5. Patrick

What the hell am I doing?

I stared at the phone like it was a snake whose fangs still clung to my arm. The whole point of reaching out to the fire station was to set up this stupid story, to use my one pseudo-in with the Department to arrange a tour and possible ride-along.

No one said anything about a date.

The whole idea of dating a source, if that's what Dane even was now, was likely the most unprofessional thing I could do. Demmit would blow his stack if he found out.

Actually, the more I thought about it, the more I realized my editor would probably applaud me for using any asset at my disposal, including my own perky asset, to get the story. The great Evan Demmit could make Machiavelli look like a first-grade schoolteacher in his quest for the news. I was on solid ground flashing a little leg—or more than a little, if that's what it took.

And Dane was freakin' hot.

I'd only seen him draped in his oversized, stupidly baggy firefighter coat and trousers, but with a chiseled jaw given by Zeus, I knew he was fit. And he was a fireman, after all. More than muscles, his White Walker blue eyes froze me in my tracks. I lost myself in the daydream, my mental gaze drifting over the curve of his cheek and the set of his jaw. Thick black stubble that needed to be touched pricked my fingers, and I wondered what heavenly combination of Native American with Nordic god had entwined the roots of a family tree to create the man.

"Dude, you awake?"

I startled and looked up, finding the curls of Rob DeSilva's Jiffy-Pop hair hovering over my cube wall. A pair of muddy brown eyes blinked rapidly. Rob started with the AJC a couple years before I did. He spent most of his time covering high school sports, and was my best friend among the reporting pool. He was also the least athletic man I'd ever met, making his love of sports almost comical.

"Hey, Rob. Sorry, was just lost in thought."

"I know that look. You have a new assignment. Did Evil Evan finally give you a story worth writing?"

"Shh." My eyes darted around. Demmit had a magic power, a creepy ability to materialize right behind me every time someone talked about him. My voice lowered to a whisper. "No, not really. He has me doing a thing on firemen."

"Huh. Okay. That could be fun, I guess. You have some source in the Department? Why you?"

"I know a guy, sort of. I mean, I met a fireman once. We'll see."

Rob scrunched up his nose and his eyes narrowed, looking more constipated than contemplative. "You're not telling me something. I can smell it."

"Smell it? Like a fart?"

An awkward, high-pitched squeal turned the heads of the handful of others seated around me. Rob glanced about and blushed. The guy was terrified of one-on-one conversations, but the attention of two or more sent him ducking for cover faster than a soldier under fire. Unfortunately, there was nowhere to hide on our wide-open news floor. All he could do was glow bright red and cover his face.

For the briefest moment, I thought his discomfort might've saved me from the interrogation that was about to ensue.

"So, what's the deal? Who's this source?"

Shit. "I don't really know him. We met early this morning at an accident scene."

"You chasing ambulances again?" He crossed his twig-like arms.

I tried not to grimace. "I'm trying to find a good lead. Give me a break."

"Fine." He blinked rapidly again. "So, what's the deal? Why so weird about this fireman?"

Why am I friends with other reporters? They never let things lie. Never.

I checked my watch, feigned alarm, and leaped from my chair. "Sorry, gotta go. Got, um, a thing to do. You know, reporter thing. All secret and stuff. Good stuff. We can do lunch tomorrow, if you're free."

I didn't wait for him to respond, just darted through the sea of desks and out the far door, leaving his puffy-ass head bobbing behind me.

Dane lived in a residential part of town just east of I-85. He hadn't told me anything about his home, other than he'd bought his first house a year earlier and was still working on "getting it in shape." That left me wondering if I was walking into an undecorated shell that would make the boys from Queer Eye shriek, or a dilapidated shack whose roof might cave in during dinner.

As my car slowed on the off-ramp, nearing the final traffic light before I'd turn onto his street, my stomach began to churn.

"What am I doing?" I asked the steering wheel. "I don't even know this guy. I met him in the dark of night at an accident scene. For all I know, he uses his axe to chop up dates and serve them in lasagna."

Okay, that was sick and likely untrue, but the fear of the unknown still gnawed at me. Dane was as hot as they came, all swarthy with his inky black hair and intense eyes. God, his skin was so tan and sexy, without even a hint of a tanning bed to show for it.

I laughed to myself. Dane wasn't the kind of guy to go to a tanning bed. He was a tough fireman who wrestled flames and probably tore doors off with his bare hands to save kittens.

Did kittens need saving behind locked doors?

I was projecting. I didn't even know the guy well enough to know if he had a kitten fetish, or simply a desire to save one in need.

Add to all that, I was a professional. My job was to work a source, to glean information and craft a narrative, to illuminate truth where only darkness reigned. I wasn't supposed to drool over the guy; I was supposed to grill him. How many lines was I crossing by agreeing to share noodles?

The image of the two dogs from Lady and the Tramp eating the same strand of spaghetti popped into my head, and I wondered if we'd do that. They'd ended up in a kiss. The idea of locking lips with Dane made my stomach churning double, and a slow smile spread across my face.

The light turned green and I guided Betty, my baby-poop-brown 2001 Honda Accord, onto Dane's street.

"This is it," I said to an unresponsive Betty. "This is so stupid. Why am I doing this?"

My hands clenched and unclenched in rapid succession, squeezing tiny impressions into the memory foam cover I added a few years ago. My rationale was that, as a reporter, my fingers were vital instruments of my trade, so they should be protected at all times. The truth was far simpler. It was cushy and felt good.

I laughed at myself again. "You are such a nerd."

Then my stomach flipped. What if Dane didn't like nerds? He was all beefy and hot; well, I assumed he was all beefy. I hadn't really been able to tell from his baggy coat and pants, and Lord knows I tried. If the fabric hadn't been flame retardant, my stare might've burned a hole right through to his butt.

Did he have a nice butt?

"Two-ten, two-twelve." I ticked off the house numbers like they were grocery list items. "Two-fourteen. This is it."

I sucked in a breath. This was the first date I'd been on in, well, I couldn't remember how long. It was exciting and terrifying in equal measure.

Dane's house was a one-story ranch-style blocky thing covered in pale bricks the color of my coffee, more creamer than java. A white wrought-iron railing from the sixties boxed in a tiny porch barely large enough for one plastic Adirondack chair. Paint on the door that was probably deep blue, maybe navy at one point, was now faded and chipping off in places. A wind chime of tiny metal hummingbirds tinkled as I approached.

If I hadn't been so impressed with Dane's jawline, his house would've been utterly unimpressive. He did, indeed, have much work to do.

The door screamed as it slowly opened, and Dane stepped onto the porch step thing.

"Hey." Dane's smile caught me off guard, all warm and friendly. He hadn't struck me as a guy who smiled much. He leaned against the doorframe like an underwear model.

Unfortunately, the loose faded jeans he wore covered his undies, though the sky blue Van Halen T-shirt he wore was so tight against his arms and chest I thought it might rip. He stood only a little taller than my six-foot height, but every inch of him was packed with muscle.

My eyes strayed and fixed on perky nipples poking through thin fabric.

A heartbeat later, he drew my gaze by saying, "Find me okay?"

"Oh, yeah, you look great. Totally hot. I mean, handsome. Great."

He laughed, and his amusement radiated in my chest. "I meant the house. You found the house okay?"

Heat flushed up my neck and into my cheeks, and I subconsciously reached up and adjusted my glasses. "Oh, right. The house. Yeah. Easy. One turn."

Why was I babbling like a fourteen-year-old-girl on her first date? And dammit, my palms were soaked. He'd better not want to shake hands.

Then I laughed at thinking a guy on a date would shake hands.

"Something funny?" His eyes were grinning at me.

I wiped my palms on my jeans and fixed my glasses again. "Oh, no, sorry, was kind of lost in thinking and stuff."

"I try not to think too much. It hurts." He chuckled again, then motioned me forward. "Come on in. The noodles just dropped, so we have about twenty minutes. Want something to drink?"

"Oh shit," I startled. "Wine. I brought wine. Stay there."

I darted back to Betty and opened the driver's door before realizing the wine was in the passenger's side floorboard. Rather than look like an idiot by running around to the other side, I leaned over and reached for the bottle, losing my balance and falling across the car seat. By the time I'd righted myself, bottle in hand, Dane was fully leaning on the door frame, meaty arms crossed and a wide grin plastered on his face.

As I took the first step onto the porch, he surprised me by leaning down and kissing my cheek. "You're cute when you're flustered."

I missed the next step, and he had to catch me. My face smashed into his chest, and his arms wrapped around me, holding me up. He smelled like pine and tomato sauce and sweat after a workout. Oddly, that made me hungry.

It would've been the best Pretty Woman moment ever … if I'd done it on purpose and not simply been a klutz.

"I've got you," he said gently. "You okay?"

Everything in me melted at his touch. "Yeah, good. I'm good. Guess I'm a little clumsy."

He pulled back and released me, and it felt like the warmest blanket in the world had been ripped away, leaving me shivering and wet and … All I wanted was to snatch it back and lose myself in its plush, musky, muscly comfort.

The exterior of Dane's house had left much to be desired—and had also left me unprepared for the interior. The floors were a rich cherry-colored wood, polished to a sheen. The couches in the living room we passed through were covered in elegant yet comfortable-looking off-white fabric. Two oversized leather chairs with metal studs sat to either side of the couch, balancing the feminine feel of the couches with the decidedly masculine leather.

Dane led us into the kitchen.

"Holy shit," slipped out before I realized my mouth was hanging open. Sleek marble countertops swirled with blacks and blues, while stainless steel appliances gleamed in the bright track lighting. A modern silver hood hovered above the stove, and crisp white cabinets were accented by shiny silver pulls that complemented the metal of the stove and fridge.

"Like it?" Dane asked, motioning for me to sit at one of three bar stools lined up against an island that stretched the length of the kitchen before rounding into a faux table at the end. "Took me forever to get the living room and kitchen done."

"You did all this yourself?" Now my mouth really was agape.

His smile was like hot cocoa on an icy day. "Every last nail and screw." He nodded, then shrugged. "I had help with the countertops and cabinets—anything too heavy or awkward for one person, really—but I did the rest. Getting the cuts right on the floor was the hardest part."

I glanced down, suddenly aware of the perfect fit of each plank of wood. "These floors are stunning."

"I love cherry. Sami thinks it's too dark, but what does she know?" He grunted to himself in what I thought was a laugh, then turned and stirred the sauce.

"Sam?"

"Samantha. She's a fighter on my team. Best medic in the Department."

"Oh," I said, wanting to ask fifty questions but struggling with his admonition to not talk about work while on our date.

He turned back, a smirk teasing one corner of his mouth. "Go ahead and ask. I can feel you thinking."

I pushed my glasses up my nose with my middle finger.

"Did you just flick me a bird?" he asked, eyes wide.

"No! I was just—"

His laugh filled the kitchen, deep and rich. "I'm giving you shit. Play your cards right, and you can do whatever you want with that finger."

I nearly fell off my stool.

His laughter grew, and the mischief in his eyes was like looking directly into the sun.

I stared at the cabinets as though examining the wood grain beneath the paint.

"So, wine?" he asked.

"Sure."

He cocked one brow and looked down.

"Oh, right," I said, raising the bottle. "Guess you need this."

"Only if you want to drink it."

His fingers wrapped around mine as he took the bottle, and heat raged across my skin, flowing into my chest.

What was going on? Why was I such a nervous mess? Dean was handsome, sure. Well, no, he was fucking hot, like Mr. March in the Team USA Firefighter Calendar hot. I tried to remember if I'd ever been on a date with anyone who ranked so high on the hotness scale, and came up empty.

"So, you date much?" he asked, his back facing me as he worked the cork on the wine bottle.

"Some," I said, then, after a beat, "Not really."

"Why not? You're sure cute enough. I'd have thought all of Atlanta would be lined up at your door."

Holy cow. I gulped, suddenly self-conscious of every wrinkle on my shirt and hair out of place. "Thanks," I said. "You're kind of intimidating."

He glanced over his shoulder, the cork almost out of the bottle. "You said that before. What do you mean?"

How am I supposed to answer that?

"Well, you're big. I mean, strong. Muscular. That sort of thing." God, I was sweating. "And you're kind of scary when you don't smile."

Pop. He turned to face me and raised the uncorked bottle like a trophy he'd just won. "Scary?"

"Maybe that's too strong a word." Had I offended him? I looked down then peeked up without raising my head, a scared rabbit before the hunter. His gaze hadn't wavered, and his lips were still upturned. "You're pretty intense. I guess that's a better way to put it."

He set the bottle on the island, retrieved two wine glasses from a cabinet, then poured a healthy amount in each glass and slid one toward me. As the wine kissed my lips, he said, "That's fair."

He eyed me a moment, then asked, "Are you scared of me now?"

I took another sip, accidentally downing half the glass.

He laughed. "Guess that answers that."

Embarrassed, I took another sip and tried to beat back the blush coloring my cheeks. His eyes brightened as he laughed, and his smile … I couldn't remember if I'd seen him smile like that, so honest and free. I'd only known the guy a hot minute, but still, that smile tickled something deep inside me, and I found myself mirroring his expression.

"There he is," he said, raising his glass, his eyes squinting in amusement. He turned, fiddled with the noodles, then declared, "Dinner's ready. Hope you're hungry. Firemen know how to eat."