Firestorm - Ellie Masters Page 0,27
they look.”
“Appearances matter.” I run my fingers through my hair, pulling the tangles free.
“Looks don’t mean much to me.”
“If your next words are to tell me I have a great personality, I’m going to punch you.”
“Is that so?” His eyes twinkle, twin flashes of green which melt my heart. “Do you have a great personality?”
He’s teasing and it relaxes me.
I forget to be self-conscious about how I look.
“You’re insufferable,” I say, but damn if I don’t love the way he looks at me, like I’m the only thing worth looking at. I feel beautiful in his eyes, and that’s saying something considering I haven’t had a shower in nearly a week.
“I aim to please, but let me set the record straight. Even in the most hideous patient gown, you are one of the most stunningly beautiful, heart-stoppingly gorgeous women I’ve ever had the pleasure of carrying on my back out of a forest fire. As for your personality? Jury’s still out on that.”
I laugh. “That’s so much worse.”
“How is that worse?”
“How many women have you carried out of a fire before?”
“You’re my first.”
“So…I’m also the least beautiful woman you’ve carried out of a forest fire.”
“You can twist that any way you want, but you’re far from ugly. If I said you were fine on the eye you’d probably be ripping me a new asshole for being focused only on your looks. If I tell you you’re sweet, or have a nice personality, you’ll say I called you ugly. It’s a no win situation for me.”
“For the record, I’m not one of those.”
“One of those, what?”
“Militant feminists.”
“Your words.” He held up his hands. “Not mine.”
“Well, how about this? Thank you for the compliment. I appreciate it very much, even as I sit here in the world’s most unappealing hospital gown and haven’t showered or washed my hair in days. I don’t mind compliments and, for what it’s worth, my brand of feminism is a bit old-fashioned.”
“So, you admit you’re a feminist?”
“You say that like it’s a bad word, but I am. I believe men should be gentlemen and women should be ladies. If you’ve got height and muscles, I expect you to lift the heavy things and get stuff off the tall shelves for me. I like when a man opens a door, holds out a chair, and scoots me close to the table. I even like the tiny, possessive hand to the small of my back, or the way a confident man will guide me through a room. I’m an old-fashioned feminist because I like men with manners who respect women and aren’t afraid to treat them like women.”
“Good to know.”
I give a sharp shake of my head, not really sure where that little speech came from.
Why the hell did I tell him all of that?
Because you want him to do all those things for you.
“And Asher…”
“Yes?”
“Thank you for helping me. I really appreciate everything you did for me, and the risks you take to keep us regular people safe. I’ll never be able to repay you.”
“Ah, you’re so sweet. Look at that personality shine.”
“Ass! I’m trying to compliment you and say thanks.”
He gives a little chuckle, then fixes me with an intense stare. “Honestly, it was my pleasure. I’m happy I was able to help.”
“What happened with the fire? Is it out? Still burning?”
“It burned for a few days, but we were able to get it under control. They’re investigating now.”
“Investigating?”
“Standard procedure. Nothing to worry about.”
“I’m not worried, but no one’s talked to me about the man who hit me upside the head. I took pictures of him, although my phone is probably an unsalvageable wreck. I lost everything in that fire.”
He glances away and picks at the sheet over my knee. “I’m really glad you’re doing better, Evelyn. Do you prefer Evelyn or Evie?”
“Either one. Evie is what I was called as a kid.”
“Well, you’re not a kid anymore.”
“No, I’m not. What about you? Do you prefer Asher or Ace?”
“Everyone around here calls me Ace. It’s a nickname I can’t escape. I like it when you call me Asher. You’re the only one who does and that makes it special, like kind of our thing.”
Our thing?
There’s an us.
He just admitted it.
I’m not really sure what to say about that. I didn’t realize we had a thing, but I’m giving myself a mental fist bump. He’s been thinking about me, which means it’s not just me.
I point to his shirt. “I’m a little confused. Are you a firefighter or