her. She flung her arm up in an “I got this” gesture—and hit the box.
Which tumbled off the pile and headed for the ground. She lunged for it, hoping to stop it in midair, before it spilled her possessions all over the lawn. But she was a second too late, and instead it landed smack on her right foot.
She held back the swear words that wanted to fly from her mouth. Cursed was beginning to seem like too mild a word for this string of bad luck.
Wincing from the pain in her foot, she crouched down and picked up the box.
Darius stepped to her side and frowned at the pile of boxes in the bed of her truck. “Could have secured that load a little better.”
As she gritted her teeth, the box slipped from her grasp and landed on his foot.
Obviously, their tenant/landlady relationship was off to a fantastic start.
Chapter Eight
Darius ignored the pain in his toe. First of all, the box was pretty light. Second, it was nothing compared to the confirmation that the woman he kept running into—the woman he was definitely hot for—really was the same woman who wanted to evict him. He could barely believe the warm, laughing woman from last night was the all-business shark behind those emails.
He had to get this situation sorted out.
“Listen, why don’t I help you unload these boxes and then you guys can come in for some coffee. I’m due at the firehouse soon but I have a little time.”
“I promised I’d take S.G. out for cheeseburgers.” After a moment of tension, her face relaxed. “But maybe we can talk later. I’ll…email you.”
“Right. Looking forward to that.”
She laughed reluctantly, and just like that, the woman from last night was back. No red halter top this time. She was wearing a cambric work shirt and her dark hair was caught back in a ponytail. The sparkly high heels had been replaced with mud boots. And yet she was still sexy to him. Tall and curvy and outrageously attractive.
The palms of his hands twitched, and he curled them into fists, then stretched out his fingers.
“Your email address…[email protected] All this time I assumed your name was Daniel Boone.”
He tilted his head back and laughed. “Family legend says we’re related, but who knows? You always signed your emails Catriona. I didn’t make the connection to Kate.”
“I go by Catriona at work. Or I used to, anyway. Now I’m a peony farmer named Kate.” A wry smile quivered in the corner of her mouth.
His pager buzzed. He checked it and swore out loud. Message from Nate.
Dispatcher called. Nuisance fire number gazillion out on the mudflats on the boardwalk. No address, just meet me at the firehouse in two minutes.
“Gotta go. We’ll be in touch.” He turned to S.G., who was still cooing to the neighbor’s dog. “Hey, S.G., can you take Thor across the street before you leave?”
Since it was the quickest option for the short trip to the firehouse, he hopped onto his Harley.
Kate planted her hands on her hips as he maneuvered the bike down the driveway. “A Harley. Let me guess. That’s why Emma rented this place to you.”
He grinned at her and hit the kickstarter. “You got it. Guess Harleys are thicker than blood.”
He zoomed off, leaving her shaking her head in rueful defeat.
Darius changed into his gear in record time and hopped into the already moving Engine 1 as it left the apparatus bay.
Nate drove the rig, setting the flashers to clear the way through town.
Not that there was much to clear, ever, except in tourist season. But visitors didn’t generally start heading to Alaska until later in May. Only a few of the boardwalk businesses were even open yet. They encountered no obstacles during their race to the long finger of land that extended into the bay like a claw.
Darius watched the snowcapped mountains across the bay draw closer while the crew—Nate, Rick Puente and Betty Riley—speculated about the fire.
“Punk kids,” announced Rick. “They’re ready for school to be out. I know my kid is.”
“Could be the hippie dude who lives in an old bus on that property. Maybe he wants all the mud to himself,” said Betty.
“If it’s the hippie guy, then it could be a one-off.” Nate frowned at the road ahead. “But it sure seems like it’s connected to the others. It’s a pile of soaking-wet lumber on a mudflat. How does something like that even burn?”
Rick adjusted his gloves. “It’s got to be connected. This