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West glanced over at Lane, who was wearing his neutral
I'm a cop
face. It was also really close to his irritating
I'm your big brother so you have to listen to me or else
face. Both sucked. “How are you involved in this?”

“When prevention can't make it, they call in the sheriff's department.” Lane sent him a look, one that said he should know this. Maybe West did, maybe he didn't. It still felt good to question Lane, which was stupid. He really needed to get rid of this big brother–shaped chip on his shoulder.

“So have there been any fires so far this year?” West asked.

“We think that vegetation fire yesterday was related,” Lane stated, but West shook his head emphatically.

“No way. That's impossible. I was there, first on scene. Simple fire started by a hot car engine.”

“It flared back up,” Tate said, his tone and expression grim. “Last night, when you were on the call with that truck that rolled off the side of the road, the call went out and we responded. There was no reason for that fire to start again. None. Luckily enough someone who lived on the road was driving home and spotted it. Otherwise, it could've grown quickly and done some major damage.”

West silently agreed. They'd put the fire out fast. The burned hulk of metal that used to be a car was towed out of the field within the hour. The mop-up had been simple and quick. Fire out. Case closed.

“We found the same accelerant as from the ones last summer. They're using paint thinner,” Lane added. “Someone went back out there and purposely set another fire to make it look like the old fire had flared back up. It was pretty easy to figure out when we went back to the scene.”

None of them said another word, but West would bet money they were all thinking the same thing. So many arsonists were volunteers. Frustrated men and women who wanted to be firefighters but couldn't get hired on at a department no matter how hard they tried. So they lit the fires and were first on the scene, trying to look like heroes. In a few instances, some arsonists were also firefighters, captains, whatever. Hell, there was that one guy who was an actual arson investigator and had lit up all of Southern California for years. Once he was arrested and tossed in jail, the fires in the area reduced dramatically.

“Could it be . . . one of us?” West asked hesitantly. “Not one of
us
specifically, but you know what I mean.”

“We've thought about it,” Tate said, “though we haven't questioned anyone yet. Hell, we haven't even announced our suspicions. No media outlets have been notified. No one knows. We were hoping to solve the problem quickly, but I think we're going to have to take this public. Before it gets out of hand.” Tate sighed, looking frustrated. “But for right now, we need you to keep this strictly confidential.”

“No one else can know,” Lane emphasized. “We're only telling you because I told Tate we could trust you.”

“Gee, thanks,” West muttered sarcastically, causing Lane to glare at him.

“You know what I mean,” Lane said, shaking his head, completely irritated. West always knew just how to get under his brother's skin. “Just keep an eye out. If you see anything let one of us know. But remember, we also need your silence.”

“I don't know if my silence will matter much, considering people are talking.” At their frowns, West continued, “Someone from my crew mentioned it to me earlier.”

“We'll have to tell them something eventually, but for now, let's keep it quiet,” Lane said, his voice grim.

“A lot to heap on you at the end of your first shift here,” Tate said with a faint smile.

“Technically it's not my first shift here,” West said. They talked like he was some sort of idiot. “I was stationed here my first season as a firefighter.” And he didn't want Tate to forget it. He may be the captain, but West had been here first. He was the one with Wildwood in his blood. No matter how much he tried to deny it, it was true. He was born and raised here. This town belonged to him. And now someone threatened it.

Even though he didn't work in prevention, he would do his damnedest to help figure out who that person was. Whatever it took.

H
IS EARLIER PLAN
of sleeping most of the day away went to shit after his meeting with Lane and Tate. They both pulled the asshole
we're more in charge than you
attitude on him after they were finished discussing the supposed arsonist. Their matching behavior had irritated West so much he'd bailed on the station quick, hightailing it back to his place, where he ended up sprawled across the couch, TV remote in hand as he watched a bunch of bullshit daytime television.

That stuff was the worst.

But he did stumble upon a documentary on one of those crime channels about, of all things, an arsonist. A young guy who tried to burn up most of the industrial buildings in a Washington town back in the nineties. West had watched the entire show with interest, paying attention to the behavior of the arsonist, even taking notes on the reasons behind it. The psychologist's conclusions?

The dude had daddy issues.

What a bunch of shit.

West dozed on the couch, his sleep fitful, as the living room grew warmer and warmer with the early summer sun shining hot and intense outside. But he was too lazy to get up and turn on the air conditioner. He needed to take a shower. Harper was coming over tonight and he wanted to look his best . . .

Springing into a sitting position, West scrubbed his hair back, glancing around for his phone. He found it, and checked the time, realizing quickly that most of the afternoon had gone by. Shit, he had to take a shower, figure out what the hell he was going to wear. He wanted to look good but not like he'd tried too hard.

Why did he care so much what he was wearing for his meeting tonight with Harper anyway? Had he turned into a girl over the last twenty-four hours? He reminded himself of Wren—meaning that he was being freaking ridiculous.

Still, maybe he could take Harper out to dinner afterward. If they went somewhere in Wildwood though, that might be a mistake. Like waving a red banner for everyone in town to see: he and Harper were out on an actual date. He could hear the locals now.

Hmm. That's moving pretty fast, especially for Harper Hill. And so soon after her breakup with poor, lonely Roger? How could she?

Oh yeah, Wildwood residents would have a field day over that one.

Scratch any dinner plans then. They'd either have to order in or he'd have to make her something, and the last thing he wanted to do was cook.

His mom had called earlier, asking if he wanted to come over for dinner, but he'd declined. Her disappointment was palpable, even over the phone, though she really didn't say much. And of course, he'd ended up feeling guilty. He knew his mom wanted to reconnect—his dad, he wasn't so sure, but Mom, most definitely. And he wanted to reconnect too. It was just so damn hard. He still harbored some resentment. Some worry.

Some fears.

That they wouldn't accept him, that his father would give him endless shit like usual, comparing him with his brothers like he loved to do. That was the last thing he needed.

Irritated with himself, West ran up the stairs two at a time and nearly stumbled on the top step like a dumbass. He then headed into the bathroom and practically tore the towel rack off the wall as he pulled the thick gray towel off so he could throw it over the shower door. If he kept this up, the condo would crumble around his ears. No wonder Rebecca Hill had given him such a good deal on the rent in exchange for fixing the place up.

The place desperately needed some quality TLC.

He took a shower, scrubbed himself clean as fast as possible, his phone sitting on the edge of the counter, mocking him with its silence. He burst from the steamy shower the moment he turned off the water, dripping all over the tile floor as he grabbed his phone to check the time and see if he'd received a message yet.

Ten after five and zero messages.

He plucked a brand-new razor from its packaging, lathered up his face, and shaved. He'd slapped enough aftershave on his cheeks to know they felt baby soft and smooth. He combed his hair, wondered if he should get a haircut or leave it alone for now. Saw a wrinkle beside his right eye and proceeded to examine it for way too long.

Still there was no text from Harper.

West brushed his teeth and flossed—his dentist would probably faint from glee at seeing him do this. He swished a capful of mouthwash, wincing and grimacing, almost sputtering when he finally spit it out. He rubbed a hand across his chest and wondered if he should shave the hair off there. Or maybe get it waxed?

A shudder moved through him. He'd seen
The 40-Year-Old Virgin
. No way was he getting that shit waxed. Some women seemed to prefer the smooth look, but if Harper did? Tough shit. He wasn't shaving the hair off his chest or belly for a woman, not even one as pretty and delicious as Harper Hill.

And now he'd moved into full-on ridiculousness mode. Considering waxing his fucking chest, for the love of God. Staring at his reflection in the mirror and contemplating every single flaw he currently had. He'd straight up lost his damn mind. All over a girl.

A very special girl, he could admit, but still.

A special and increasingly annoying girl who still hadn't texted him. It was driving him crazy.

He grabbed a pair of black boxer briefs but didn't slip them on yet. He was letting the boys air out first after a particularly hot shower. Naked, he went through his meager belongings, dismissing every single thing he owned. Finally he threw on a pair of khaki cargo shorts and a black T-shirt. He was putting too much thought into this and he never did that. Keeping it simple was the name of the game.

West needed to remember that. When Harper arrived—and she would arrive, he knew this—he needed to act cool and calm. Composed. Behaving like an antsy, unsure idiot wasn't the way to keep Harper's interest.

Not by a long shot.

His phone buzzed. He heard the vibration send the iPhone jittering across the tiled bathroom countertop. Grabbing it, he was glad when he saw the unknown number, the words that accompanied it.

So. I'm done with work and I'm completely filthy. Do you mind if I take a shower first before I come over?

West fought the weird feeling washing over him. The one that was utter relief combined with—was that happiness?
Giddiness?
He didn't do giddy. He was a man, for the love of God. Men didn't get giddy.

I approve of filthy.

The moment he sent the text he worried. Would she be offended by his remark? He always remembered Harper having a pretty easygoing nature and a sharp sense of humor but he didn't want to upset her. Not when he was trying to work his way back in her good graces.

You would, you big perv. ☺

More relief flooded him.

Take your shower. Text me before you leave your house.

A few minutes ticked by and he was suddenly nervous. It was so insane he felt that way, about Harper of all people. But she'd always managed to get under his skin.

I'm staying at my grandma's. It'll take me five minutes to get to your place. If that.

He didn't want to appear too anxious, but . . . he wanted her here. Now.

Text me when you leave your grandma's house anyway. Just so I know.

Will do. ☺

She liked emojis. Smiley faces. He liked that about her. There were a lot of things he liked about Harper. Many things that had kept him up at night since his return to Wildwood. Hell, if he was being truthful with himself, he'd thought about her a lot even when he hadn't been in Wildwood. The one night they'd shared hadn't been enough. Not be a long shot.

So what he was going to do with all those old memories and current thoughts, dirty ones and all? That he wasn't so sure of.

T
HE DOOR SWUNG
open within seconds of Harper knocking on it, her hand still hovering in the air. West stood in the doorway, looking fresh and clean and stupid gorgeous in a pair of cargo shorts and a black T-shirt that stretched across his broad chest in the most fascinating way.

Harper took a step back, needing the space.
Oh, boy.
How was she going to concentrate on not throwing herself at him when he looked like that?

“Hey.” He smiled, looking completely at ease and comfortable in his skin. How she envied that. She was nothing but restless energy and a bundle of nerves. “Glad you made it.”

West held the door open wider and she walked inside, the familiar smell of her former home now filled with the unbelievably delicious scent that was Weston Gallagher. As discreetly as possible she inhaled, keeping her back to him as he closed the door.

Soap. Man. Spicy. Clean. He was her new favorite fragrance.

“Tough day at work?” he asked, stopping directly beside her.

She glanced up at him, appreciating the fact that he was so tall. Roger was average height. Most of the guys she'd dated weren't especially tall. But West towered over her, her head barely meeting his shoulder. He made her feel small. Feminine.

“Brutal,” she said. “I plowed my way through receipts that were dated back to 2004.”

“That's over ten years ago,” he pointed out.

“Wow, you're a mathematician master,” she said with a somber nod, making him laugh.

“Not even close. I failed geometry and had to take summer school as a redo.” He made a face. “Worst summer of my life.”

Harper silently called bullshit on that statement. She'd lived that moment in time, had spent most of her days and nights at the Gallagher house. That was the summer West and Delilah got together. She'd been retaking geometry too and they were in class together, but whatever. No way did Harper want to bring that little fact up.

“I spent most of the afternoon shredding all of those receipts. You don't have to keep them that long for tax purposes, though my grandma sure thought so,” Harper explained.

“I'm guessing you found older receipts too?”

“I haven't found them—yet. But she confirmed they're waiting for me in boxes in a storage unit she has just outside of town.” Harper grimaced and West chuckled again. It was a nice sound, if a bit rusty. She had a feeling he didn't laugh much, and that was a shame.

“Want one of the engines to come in and help you? Start a controlled burn with all those boxes?” he asked. “Might be easier than shredding everything.” Clearly he was joking, but she was tempted to take him up on the offer.

“It would probably get out of control quick, and we can't have that.” She made a little face and he smiled, his gaze warm and making her insides tap dance with giddiness. This felt like flirting and she so didn't want to get her hopes up. But when it came to West, it was like she couldn't help herself.

She needed to focus and stay on task. There was a purpose for her visit tonight and it had nothing to do with flirting. “So. Where are the paint samples?”

West frowned, like he didn't know what she was talking about.

“You know, the reason why you asked me over here in the first place?” she added.

“Right. Yeah.” He turned and went into the kitchen, Harper following after him. A pile of various paint samples from Home Depot sat on the counter and he picked them up, handing them to her. “What's your favorite color?”

“Well, it depends on the room.” She set the pile on the counter and flipped open the first pamphlet to find it featured nothing but varying shades of white. Frowning, she scanned the different-color swatches. Who knew there were this many types of white in the world?

“What do you mean?”

Harper looked up at him, telling herself not to fall for the adorably confused look on his face. She really hated how much she wanted to give in to her West-based urges. “Well, different rooms should be painted different colors. Just because I love sea foam green doesn't mean I want my living room painted sea foam green, you know what I mean?”

His frown deepened. “What the hell is sea foam green?”

He was such a man. She held back the urge to roll her eyes. “A hideous color I don't really like.”

“Then why would you suggest it?”

Sighing, she gathered up the paint samples and took them with her to the tiny kitchen table, where she sat down. “Sorry. Bad example. Come sit with me.”

He did as she asked, pulling his chair right up next to hers, which proved to be completely distracting within seconds. His arm brushed hers as he reached over to grab a sample—the nothing-but-white one—and she could smell him. Feel the warmth emanating from his skin. Hear him shift and move and
breathe
, for the love of God. All simple things. He wasn't trying to drive her out of her mind with lust, but he so was.

And she was ridiculous for feeling this way.

“Well, all the rooms should probably be repainted, but I think your grandma wanted the kitchen worked on first. She mentioned she wanted new appliances, but I think she might want to wait before she makes that purchase,” he explained.

Harper propped her elbow on the table and rested her chin on her fist, listening to him. She could listen to him all night, even when he talked about boring stuff like appliances and repainting. Not that she didn't want to help him, because she definitely did. But he was a total distraction. His deep voice, his gorgeous face, those sexy blue eyes, the way his broad chest was emphasized in that black T-shirt . . .

“So the cabinets are solid, but that oak is just so dark, it looks pretty beat up from years of use. I want to paint them white.” He stared at the array of white samples with a helpless expression. “I thought it would be simple, you know? White is . . . white.”

Hmm, she needed to step in and help him make a decision. She was good at this sort of thing. “Clearly that's not the case.” She reached over and tapped her finger right in the dead center of about twenty white paint options. “I like this.”

West glanced up. “Why's that?”

“I like the name. Café au Lait.” She shrugged when he turned to really look at her, his blue eyes meeting hers. “It's not too bright, not too beige. It's a perfect, subtle shade of warm white.”

“I like the way you think. Done.” He tore the page out of the pamphlet, then proceeded to tear the actual paint sample itself from the page. “How about the kitchen walls?”

And that became their process. She declared a color as her favorite for a particular room and West agreed, no questions asked. He'd make jokes, and she couldn't help but laugh. He asked about people they went to school with, and she filled him in on whatever details she knew, which most of the time were a lot. He was a gracious host who kept asking her if she wanted something to drink until she finally agreed to have a bottled water. When he admitted he was hungry and she agreed, he called in a pizza order. They were waiting for it as he showed her the master bathroom, though she didn't really need a tour of the place.

She had lived here for years, after all.

“The tile has to go,” West said as he flicked on the bathroom light. It was an old rectangular fluorescent unit that hung above the mirror, the light it cast dull and unflattering. If she had her choice, most everything in this room would go. It was all outdated and awful.

Harper stopped just behind him, her upper lip curling as she stared at the hideous brown tile that looked like it had come straight out of the seventies. “I totally agree. Shit brown isn't what I would call a classic color.”

His gaze met hers in the bathroom mirror, his expression mildly incredulous. “Excuse me, but did Harper Hill just say the word
shit
?”

“Stop.” She waved a hand. She'd had a bit of a reputation when she was younger as someone who never, ever cursed. Like ever. She'd been such a good girl back in her teenage years and so proud of it too.

Now she wished she would've gone a little wilder. At least once, just to prove that she could.

“Seriously. You don't say bad words, Harper. I don't know if I've ever heard you say the word
shit
and I've known you a long time.” His face was serious, but she saw the way his eyes sparkled. He was totally teasing her.

“Well, it's been years since we've spent any time together. I've changed a lot, you know,” she pointed out.

His gaze did a slow sweep of her body, lingering on all the spots that made her tingle in anticipation. “I can see that,” he drawled.

In the mirror, her cheeks were pink. Some things never changed—like how she blushed at the drop of a hat. “I curse all the time,” she mumbled.

“For real?” He sounded like he didn't believe her.

“Absolutely.
Shit
is my favorite word.” She lifted her chin, trying to look dignified, but really, she was being an idiot.

This was what she'd been reduced to while in West's presence. She insisted that she loved to say bad words and that
shit
was her favorite.

Could she be any dumber?

“
Shit
is a good word, I have to agree.” He moved closer to her, his long fingers trailing along the edge of the ugly countertop. She remembered exactly what it felt like to have those fingers trailing on her skin and she wanted to experience that again. “But I have other favorites.”

“You do?” Her voice went higher and she cleared her throat, mentally reminding herself to keep her,
ahem
, shit together.

“One in particular.” West turned to face her and all the air lodged in her throat when she saw how dark his eyes had become, how close he was to her now. She should tell him to back off. They were moving too fast. She'd just broken up with her boyfriend, the man she had assumed she was going to marry.

Instead she gripped the edge of the counter with one hand, bracing herself, waiting for something, anything to happen. Hopeful. Always hopeful when it came to West.

“What word is it?” she asked, pleased that her voice didn't come out shaky. She certainly felt shaky, like a fluttering leaf about to get knocked off a branch during the height of fall.

He smiled and stepped closer, a wicked glint in his eyes. “Well. I've always been partial to the word
fu
—”

The doorbell rang, interrupting him, making her jump in surprise. Frustration rippled across his features and he stepped back, running a hand through his hair before he smiled weakly. “Guess that's the pizza. I'll go get it.”

“Do you want some money?” she offered. “I can help . . . ”

The look he sent Harper told her she just affronted his manhood. “Keep your money. It's a ten-dollar pizza.” He exited the bathroom, calling over his shoulder, “Come down and join me. We'll eat at the kitchen table.”

The moment he was headed downstairs she leaned against the counter, resting her hand on her chest, trying her best to calm her racing heart and recover her wits before she went to the kitchen and joined him.

He was definitely being flirty, but why? Was he just a tease? Yes. Yes, she knew that for a fact. So was he leading her along, playing with her because he had nothing better to do? When he'd been younger he'd done that sort of thing all the time with a variety of girls, including at one point, her. He had a bit of a reputation, so if he was trying to uphold it with his return to Wildwood, so far he was doing a great job.

Shaking her head, she stared at her reflection, her gaze stern, a scowl on her face. “Don't fall for him,” she murmured, wagging her index finger at the mirror. “He's dangerous to your well-being.”

Truer words were never spoken.

Too bad she wasn't listening to her own advice.

W
EST TIPPED THE
delivery kid ten bucks and snatched the pizza box from his hands.

“Thanks, mister!” the teenaged boy said just as West slammed the door in his face.

Yeah, that was a jerk move, but he doubted the kid cared. He just scored an easy ten bucks.

West took the pizza into the kitchen and set the box on the counter before he opened the fridge, pulling out two bottles of pale ale. He knew Harper hadn't been much of a beer drinker when they were younger and maybe she wasn't one now either. He could change out her drink. He had other options.

All he knew was
he
needed the beer to loosen up. Just having her close made him incredibly tense. Even doing something as innocent and boring as picking out paint colors. Being with her, listening to her voice, watching her as she nibbled on her lower lip while contemplating paint samples sent a white-hot bolt of lust straight through him. He wanted to touch. Taste. Kiss. Strip.

Fuck.

Breathing deep, he twisted the top off his beer and took a few chugs, then went in search of paper plates and napkins. A little brown paper bag full of Parmesan and red pepper flakes came with the delivery and he pulled out a bottle of ranch dressing from the fridge too, remembering how Harper used to like dunking her pizza in it.

Funny, he hadn't remembered that particular detail until this very moment.

“Oh, it smells amazing.” She walked into the kitchen, coming to a stop when she saw the pizza box on the counter. “DeMarco's? I haven't had that in forever.” It was a Wildwood staple, having been around since West could remember.

“Seriously?” He flipped open the box, his mouth watering as he gazed at the pizza within. Growing up, he'd loved DeMarco's pizza. Would occasionally dream about it over the years, which was insane, but that's how much he missed it once he moved away.

He'd had it twice since he'd returned home. This was his third go-round. If he kept this up he'd be fat as hell and have a permanent case of serious heartburn.