2. Patrick

The last thing I ever dreamed of doing was waking up at oh-dark-thirty to chase an ambulance, but such was the life of a reporter—at least, a reporter who'd yet to garner the respect of his frustratingly crusty, annoyingly myopic hard-assed editor.

Maybe I was a little hard on my boss.

He was definitely crusty, but his ass was anything but hard. He sat on it all day. It couldn't be that hard.

But that's beside the point.

Evan Demmit was a legend in the print news game. He was tough, gruff, and nearly impossible to impress. To us newbies, he was a god, glowing brightly and utterly unapproachable as he glared down from his Olympus-style throne. Technically, it was an office chair from the seventies whose wheels screamed every time his oversized, cottage-cheese-filled ass moved too much, but to us, it was a throne.

He was the god of news.

Printus Zeus? Paperus Maximus? Newsus Prime?

Perhaps he had a point that I used too many puns in my writing. I might have even taken the successful ones a tad too far. Still, I was a good reporter. I'd worked for the man for more than two years and I deserved a shot. If I had to write one more piece about the latest agility hoops installed at the local dog park, I might bang my head against my monitor and cry.

So, I woke before the sun peeked her ungrateful head above the Atlanta skyline to chase a lead. Technically, a squawk from my scanner announcing a car accident wasn't a lead, but it was something. It definitely offered more hope than my current assignment covering price increases at the local Dollar Store. According to sources, prices had risen above the one-dollar mark, and several readers had complained in letters to the editor. Demmit tossed said letters across his desk and ordered me to "do something with that."

It wasn't exactly a Pulitzer Prize moment.

While inflation was always an important topic, both financially and politically, I doubted plastic dinosaurs with a price tag of two cents above the store's namesake would interest many readers.

I parked behind the cop car and watched. No smoke rose from the crunched-up vehicle. Two paramedics stood beside a middle-aged man who wasn't a celebrity or politician. No one appeared in distress. The firefighters were walking back to their truck. I sympathized with the bored look on the one female's face. Clearly, she'd been sent on a dry run too.

I sighed. "May as well check it out," I said to myself, shoving my door open and stepping out.

I rounded my car, scribbling a note and not paying attention, and nearly blundered into the last of the firefighters.

"Oh shit! Sorry," I said, closing my tiny notepad and looking up.

My eyes widened and my voice caught.

The man staring back at me could've been Zac Efron, if Zac had thick black hair, crystal blue eyes, and a tan the boys at Tropicana would envy.

Wait, that's Hawaiian Tropic.

And his face. God. His jaw was cut out of granite. He wore a baggy tan firefighting coat and trousers, as though he had been expecting to charge a blazing building. I searched for a patch or plate with his name, but the coat bore no markings other than the Atlanta Fire and Rescue patch sewn onto his left shoulder.

"I'm, uh, Patrick," I said inelegantly, shoving my hand forward before realizing it held my notepad.

The fireman glanced down and cocked his head, a little like a golden retriever confused by someone handing him only half a treat.

"Need something?" he said, not moving to take my hand, his voice hard and flat.

"Uh, no, sorry," I fumbled, yanking my hand back, then remembering why I was there. "Wait, yeah. Maybe."

One brow rose slightly, the only sign of emotion I'd seen from the man.

"I'm Patrick."

A hint of a twist touched one corner of his lips. I took it as a smile. "You said that."

I ran a hand through my hair, letting it flop behind my ears, then adjusted my glasses. "I'm with the AJC. A reporter. I'm a reporter with the AJC."

He crossed his arms. "I don't do reporters."

I nearly dropped my pad. "Uh, oh, sorry. I mean, I wasn't suggesting … I didn't think … well, I did, because you're hot and … oh shit. I'm sorry. I didn't just say that." I covered my face with my palm.

A low rumble I assumed was laughter drifted from the fireman. "I thought you wanted a comment, not a date. That's a very different matter."

My hand fell, and my eyes flew to his.

His mouth was definitely twisted now, and a glimmer in his eyes spoke more of amusement than lust. Was he serious or was he teasing me? I was good at reading people, but this guy was a blank slate.

I decided to try a professional approach. "What happened here?"

His smirk grew. "Car accident."

"Walkman, let's go," a woman's voice called from the truck.

The guy looked over my shoulder, then back to me. "Anything else?"

I never struggled to ask questions, but in that moment, all that came out was, "Walkman?"

He nodded. "Nickname. Pretty lame. My last name's Walker."

"Dane!" the woman's voice barked above a sudden revving of the truck's engine.

"Gotta go. Ask the cop whatever, but this isn't worth the ink. It's just an accident."

It took every ounce of strength to resist turning to watch him walk past. I knew his fire suit, or whatever they called it, wouldn't show his butt as he climbed aboard the truck, but I was dying to check it out anyway. Instead, I focused on the scene a dozen yards ahead of me and let the hunky fireman walk by visually unmolested.

He'd made it a step behind when I heard him stop. The rustling of his heavy coat told me he'd turned back toward me. I could feel him staring at the back of my head.

"You should've asked for my number," he said.

He walked away and the truck's door slammed shut. As its tires ground against the gravel and it drove away, my heart beat a little faster, and I realized she'd said his name.

Dane Walker.