Chapter 3

Emily wasn't herefor him.

That was crazy, right? To sit at the counter of the Hotline for—she checked her watch—thirty-two minutes waiting for a certain movie star to walk in like, what…he came to see her?

Actually meant what he'd said about buying her a beer?

She didn't even drink beer.

Yeah, this was stupid. She should just make the order of a burger and waffle fries to go and walk home the three blocks to the house she shared with JoJo Butcher and Sanchez.

Then she might not look quite so pitiful sitting by herself in a restaurant filled with hotshots, smokejumpers, and various other locals. The Trouble Boys, as she decided to dub them—Hammer, Saxon, Kane, and Mack—played pool in the adjoining room, and some of the smokejumpers were shooting darts in the back. She knew just a few besides JoJo—Logan, the team lead, and Booth, a long-haired, bearded, dark and mysterious sort who mostly sat on a stool and watched the group. Then there was Nova Burns, gorgeous, with her long red hair who was laughing and talking trash with her team. But that's what happened when you were a legacy firefighter. Apparently, her uncle, Jock, had been a legendary team leader before he was killed.

Even Tirzah Hart, their pilot, was sitting at the bar, talking with Booth.

And then there was Emily. Sitting alone. On a stool. Watching a rerun of the Stanley Cup playoffs on the flatscreen.

Waiting for a movie star to show up and buy her a drink.

She wanted to bang her head on the counter.

She motioned to the barkeep, a woman with black hair, gauged ears, tattoos down her arm. One of them was the name of her deceased brother, Bo, a smokejumper who'd died years ago in a fire. "Hey, Patrice, go ahead and make that order to go, okay?"

"Another root beer?" Patrice pointed to her glass.

"Sure." She pushed it away, sighed.

"You okay?" Patrice picked up the glass, wiped the circle of moisture on the bar.

"Probably. Definitely." She watched the goalie on the screen capture the puck in his pocket. Recognized the team—the Minnesota Blue Ox. Her dad knew a guy who played for them, or maybe had played for them. Something. He was a fan, at any rate.

She half-expected him to text her.

"Good." Patrice went to fill up her drink while Emily glanced over her shoulder at the smokejumpers. JoJo was laughing, completely comfortable, a seasoned smokejumper. Her cousin, Hannah had been on the team, years ago, so she was a legacy jumper.

Probably never had the probie worries Emily carried around.

Then again, Emily had extra baggage, didn't she?

Nope, not anymore.

And so what if she had to spend the next two weeks hanging out with Mr. Beautiful. She was a professional. Besides, really, she needed to come to her senses.

They lived in two different worlds. There was no way?—

What? Now she was dreaming of a relationship? Holy. Cow.

Patrice handed her a brown bag. Emily peeked inside and spotted fries in a Styrofoam container, her burger rolled up in paper.

She slid off the stool and headed to the door.

A guy like Spenser Storm was so far out of her league she'd die of asphyxiation just trying to breathe the same air as him.

The door opened just as she pushed it, and she stumbled forward, tripping.

Hands caught her arms, steadied her. "Whoa. You okay?"

She looked up. Yep, asphyxiation.

Of course, Spenser Storm stared down at her, grinning. He'd washed off the grime from the set, his hair still a little wet and curly behind his ears, strong hands on her arms, those blue eyes caught in hers.

Breathe.

"Wait—you're the woman from today. At the fire." He glanced at her bag. "Is that dinner?"

She nodded. Words!

"Shoot. I wanted to buy you dinner."

Oh. She just stood there. "Drink. You said…drink."

Really, Emily?

"Can I…persuade you to eat that here?"

"Here?"

"At the…Hotline? Or, maybe outside on a picnic table. Or…on the sidewalk…"

"Here is good." She practically croaked out the words. For Pete's sake.

"Smells good, what is it?" He held the door open for her.

C'mon, Emily, get in the game— "A burger. Fries."

"Perfect." He was still holding the door.

She turned, spotted a magically empty booth and practically fled. From what, she didn't know, because of course, Spenser the Beautiful was on her heels.

For cryin' out loud, pull yourself together.

She slid into the booth, set her bag on the table.

He smelled good, too. Like soap. And he hadn't shaved, so he wore a hint of a beard across his jaw. He'd changed into a simple black T-shirt and jeans, still wore the boots. A regular guy.

If said regular guy was born under a halo of stars, with the angels singing what a beautiful world.

"You okay?"

"Yes. Definitely." Not even a little. She smiled at him, then grabbed her bag and pulled out the container of fries and the burger. Set the container in front of him. "Want to share my fries?"

"Really? Sure."

She opened the container. They were still hot and crispy, glistening with oil. He grabbed ketchup and poured it into the other side, the upside-down top.

A waitress came over. Looked at Spenser, then at Emily.

Yep. She was sitting here, sharing fries with Quillen Cleveland. Just another day. Whatever.

"I'll have a root beer, and the same burger she has," he said, picking up a fry.

"Cheeseburger with peanut butter and bacon. And I'll have another root beer, too."

The waitress nodded and headed to the kitchen.

"Peanut butter?" he asked, finding another fry.

"My dad had one in Northern Minnesota once, and we've never looked back." She, too, picked up a fry. "So, you okay? Smoke inhalation?"

"Fine. We have a set medic, and he looked me over. And Bucky—he's shaken, but okay."

"Yeah. Poor kid. He'll have some nightmares, I'm sure."

"Hope not, but yeah, it was a scary moment. I can't believe you knew we were in there." He picked up another fry, stirred it around the ketchup.

"I notice things. It's a byproduct of…well, just being aware of your surroundings is a good idea."

He studied her for a second, then nodded. The waitress delivered their drinks, and he lifted his. "To paying attention."

"To rescuing a kid." She raised an eyebrow.

"Right." He smiled then, and it seemed sweet and genuine, like they might be friends.

"That was pretty brave, actually." She cut her burger in half. "Running in after him."

"Yeah, well, I grew up on set, and I know how easy it is to get in trouble."

"Really. I didn't know that."

He cocked his head at her. "What do you know?"

Oops. But c'mon, who didn't know Spenser Storm? "The basics. You played the same character for ten years, and the whole world pretty much watched you grow up. And then, I don't know…you sort of disappeared for while? And now you're back, in a western."

He drew in a breath.

Oh, dial it down Em. Don't sound obsessed.

But she had left out the crazy court case with a stalker, and the years he was a model for an underwear company—and even that social media fiasco at a comic con a couple years ago.

"At least, that's the talk around town."

He sighed then, almost relieved, it seemed. "Yeah, that's about right. I always get a little worried when I meet new people, like they're going to call me Quillen, ask me to speak Iwoni."

Oh, not her. Never. She laughed. It sounded tinny, so she took a sip of her soda. Found her normal voice. "Can you speak Iwoni?"

His smile looked almost forced. "Not even a little. I'm so glad I wasn't cast as Tarkon. He had to be practically fluent."

"There are entire clubs devoted to speaking Iwoni."

"Oh, I know. Believe me." He sighed. "Actually, I had a good childhood, growing up on set. It was a family, sorta. After my dad died, they were really all I had."

She nodded, but that, she hadn't known. Apparently, Tiger Beat didn't discuss those details, preferring his favorite ice cream and current girlfriend. "So, do you like this movie?"

"The Drifters? Sure, yeah. It's a remake, sort of, one of my grandpa's movies—Men from the High Mountains."

"I remember that movie. About a couple brothers who save a family from some corrupt ranchers."

"Yep. New music from a guy named Oaken Fox?—"

"I've heard of him. He just put out a record."

"Yeah, and of course, Winchester Marshall is the lead, so?—"

"So everyone who loves Jack Powers will be lining up at the theater."

"It's got a good shot at a comeback if…" He closed his mouth then, made a face.

"If?"

The waitress—Emily wanted to strangle her—arrived with his burger. "Anything else, sir?"

"No, thanks." He picked up his knife. "This does look delicious."

She took a stab at If— "Are you worried about any more accidents on the movie set? Because actually, I'm going to be sort of, there…helping. Just, you know, to make sure?—"

"I don't end up trapped in a burning building?" And then he smiled, those blue eyes in hers. "And if I do, you'll be there to save me?"

Definitely. "I'm your girl."

Oh…no. No…no, she did not say?—

"Great." He picked up the burger. "Because I need you."

* * *

I need you?

Had he lost his ever-lovin' mind?

No wonder the woman looked at him with stark panic—he himself fought the urge to put down his burger and bolt.

I need you?

And actually, he did have a real need on his brain?—namely, helping him watch over Bucky. After all, she did mention her ability to notice things.

Which is why, as she stared at him, probably with all sorts of predator fears swirling through her mind, he blurted out his big plan. "I've been assigned to watch Bucky…"

Then, while she ate her fries and sort of picked at her burger, he detailed the conversation with Lincoln and Cosmos, and how Bucky had weirdly become his responsibility.

And none of that had anything to do with the weird spurt of happiness that occurred when she'd said she'd be the one on set.

Calm. Down.

"I'll be glad to help you keep an eye on him." Panic receded from her face.

And his chest.

Honestly, the Academy should hand him an Oscar for this last fifteen minutes. Nothing to see here folks. Everything's fine.

He managed to finish off his burger without choking, and washed it down with the root beer while she finished her fries.

"So, how long have you been a firefighter?"

"A hotshot—wildland firefighting. And about three weeks."

He managed to swallow and put the glass down. "Really?"

"Why? Was I that bad?"

"No, you were amazing."

She smiled then, looking away.

Wow, she was pretty. Her blonde hair had a natural curl, and she'd showered and changed into a floral blouse and a pair of jeans, no makeup, but that was okay because it only made her blue eyes stand out.

Frankly, she was a knockout.

Wait… "So, um, am I taking you away from anything right now?"

She raised an eyebrow, then cocked her head.

"I mean, like…is there a hotshot waiting for you?"

She smiled then, and now he really wanted to sprint.

"No," she said. "There's a no-teammate dating policy. And believe me, I'm not into hero types. My parents sort of wrecked me."

"Oh?"

"My Dad runs a SAR team for the Red Cross, and my mom is sort of a national hero—used to work for the NSA, so I grew up with Supers."

"Supers?"

"You know, Superheroes? The kind of people who just have to save the world?" She smiled. "You play them in movies?"

"Not me."

"No, right. Your character ‘Saved the Galaxy, One World at a Time'." She finger quoted the last part.

He laughed then. As did she. And it felt normal and not at all creepy. Not that it should be, but most women he met had this sort of starstruck vibe about them.

She even had a little ketchup on the side of her mouth.

He handed her a napkin, pointed to his mouth.

"Oh." She wiped her mouth, wrinkled her nose. "Could be worse. Could be blood."

"Is that a thing?"

"You hang around me long enough, and…well, I have this ability to attract trouble. You want this last fry?"

"Knock yourself out."

She finished it. He liked a girl who wasn't afraid to eat.

"So, if this is your first gig as a hotshot, what did you do before this?"

She sat back, pulled one leg up in the booth, leaning back against the wall.

Around them, country music played, and he spotted some of the crew at a long table—cameramen, PAs, and the second AD, along with a couple grips.

"Actually, I was in Benson, Washington, at a SAR school over the winter, training a K-9 dog. It didn't work out. Apparently, dogs and I aren't a great fit." She looked away when she said it, then back.

Oh, she'd never make it as an actress. Something?—

"Before that, I was in school—psychology and art. But…I didn't graduate."

Again, the faraway look.

"Well, I think being a hotshot might be exactly your game."

She laughed. "We'll see. I'm not sure I'm exactly, well, this was sort of a desperation move."

He picked up his glass. "Here's to desperation."

She met it. "The mass of men leads lives of quiet desperation. What is called reservation is confirmed desperation."

"Impressive."

"Henry David Thoreau. That's what half a psychology degree will get you."

He laughed. "Are you from Montana?"

"Missouri, actually."

"Never been there."

"It's beautiful—lots of forest and rolling hills."

"Family?"

"Two siblings—they're a lot younger than me. You?"

"Only child. My mom died when I was a baby. My dad was a stuntman. He died when I was eight. After that, I was raised by my grandfather."

She seemed to take it all in, new information.

"Like I said, I was on the set a lot, but child actors are only allowed to work six weeks out of the year. So the rest of the time, I was on my family's ranch, the Flying S, near Helena."

"So, you're a real cowboy."

He shrugged, smiled.

"What does Flying S stand for—Storm?"

"Yes, sort of. My great-grandmother's biological father was Guthrie Storme, with an e—baseball player. But she was raised by a pilot as a dad—a man named Truman. So, when she inherited the ranch from her mother—it was called the Hoyt ranch—she renamed it."

"Cattle ranch?"

"Buffalo, actually."

"Your great grandmother sounds interesting."

"She was a famous actress—Chanel Storm."

"Get. Out. Really?"

"Yeah. She was beautiful, and amazing—I didn't realize how amazing until after she died last year, at the age of 94. I had to give her eulogy, and her press secretary wrote it. I discovered so much I didn't know?—like the fact that her mother was an actress. Rosie Worth. And that Chanel was a pilot, too. And she was a rock, you know? She stood by people during the McCarthy hearings, and was even good friends with the Reagans. They went to a Billy Graham crusade together, and I remember the President visiting the ranch once. But to me, she was just my great-grandma, who made cookies and loved me, and occasionally sang me to sleep. Coco the Great."

"Why Coco?"

"That was her real name." He finished his root beer.

"Sounds like you two were close."

"We were. She helped me get my head on right after…oh, nothing."

Emily raised an eyebrow.

"I did something stupid after…okay, so I was an underwear model for about a year."

Her eyes widened.

"I know. But I thought it might be a way to get back into acting so, despite my agent's advice, I signed a one-year contract and practically sold my soul."

"Sorry."

"I ended up quitting and going back to the ranch, and I've spent the last three years cowboying."

"But now you're back to acting?"

He sighed, leaned back in the booth, not sure how he'd let her get this far into his life. And it hadn't hurt a bit.

Then again, she wasn't holding a microphone, or a cell phone for that matter, asking for a selfie, ready to print his every word in a teen magazine.

"I don't know. I was pretty happy on the ranch, and then our foreman, Butcher, died. He'd been our foreman my entire life, so that was rough."

"Especially right after the death of Coco the Great."

"Yeah." He was folding a napkin, smoothing the edges with his knife. "The new foreman, who my grandpa hired, wasn't keen on having the boss's grandson in the bunkhouse, or hanging with the cowboys, so…yeah. I needed a new gig. My agent, Greg, called with a script, and here I am."

She considered him for a long moment, until he finally looked up.

A beat, then, "You don't seem thrilled about it."

"I…" He closed his mouth, made a face.

She put up her hands, clasped them together.

"Activating the Osprey Proxima Nebula."

He stilled. "You watched the show."

She gave him a look. "Three point two billion children grew up watching Trek of the Osprey at seven p.m. on Friday nights. Please."

Right. But when she grinned at him, it didn't feel quite so…embarrassing.

Yeah, that's the feeling he had most of the time anyone mentioned Quillen Cleveland, the boy wonder who saved the freakin' universe. Huh. He hadn't realized that until now.

"So? Now that we're in the Nebula…what's the deal with the film?"

"I don't know. It doesn't feel right. It's based off a book, but in the book, the two brothers die. They rewrote the ending so that one of the brothers gets the girl."

"Doesn't sound terrible."

"Yeah, maybe. I don't know. It just feels…off." He saw back. "But what do I know? I'm just a space adventurer."

"Cowboy. Space Cowboy."

He laughed, and it didn't feel terrible. It was after Trek of the Osprey that his life went off the rails, so maybe he shouldn't blame it all on Quillen.

"Listen. You grew up creating a massive story. It's in your bones. I have no doubt you know exactly what you're doing. Just trust your instincts a little. I think you were made for this."

He stared at her as the waitress came up and set the bill down on the table.

She reached for it, but he grabbed it first.

"That's more than a drink there, cowboy."

Maybe. But being around her was like a fresh drink of water that he didn't realize he needed.

But suddenly, he was desperately thirsty.

"Thanks again for the rescue today." He met her eyes. Don't go.

She scooted out of the booth. "Try not to die between now and tomorrow. I only rescue people once a day, and you're at your quota." Then she winked and walked away.

And he realized that actually, he'd been completely right.

He needed her.