“Later, Zom—I mean Larry,” Ryan corrected himself as he headed out.
Smokejumpers dubbed Larry DiPrete with the name Zombie because he never slept. Ever. Zombie wore a perpetual bug-eyed expression. His gray cowlick and one pant leg always tucked in his boot gave him a disheveled appearance. Precious few got away with calling him Zombie. Ryan wasn’t one. It appeared he hadn’t yet earned the privilege.
“Get them people trained up. I need your ass back here,” Zombie’s voice rumbled after him.
“Working on it,” muttered Ryan, pushing the door open. It slammed shut behind him.
He strolled toward the barracks as the sun lingered on Chena Ridge. Shadowy spruce emerged from the dissipating smoke haze at the edge of the base. High above, sockeye-colored clouds transformed the sky into a lava flow. Denali appeared, keeping watch over all of it.
He loved Alaska. She always surprised him with a new face.
Tara drifted into his mind as he took in the saturated sky. He sensed an underlying strength in her he admired. Her anxiety about flying presented a perfect opportunity to put his action plan to work. Technically, he wouldn’t be breaking his unwritten rule of not dating co-workers with Gunnar along.
It would not be a date. And he could get to know her better.
He entered the barracks and plodded up the stairs to the second floor. He rounded a corner in the dark hallway as a pair of green eyes came at him.
“Oh gosh, excuse me.” Tara stumbled backward after crashing into him at a fast clip, toothbrush in hand.
He backed up, welcoming the view of her skimpy tank top and shorts. And those legs—shit, those legs. He mumbled something but hadn’t a clue what.
“I was looking for another bathroom. Our room faucets don’t work.” She talked fast, hair dangling around her. Even in the twilight, he noted her flushed cheeks.
“This is the men’s wing,” he choked out, clearing his throat. It took every ounce of fortitude not to stare at her breasts spilling out of the tank top.
“I’m still figuring out the lay of the land. Should have used my phone GPS.” She sounded way too cheerful. “Um, that was a joke.” She waved her toothbrush.
“Uh, yeah, phone GPS. Right.” He laughed, bobbing his head like a damn chicken.
“Did I hurt you? Smacked you pretty hard.” She gave him a once-over, then parked her gaze on his face.
He smoothed a palm down his chest. “Don’t think so. Everything seems intact.” His eyes drifted down, horrified to see a bulge down south.
“Don’t want to injure the training instructor,” she laughed, as she tugged up her tank top to cover cleavage.
Oh, no, don’t do that.
The action increased below his belt buckle. His plane had lifted off; nothing he could do about it. Abort, abort, get to my room. Now.
“Ladies’ bathroom is at the other end.” He pointed. When she turned in that direction, he about faced and hastily retreated. “See you in class,” he tossed over his shoulder.
“Okay, sorry. Good night,” she stage-whispered after him.
“Uh-huh good night.” He jammed his key in the lock and snatched one last peek at those amazing legs. He all but pushed the door off its hinges to get it open. She’s sorry? I’m not. He ducked inside, slammed the door, and leaned against it.
Holy shit. Had her beautiful chest touched his? He wasn’t sure. How was he not sure? Guys remember those things. Dazed, he flopped on his bed, lifting his long legs onto the mattress, his size thirteens dangling off the end. His clipboard fell to the floor.
He closed his eyes and replayed the vision of a scantily clad Tara Waters. His heart thudded. Great. Now when he’d invite her to go flying tomorrow, she’ll think he’s hitting on her because he’d seen her half-dressed. No, half-naked. How the hell am I supposed to resist this woman until I no longer work with her?
He dropped a hand to the floor, groping for his clipboard. Lifting it, he reviewed his action plan, then tossed it on his nightstand. He watched mosquitoes bounce along the ceiling. Timing. It’s always the damn timing.
You’re a smokejumper, for cripes’ sake—you jump from airplanes to fight raging infernos. You’ll figure it out.
He fell into deep sleep, grinning like the Cheshire Cat, delighting in visions of naked, green-eyed goddesses brandishing auburn fire.
Chapter 9
Tara woke early, refreshed, and energized. She planned to squeeze in a run and go to the weight room before class.
When she stepped outside, the sun was already high. This far north the sun stayed up all night like a Vegas gambler. What an odd place, she thought. Dressed in black Capris and a tank top, she tucked in her ear buds, and powered on her mp3 player. Portugal The Man, playing Feel It Still; her favorite tune to ramp up her run. The music freed her mind to wander.
She did some stretches and hit the road, her feet keeping time to the song. She jogged east toward the Chena River and turned left, entering the six-lane running track. The early morning warmth pleasantly surprised her as she sipped her water bottle. Several runners dotted the rubberized track.
An eagle pair caught updrafts, circled above the river, commanding air. She envied their fearless ability to fly. Ever since Dad died, flying had become an issue. She wasn’t sure why and didn’t want to overthink it.
She loved running early in the morning when everything smelled fresh and new. Birds chirped louder and the dew-kissed, subarctic grass sparkled like glitter. The smoke had cleared, and the clean air felt heavenly to her lungs. Near the river, a moose munched willow.
An image of a startled Ryan after last night’s collision made her smile. Traipsing the hall in search of a bathroom in skimpy PJ’s wasn’t one of her smarter choices, but no one had room in a fire pack for a bathrobe.
Tara felt a swoosh on
