A week ago, an accidental all-night shift would’ve meant she could look forward to an early-morning cup of coffee with her boyfriend, Michael Merrick.

Then again, a week ago Michael hadn’t been giving her the cold shoulder. Lately, he was always too busy to do so much as talk on the phone.

Fine. Whatever. Like she had time in her life to deal with relationship drama. This was why she didn’t date. She had one male in her life who really mattered, and he was five years old and called her Mommy.

The sirens screamed overhead, and she wished they could ride without them for once. Her head was killing her.

Kidder tapped at the dashboard computer in the front compartment, then turned around to talk over his shoulder through the window. “Dispatch has called for three additional alarms on this one. Apparently we’ve got more than one house on fire.”

Great.

Normally the thought of a massive job helped her focus. She could turn off her emotions and put the task at the forefront of her mind.

Tonight she was just tired.

Irish spoke from across the compartment, his voice a low rasp that didn’t get a lot of use. “How many houses?”

Kidder checked his computer. “Five. Single-family. Sounds like a whole cul-de-sac.”

Irish gave a low whistle, but didn’t say anything else.

But she agreed with his assessment. Hannah glanced across at him, found him studying her, and quickly looked away. He smiled, a flash of white in his dusky face. “Looking tired, Blondie.”

Hannah rolled her eyes, then realized it made her look like a petulant sixteen-year-old. She pulled her helmet firmly down on her head and studied the window really hard.

She still couldn’t decide if she liked him. His name wasn’t really Irish, of course, any more than hers was Blondie. He’d joined the station a month ago, showing up three days later than expected because of some paperwork mix-up. His real name—Ronan O’Connor—had been on his locker, and she and the rest of the company had expected a red-haired, freckled kid with an Irish accent, fresh out of fire school.

They hadn’t expected a twenty-six-year-old seasoned firefighter.

They also hadn’t expected a black guy. Not unheard of, but it made him the only one in the firehouse. Jerry Crondall, one of the older guys who killed off his brain cells with cigarettes and liquor, had taken one look at Ronan O’Connor and said, “Hey, kid, are you what they call Black Irish?”

The new guy had sighed and started unloading his gear. “No, man, I’m just Irish.”

And that had stuck.

He was still looking at her. Hannah glanced over. “What’s your problem?”

Her words were harsher than he deserved, especially since his brown eyes weren’t mocking, just assessing. But she’d learned pretty quick that she needed to take the offensive or risk becoming the station doormat. It didn’t matter that she could run lines or carry O2 tanks or break down a door like the rest of them. Without a penis, she had half the guys in this company thinking she was inferior. Being a sweet little thang would just reinforce it.

She already had to deal with the nickname Blondie.

“Seriously,” Irish said, his voice low. “You look tired.”

Like he knew her at all. “We’re all tired.”

He leaned sideways to call over her shoulder. “Chief. I think Blondie—”

Hannah kicked him right in the shin. “Don’t you dare,” she hissed.

If he said she couldn’t handle another call, she would pull the Halligan bar off the side of the truck and introduce it to his skull.

Irish smiled and held her eyes. “I think Blondie and I should be on search and rescue.”

Chief didn’t even look over his shoulder. “You got it.”

Hannah didn’t say anything. Search and rescue could be easy—if people had gotten the hell out of their houses—or it could be horrible. Like if she had to drag some obese guy down a flight of stairs.

She didn’t know whether to hug Irish for confirming she had another call in her, or to smack him for being such a cocky shit in the first place. He was telling the chief what their assignment should be? What next, running the department?

Just when she was about to zing him with a comeback, she realized they’d turned onto Magothy Beach Road. She could see flames through the trees up ahead, toward the water.

Five houses. Single family. Sounds like the whole cul-de-sac.

Her heart stuttered to a stop.

Then it kicked into action again.

She caught sight of the street sign. Chautauga Court.

“Shit,” she whispered.

Michael.

CHAPTER 3

Michael stopped at the tree line and stared. Chris and Hunter were breathing hard beside him.

Five houses sat around the court. All blazed with fire—except the Merrick house, where no flames were visible, but smoke seemed to seep through the roof. At the others, smoke poured through roofs and flames shot high against the sky. Discordant smoke detectors screeched from each. The sirens coming up from Magothy Beach Road were louder.

Compared to the others, the Merrick house sat like an afterthought in the midst of this inferno. No motion, complete darkness.

Michael couldn’t remember if he’d turned on a light.

He couldn’t move. He couldn’t think. Smoke burned his already abused lungs, but he couldn’t cough. The heat was blistering, even from this distance.

His brain was frozen on his thought from fifteen minutes ago, when he’d been standing right here with Hunter.