a quick search, but the man wasn't here. Speed-walking, she made her way to the front parking lot and spied him getting into his old, red truck. The bed on the driver's side was dented and scratched. She had done that, and he had visited her? And brought her flowers? And very clearly didn't want anything in return.

She felt compelled to thank him though. Obviously he had been the one to bring her to the hospital.

Holding both vases of flowers tighter, she ignored the throbbing pain of the burn on her arm and shuffled quickly toward his truck. He moved to pull out, but jerked to a stop when he spied her in front of the truck.

"Lady!" he yelled out the window. "Are you trying to get killed?"

"I just need to talk to you."

He waved his hand, gesturing her to move, but if she did, he would disappear and she would never see him again. This was her only shot at thanking him.

"I would like to pay for the damage to your truck, and also take you to dinner. Somewhere nice."

"What?" The anger in his one-word question almost made her lose her nerve.

"If you have a wife, she can come too! Or I could get you a gift card to somewhere nice, and you could take her out without me. On me?" Dear Lord, why was she talking about his wife? Why was she trying to pay for a date for them? "Okay, on second thought, that is kind of weird. Can I buy you a bottle of nice liquor? Or…" she looked down at her armful of flowers for inspiration. "A Slurpee from 7-Eleven? Any flavor you want."

The frown on his face broke for just a moment, and she pounced on the microscopic show of emotion. "Two Slurpees," she negotiated. "And cash for the damage to your truck."

"You don't owe me anything."

"Yes I do. You got me to the hospital."

The man sighed. "No I didn't. I left. Someone else called an ambulance for you."

"Oh. Well, why did you leave? That's weird." Her memories did not support that. "Did I ask you if you were okay? My memory is fuzzy."

"Lady, I'm not the hero you are imagining me to be. Move."

Timber narrowed her eyes. Something wasn't right. She wiggled her hips, because he had instructed her to "move," but remained planted in front of his truck. He was blocked in the parking space, so it was either stay and talk, or run her over, and the pink roses said he didn't really want her deceased. She wiggled her hips again.

"What are you doing?" he gritted out through the open window.

"You said to move. I'm moving." She added a little tap dance, sloshing the water in the flower vases.

The man pursed his lips. The angry frown had disappeared, so she was counting her lame joke as a win.

"I meant move out of my way."

"I know. One Slurpee, or two?"

He sighed and glared longingly out the window toward the exit. "Do you need a ride home?"

"Yes, actually. I am a damsel in distress. I could use a hero."

"I already said I'm not a hero."

"We can get Slurpees on the way to my place."

"What is it with you and Slurpees?"

"I just woke up from some kind of coma, which means I haven't eaten anything but whatever that gross white liquid in my IV was, and I have a craving."

He heaved another sigh. "So really, you need a ride home and you want a Slurpee for yourself?"

"Bingo-bango, I like mangoes," she said, hauling her flowers to the passenger's side door just in time for him to swing it open for her from the inside.

"Mangoes are gross, and also, you weren't really in a coma," he said as she buckled herself in. "Unconscious yes, but the doctor said it was more like you were just sleeping really hard. If you were in a coma, there is no way they would've released you this soon."

"Well, when I tell people this story, I'm going to say I was in a coma because it sounds way cooler. Why pink roses?"

He shot her a quick glance as he pulled toward the exit. "My mom grows them in all her landscaping. They're her favorite flowers. She made me pick some up from the store and bring them to you."

"Awww, a momma's boy?" she teased.

His tone was serious when he answered, "Yes. She's what I've got."

"You told her about me?" Timber asked.

"Yes. She's been praying for you."

She didn't know why, but that touched her deeply. Her own mother probably hadn't even thought of her while she'd been in the hospital, but this stranger-woman had been praying for her?

"She sounds like a good lady," Timber said softly.

"You shouldn't take rides from strangers." Everything he said came out angry-sounding.

"It was get a ride with you, or with a rideshare app. Either way, strangers. And one of them brought me flowers two times."

"It wasn't some romantic gesture, lady."

"Timber. My name is Timber Harris."

"I didn't ask, and I don't care."

"I don't think your mother would approve of your rudeness. I am Timber, nice to meet you. Now you say your name, and then say ‘it's nice to meet you too.'"

The man was huge, and filled up the entire driver's side of the spacious truck as he rested one arm over the wheel and ignored her.

"Fine, Fergus. How do you know where I live?" she asked as he took the exact right turn for the third time in a row.

"I don't. I'm taking you to 7-Eleven for your damn Slurpee, and there is one of those around here."

"Oh. Right. Thank you for explaining, Fergus."

He wasn't taking the bait and correcting her on the name, so she spouted off, "Fergus Bernard Squeeze Cheese Harrison Igoreson the third, the last in a line of Igoresons that—"

"Wreck."

"Yes, we did have a wreck—"

"No, my name is Wreck," he ground out.

"Oh." Wreck. Okay. "That is a unique name. Is it a family name, or…"

"I'm the first in a line of Wrecks."

"Ah, sounds mysterious."

He snorted, and took a right at a stoplight. "Last name is Itall."

"Sooo, your mom named you Wreck It All?" she asked carefully. That was a little mean for a mother to do to a kiddo. "When you were born?"

"The last name is given. The first name showed up at sixteen."

"Showed up?"

He sighed. "Wreck Itall is my name, but my mother only gave me the last name."

"What is your real name?" she asked curiously.

"Wreck." His voice had taken on a stern quality, and she could tell she was pushing too hard.

"You know what? It's not my place to push for information you don't owe me. My name is Timber Rosemary Harris. Rosemary, for my grandma."

"Timber is a unique name."

"My dad was a logger for twenty years. Timber was his choice."

He chuckled, and relaxed more deeply into the seat as he drove. "Your dad sounds like he has a sense of humor."

"Mmm," she said in a noncommittal way. She didn't really feel like paying either of her parents compliments at the moment. Maybe a few years ago, but not now.

"Is your family local?" he asked after a few seconds of heavy silence.

She shrugged, and looked over to find him staring at her. They'd stopped at a stoplight, and his eyes had an eerie quality to them. They were a little lighter and seemed to glow slightly.

He pulled a pair of sunglasses over his eyes, looked forward again, and hit the gas at the newly-turned green light.

"Are you…" It was very rude to ask, she knew, but now something was clicking into place. "Are you one of those shifters? From Damon's Mountains?"

"I live in Laramie. Damon's Mountains are near Saratoga."

He hadn't answered her question. Timber narrowed her eyes. "Am I in danger?" she asked.

"Yes."

Her eyes went wide and her heart started pounding. "W-what kind of danger?"

"Danger of getting kicked out of my truck if you don't stop asking so many stupid questions."

"Oh. Ha. Good one." She settled back into the seat, but couldn't quite relax all the way. Not now that she was pretty sure he was a shifter. His non-answer was answer enough. Unable to help herself, she lowered her voice like she was telling a secret and said, "I've never been this close to a real shifter."

"I bet you're wrong," he said, and his voice was deeper, darker and grittier. "Most of them don't advertise what they are. You've probably sat by one in a restaurant, or stood in line at the bank next to one, and didn't even realize it."

"So you are a shifter," she poked at him. She wanted to know for sure.

"I'm a man. Here we are," he said, turning into the parking lot of the gas station that held the greatest Slurpees in all the land.

She hesitated, because he didn't unbuckle his seatbelt.

Wreck cast her a glance behind his dark sunglasses. "What are you doing? Waiting for me to open your door for you? This isn't a date, lady."

"Oh. Oh, no, I thought you were going in with me," she said, heat flooding her cheeks. "Um, I would never expect you to do that."

She had no way of knowing what he was thinking, especially with his eyes hidden like this, but he put the truck into park and gritted out, "I'm staying here."

"Okay, do you want me to get you anything?"

It was getting really hot in here for some reason, and the AC even seemed to be blowing hot air now.

Wreck didn't answer, just dragged his attention straight ahead.

Timber pushed open the door and got out, toting her purse with her. The movement shot pain through her burned arm. She winced hard and gasped softly, hovering her hand over the bandage on her arm, careful not to touch it and make it worse.

"It'll heal," he said gruffly.

"You pulled me from the car," she uttered, trying to remember the exact details of everything.

"I was only there for a minute."

"Did I…did I knock my head on the steering wheel or something?" she asked, feeling around her forehead with her fingertips.

"I don't know." He wouldn't even look at her.

She dipped her gaze to the pink roses she'd settled onto the floorboard, and had held still with her ankles for the drive. He was only there for a minute, but he'd brought her flowers at the hospital twice?

The vision of him holding his hands out, drawing fire away from her car, flashed across her mind and made it hard to stay in the here and now. She had to have taken a knock on the head, but she didn't feel any tenderness or bruising. Why else would she have been unconscious for two days?

She felt as if she was missing a chunk of time, and like her memories were blurry, as if they were being viewed from under murky water. And the memories she did have didn't make any sense, so her brain must've been coping in some strange way—making up stories to fill in the gaps, perhaps.

"I'll be right back. Text me if you change your mind and want anything."

"How would I text you? I don't have your number."

"Oh." She frowned. "Right." She swayed a little and gripped the door to steady herself.

"You good?" he asked.

"Just maybe a little overwhelmed, or something," she said in as cheery a voice as she could muster. "I'll be right back."

She made her way toward the gas station entrance, and the sound of a shutting door behind her filled her senses. She turned to find Wreck reaching for the door for her.

"You don't have to do that," she said awkwardly.

He pulled it open and waited, but she hesitated going in. "I just don't really want you thinking I expect that from anyone. I can open my own doors."

Another wave of heat rocketed against her. Why was she having hot flashes? She swayed a little again and he moved to catch her elbow, but stopped himself just before he touched her skin. "Go on," he rumbled, tilting his head toward the inside of the gas station.

She nodded jerkily and muttered, "Thank you," then made her way back to the candy section. This part, she didn't want to rush. The candy aisle was her happy place. Wreck veered off in a different direction, so she had time and space to try and think more clearly. She looked in his direction once, twice. On the third glance, he appeared in the auto aisle and studied the containers of oil. Maybe his truck needed an oil change. He stood there studying the options, giving her the perfect profile view of him. He was very tall, and very strong. Probably had the physique of a model under his T-shirt. He slid his gaze right to her. She yelped and jerked back into the part of the aisle that hid her from him, and then tried her best to choose a candy…or four.

"Sweet tooth?" he asked, but when she searched the aisle, he wasn't beside her. Instead, he was in the next aisle over, looking at her from over the top of the candy racks.

"Yes, but only for gas station treats," she admitted.

His dirty-blond brows drew down slightly and he walked away, only to round the endcap and saunter right up next to her to look at the options. "Why?"

"Sentimental reasons, I guess. When I was a kid, we had this old push-mower and an acre of weeds back behind our house. Every Saturday I would mow the acre with that push-mower, and my sister would take care of all the landscaping around the house. So, for allowance for doing the yard work, my dad would give us three dollars each on Fridays. When he picked us up from school, he would take us straight to a gas station nearby, and my sister and I would have three whole dollars each to blow on treats. We would spend half an hour choosing. That was the one rule. We weren't allowed to rush each other."

When she looked up at him, his lips were curved up just slightly in what looked like a smile. Her heart beat faster. Even the sunglasses couldn't hide how hot he was.

"Why didn't your family come and visit you in the hospital?" he asked.

The question surprised her. She shifted her weight and stared at the colorful section of chewy candies. "My sister visited a lot. She works in the hospital. You might have just missed her. She's a nurse there."

"And your parents?"

She shrugged, just as she had when he'd asked if they were local. "Crucial question, do you prefer chocolate-based candies, or sour ones? Or chewy ones?"

"Nice subject change."

"How about you tell me your real name, and what happened when you were sixteen to change your name to Wreck. Then I'll tell you my parental sob story, and we can sit around and have a pity party together."

"Ew."

She snorted, and grabbed a package of Giant Chewy SweeTARTS. "Exactly. I prefer happy stuff. Do you like the yellow ones?"

"I don't mind yellow," he said with a shrug.

"Great, because yellow is my least favorite of all the candies. Now that I know they won't go to waste, I'm getting Skittles too."

He huffed a sigh, and leaned down just enough to grab a shareable-sized package of Starbursts.

"Great choice. To the Slurpee machine!"

She led the way and made herself a large grape one, and then offered Wreck a taste. He hesitated, then leaned forward and took a sip. His eyebrows arched up, and he looked impressed. "It's not disgusting."

She laughed and handed it to him, then turned for another cup to fill. "If this is your first one, you have to try the best flavors." She poured three flavors, then put the lid on and traded him for her grape one, but when she took a sip of it, the slush had all melted and it was pure, warm liquid.

She nearly spat it out in shock. It tasted like Wreck had put it in the microwave for thirty seconds.

"You should hold this one," he gritted out, quickly handing her the one she'd just made.

She took it from him and stared at his back as he made his way to the auto aisle and grabbed a couple containers of oil, then made his way to the counter to pay.

Stunned, she looked down into the clear lid of the drink, and sure enough, it was completely liquid. She blinked hard and shook her head. Today was so weird. She dumped the liquid out and refilled it, then made her way to the counter to pay for the drinks and the candies she had tucked under her uninjured arm.

Wreck strode right for the door and went outside before she could even sidle up to the counter. Strange.

She paid—and tried to pay for the one she dumped out, but the nice cashier said she didn't have to—and then made her way outside to find Wreck leaning into the open hood of his truck.

"Thirsty truck?" she asked.

"It's always something with this thing," he muttered.

"Do you take it to shows?" she asked. "You don't see many old, fire-engine red duallys like this. Even the chrome trim looks revamped."

He turned from where he was pouring oil into it, and she could see his frown as clear as day. "You know trucks?"

She shrugged. "A little. Most of my friends in school were guys, and all they talked about was fixing up their trucks for races, and shows out at old Mill's Landing. If you're around the talk long enough, you pick up a thing or two. Plus, someday I wouldn't mind driving a truck. I shop from time to time, but haven't found the one yet."

"Well, now's a good time to pull the trigger. Pretty sure your car won't ever be drivable again."

A flashback of the way the metal had been all crunched up around the wide tree trunk made her flinch.

"Why do you keep doing that?" he demanded, easing out from under his propped-up hood.

"Doing what?" she asked.

"Looking like something hurts you."

"I keep remembering the crash. Like…out of nowhere."

He wiped his hands on a rag he'd settled onto the front end and watched her. "That'll heal too."

"Yeah," she said in a chipper tone, ready to change the subject. "Want a sip?" She offered the new grape Slurpee. "Don't touch it though, fire-fingers. It tastes better frozen."

He'd been leaning in to take a sip but froze at the nickname, then sighed and proceeded to take a big drink. He probably drank half of it in one go!

"What's your truck's name?" she asked conversationally.

"Gus," he rumbled, then lowered the hood, led her to the passenger's side, pulled the handle of the door, and waited for her to scramble inside.

"Gentle—"

Slam!

"—man," she murmured after he'd slammed the door, and was striding around the front of Gus. "If you're busy today, I can just walk from here. I live very close." Yep, she was giving him an out.

"You can't be walking around with all that stuff in your arms. I'll take you," he ground out. "Where do I go?"

She pointed to the right. "See those apartment buildings in the distance? I have a rental house in the neighborhood behind them."

"You shouldn't tell strangers where you live," he admonished her as he pulled out onto the main road.

The rumble of the truck was comforting. She rolled down the window and flopped her arm outside. "What engine does this have?"

"I know what you're doing," he said. "You have done that several times now."

"Change the subject?" she guessed. "Oh yeah, I'm good at that. I'm also good at late-night corn-dog eating contests, drinking beers at live football games, Scrabble, attracting stray animals in public places, and overthinking."

"Why didn't your parents come visit you?" he asked, an edge to his voice.

"Why do you want to know?"

"Because it has bothered me. I sat in your room with you for hours, and no one showed up. Where were your friends? Where was your family? I feel your goodness. You aren't sick in the head or the body. You seem normal, so what is it? You were in the hospital and really hurt, and I know the doctors called your emergency contact, so what the hell?"

"Why does it matter to you?"

"Because you are a nice human." Ooooh, the way he said human, like it was something other.

"Shifter," she accused him.

"So fucking what?"

"Potty-mouthed shifter."

"And I'll keep cussing. I'm not going to change for some lady I just met, who is on the last half of my last damn nerve."

"Not asking you to change. I love curse words too."

He slammed on his brakes, pulled over onto the shoulder, and jerked them to a stop. He parted his lips to ask a question, but she interrupted him.

"Why were you sitting in my room for hours?"

"Because…" He looked uncertain. "Because I felt sorry for you."

And that sounded right. That sounded just right. She pursed her lips and nodded. "Of course. My ex pitied me for going through a hard time too, and it made him stay with me longer than he should've. It caused him to lead me on while he entertained other romantic relationships, while I was mistaking pity for love, but you know what? I didn't choose hard times, just like no one else chooses them. I'm not interested in anyone feeling sorry for me. Never have been. I didn't ask for that. You didn't have to sit with me. I'm tough. I am not a victim." She crossed her arms over her chest and looked out the window, waiting for him to drive again. "I'm good all on my own."

"You didn't have to explain all that."

"Great. I'll walk from here," she said, pushing her door open. She slammed it and heard him rolling down the window as she walked away.

"No, I mean I already knew you were tough," he called.

She frowned and turned around to see if he was messing with her, suspicious that he was setting her up for some let-down like all men did. The bait was impossible not to take, though. "How did you know?"

"Because you were hurt in the car right after the crash, and you asked if I was okay."

She looked down at her clasped hands in her lap as the memory washed over her. Yeah, she'd asked him if he was okay. In her imagination. Because she'd seen him drawing literal fire into himself from her car, but that power didn't exist. No man could do that. Right?

"I thought I imagined that part," she said softly.

Wreck's grip tightened on the steering wheel, and he clenched his jaw so hard, the muscles there twitched. "You did."

And something hit her. It hit her like a lightning bolt. She'd crashed, and she remembered instant pain, and the explosion of the airbag, and then fire and thick smoke, and Wreck, glowing like he was part of the fire. And then he'd pulled her from the car, but he'd…

She looked down at the bandage on her arm.

"Don't," he said softly.

She began to unwrap the bandage, around and around her arm.

"You shouldn't do that," he growled. "The doctor said you need to keep the bandage on for a while. You can hurt it worse."

She didn't care. She didn't want to listen to anything this confusing man said about what she should and shouldn't do.

She gasped at the burning pain as she peeled the gauze off the burn, and she found something that shocked her to her bones.

The burn was in the shape of a handprint.

A big handprint.

A hand roughly the size of Wreck's.

He'd gone quiet, staring straight ahead.

"I didn't imagine it."

Wreck eased his foot onto the gas, pulled onto the road again, and headed for her house.

"I didn't imagine it," she said louder. Her heart was pounding so hard. "You took the fire away from my car, and you're still here."

"I almost killed you."

"But you didn't! You took the fire away. What kind of animal could eat fire like that?" she uttered in horror as the answer whispered across her mind. Dragon.

"You're a dragon."

"I'm not a dragon."

"You're a motherfreaking dragon."

Wreck let off a low rumble that didn't help his case. The air was suffocating with a growing dry heat and the faint scent of smoke. She leaned closer to the window for the relief of the cool air outside.

"What street?" he ground out. The last word was accented at the end with several metal-on-metal-sounding clicks.

"Is that your firestarter?" she asked. "God, this hurts even worse. Stop making the truck hot," she said, trying to wave airflow near her burn.

"Put the bandage on," he said low.

"I'm not putting the dirty bandage back on—"

"Put it back on!"

"Don't tell me what to do!"

"I can't see it!" he barked out.

"Well, you made it saving me, so you don't have to get too insecure about it."

"You don't understand."

"Probably not, but I've also been in a coma, so I'm going to be forgiving on myself."

"You weren't in a coma."

"I was unconscious for two days. Coma."

"You weren't in a coma!"

"Then what was it?"

"You were healing! I…Fuck!" He slammed his open palm against the steering wheel a few times, hard enough to rattle the truck on the road.

She went quiet and still at the outburst.

"I touched you and it did something bad, Timber. Please." He swung his gaze to her and ripped off his sunglasses, and she gasped at what he'd been hiding.

His irises were bright gold, and there were flames dancing violently in his eyes.

"That handprint on you is awful. It has ruined your life and mine, Timber. Hide it. For the love of everything, I'm asking you for something simple. Put it away."

"Okay," she murmured softly. He was right. She didn't understand. He was trying to control something she didn't understand, and right now she was terrified by the heaviness and heat of the power she felt. Only a few feet separated them, and he was fighting something big inside of himself.

He had flames in his eyes. Flames.

"I thought dragons had elongated pupils—"

"I told you, I'm not a dragon."

"What are you?" she whispered.

"Trust me, you don't want to know. Where is your house?"

"Just on the right there," she said low, pointing to the little green two-bedroom with the small yard and one-car driveway that currently housed exactly zero cars, because hers had been wrapped around a tree, and then caught fire, and then this man…this creature…had absorbed the fire.

What the hell could do that?

Her hands were shaking. She had trouble gathering her candy and flowers, and had to settle for leaving her nearly-empty drink in the cupholder. Trembling, she closed the door and backed away from the truck, unable to take her eyes from the fiery-eyed man in the driver's seat.

"Thank you," she said softly.

Wreck ran his hand through his hair and leveled her with a fire-filled glare. "I didn't do anything."

"You were in the right place at the right time. If my tire had blown earlier or later, you wouldn't have been there, and where would I be?"

He took in a long, steadying breath. "It was nice to meet you, Timber."

That was the goodbye. She would never see him again after this, and would never talk to him again either. They hadn't exchanged numbers.

She didn't want this separation. She didn't want him to leave. Something about him was so interesting, and she'd been uninterested in everything for a while now. He was dangerous, of that she had no doubt, but he also made her feel…alive.

"My parents are local. Three years ago, I was contacted by a woman who claimed to be genetically linked to my immediate family. She asked for my parents' contact information, and within a few days we figured out she was my aunt's biological child who had been adopted out. I was having problems with my parents then." She swallowed hard, and corrected herself. "I was always having problems with my parents. They couldn't figure out how to be nice to me, or supportive, like they were with my sister. I was always kept on the outside, and my life had revolved around trying to fit what they wanted so they would love me. When my parents were connected with my aunt's biological child, my mother explained to me that my aunt had been young when she'd had her, and that my parents had been set to adopt her. She was the child they'd prepared for and wanted so badly. Last minute, my aunt decided to adopt outside of the family so she didn't have to deal with the back-and-forth dilemma of giving up the child as she watched her grow up. My parents were over the moon to meet this woman, who they'd wanted to be their daughter so badly. It was explained to me that they had only had me to fill the hole that girl had made in their hearts. The resentment made sense. It got bigger as they brought the woman into our family and replaced me in every single conceivable way."

"What about your sister?" Wreck asked, eyes consumed with flames. "The nurse."

"She hates what was done and how I was treated, and she calls them all out, but I'm not really invited to the family gatherings anymore. Everyone seems to be happier for it, except for Sasha. So yeah, when I got hurt, my parents weren't going to stop their plans with my replacement to check on me. They're on a family vacation. The woman has kids, and my parents are grandparents now. Not technically, but in their hearts, that is their family. And before you pity me, know I don't want it. I'm a therapist. Licensed. I deal and cope, and I do it in a healthy way. I've gone through the hurt part and the angry part, and I'm to the part where I have accepted it. I know that someday, when I have a child of my own, he or she will never feel uncared for a day in their life. There's the answer to your questions." She moved to walk away, but swung back around. "You should also know I don't go preaching my sob story to people. I think it's rude that you pushed me, and I think I'm rude for saying all of this, and this isn't appropriate for people who just met. It's too deep, too fast. It muddies things."

"I like it," he said.

"What?"

"I would rather hear something real, than something fake-happy."

"I'm not fake-happy," she argued.

"Woman, not everything is an insult. You have a man telling you your real story is more interesting than your shallow discussion about not liking yellow candies. Come here."

Normally she would tell a man exactly where he could fuck off to if he gave her a command like that, but the way Wreck was looking at her and the tone he had when he softly told her what to do had her scuffling her feet to do his bidding.

She slowly walked around his truck, made her way to his window, and looked up at his face. He was resting his elbow on the open window, and the flames in his eyes had shrunk to almost nothing. God, he was handsome, but not in a traditional way. He was handsome in a dangerous, otherworldly way.

"I can hear your heart pounding," he said with the confidence of a man who knew his exact place at the top of the food chain. "Did you know, some say if you give someone your real name, they have power over you?"

"I'm sure they say if you tell someone the hard thing that built you, it would also give a person power over you."

"Mmm," he said, narrowing his eyes.

He eased his powerful hand down for a shake. "Once upon a time, my real name was Josiah."

She ghosted a glance to his hand, then back to his solemn face. "Josiah Itall," she said softly, testing the name.

"No one knows me by that name anymore, besides my mother."

"Would you like me to keep it a secret?"

He nodded once.

She looked at his hand again, still extended for a shake. The handprint on her arm was absolutely on fire right now, and it was intimidating to think of touching him again.

Green flames traveled down his arm with a whoosh . She gasped and jumped back a foot, but there was no heat from those strange-looking flames. His hand was consumed with the green fire, and a small smile curved his lips. "You gave me a new power. The world will probably hate you for it someday. Maybe you are the beginning of the end."

God, he was terrifying. Beautiful like some avenging angel come to earth, but terrifying.

He stretched his hand out farther. She blew out three quick breaths to hype herself up, set the flowers and candy down on the ground, and then slapped his palm once, testing. It was warm, but not burning hot.

The green flames sent a soothing sensation up her arm, and siphoned the burn from the handprint on her other arm. "You're scary," she admitted, hiding her smile as she considered touching him again.

"Oh, you have no idea," he rumbled, and she knew he meant it. He really was scary, and was self-aware as well.

She slowly reached her fingertips toward him, hesitated, then slid them against his palm and clasped his hand.

The translucent green flames rolled up her arm and stopped just shy of her jawline. She gasped and stood as still as she could, just holding his hand as a buzzing sensation droned through her arm. It tingled a little, but at the same time was soothing like a massage. The handprint on her arm felt like nothing at all now.

The smile had faded from his lips, and his eyes were trained on the green flames roiling up her arm as they held their hands clasped. "You're the one who is scary," he said low.

He released her suddenly. She stood there by her candy and her vases of flowers as he backed out of her driveway and drove away.

Her? Scary?

She was just a fragile little human.

Him, on the other hand.

He was a monster.

The name Wreck suited him.