Plain Jane and The Hotshot

“I see.”

He shrugged one shoulder. When he replied, his tone wasn’t quite so friendly. “No need to get all gushy with forgiveness.”

Her cheeks heated. “Look, don’t worry about it, Mr. Kramer—”

“I only came over to make conversation—”

“Actually,” she challenged, leveling him a cool stare, “I don’t think you’re interested in conversation.”

“I give as good as I get,” he defended himself, his tone taking on a scalpel edge. “I s’pose you’re a scrubbed angel?”

“More scrubbed than you,” she returned, giving his soot-smudged face a once-over.

He stopped. Then as if suddenly finding the humor in her words, he tipped back his head and laughed. White, even teeth sparkled.

She found herself wanting to laugh, also, or at least smile. But instinct told her it would only lead her down the path to attraction, and then, destruction.

“Look, apology accepted, Mr. Kramer,” she finished, dismissing him.

“You give every man that go-to-hell look?”

She glanced at him and must have given him another one, judging from the sneer on his face.

“Sorry I’m not some sober-suited, country-club accountant who never gets his hands dirty. I admit I haven’t shaved in a while. I sleep in a tent and bathe in rivers, but it’s hard work fighting a fire. And I didn’t expect to meet some woman—”

She finally turned around and faced him.

His mouth formed a tight defensive line. His eyes were wary.

“Please don’t think I don’t appreciate your sacrifice,” she said. “Many would be unable to fulfill even your smallest of tasks to fight a wildfire. However, Mr. Kramer, this is a fishing hole, not a watering hole. If I wanted to meet a big strong man like you, I’d have gone to a bar, not gone camping.”