She grins up at me, grateful. “Okay.”
We lie together and I stare up at the stars above as her breathing slows, becoming even, soft. She’s asleep in my arms, and up here with nothing but open air and the sound of rustling leaves, I feel like I’m in heaven.
My eyes must finally close at some point because suddenly the sun is threatening to rise again, and the smell of hot smoke wakes me with a cough. I sit up and rouse Hattie, who grumbles and waves the heavy air away.
“What’s going on?” she chokes out, and I scramble to my feet, helping her back inside. The forest around us is orange and crackling with flames closer than any forest fire has been before. My chest feels cold with panic as we hop around, pulling our clothes on.
“Fire,” I say, although she can already see as much out the windows. “We have to go. We have to get out of here.”
Eight
Hattie
This… this is the kind of thing that would never happen in a penthouse in LA. A forest fire right outside Holt’s door? That’s what jerked us out of bed this morning. I’d hoped to wake up to something slightly more pleasant. Like his cock, hard and ready again, pressed against my ass. Or maybe the smell of fresh coffee.
But no. It’s hard to feel positive, despite how incredible last night was, when things keep going terribly wrong.
Holt is throwing open the door to his truck, an arm across his face and a phone to his ear. “Come on!” he yells, and with a jump, I realize it’s me he’s talking to. I’d been mesmerized, staring out at the orange glow of the forest creeping ever closer. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before. “Hattie! In the truck!”
I run and pile in and soon we’re barreling down the mountain for supplies. Holt leaps out at his store, named after him and everything — such a cute-looking place. How did I ever think a guy like this could be involved with my father? I gaze across the street at McKenzie’s, the diner he promised he’d take me to. I’m dreaming about pancakes when Holt hops in the truck again. He leans over and kisses me on the cheek.
“The guys are coming right behind us,” he says. “The sheriff and the fire department. It won’t get the cabin. I hope.”
“Let’s get back,” I urge. “Jimbo.”
Holt’s truck is going as fast as it can, weaving on those hairpin turns all the way back up the mountain. It’s been minutes, really, but it feels like so much longer when I think about the poor dog watching the flames close in.
We leap out of the truck and Holt secures a behemoth of a hose to an outdoor tap and gets to work dousing the trunks and leaves of the nearest trees, and then the wood sides of the cabin itself.
The next few minutes are a blur. It’s clear the back of the cabin is crackling with flames. Embers tossed around by the morning wind have settled on Holt’s home, and his hose, however long, just isn’t enough. The fire truck is coming and I can hear the sirens, but Holt shakes his head and turns to me.
“Hattie, stay here,” he commands. I haven’t known him a long time, but I get the feeling he doesn’t usually speak so firmly, so I freeze in place.
He runs into the burning cabin. The fire crew screeches to a halt and starts setting up their own hoses, yelling to each other over the roar of the fire. I feel weak at the knees, unable to help, smoke clogging up my lungs, but I manage to point into the house. “He’s in there.”
I can see smoke pouring off the top of the cabin. The glow of fire inside through the windows. I collapse into a fit of coughs, and one of the firemen pulls me back before I even know what’s happening.
Even the sheriff is here, talking into his radio at the edge of the forest, one finger in his belt loop, calling over to the head of the fire department. They all work tightly around one another like they’ve been doing it all their lives, which maybe they have. If my eyes didn’t sting so bad, and my stomach wasn’t a roiling pit of worry, I’d be enjoying watching this choreographed emergency response right now.
It’s clear everyone knows everyone here, and the sheriff even gives me a squinty glance as he tries and fails to place me. I give him a small wave, and he steps over.
“Elliot Shepard,” he says, shaking my hand with vigor. “Are you all right? Do we need a medic?”
“Holt’s inside,” I cough. “Are they going in to get him?”
Sheriff Shepard clears his throat and shields his eyes as the winds change and the firemen begin to yell amongst themselves. “Do you know how long he’s been in there?”