Pete headed straight back to the kitchen and turned on that light too.
He put the pizza down on the Formica table she’d picked up at the Goodwill. Table and four chairs for twenty bucks. Paid for in full.
She put the Cokes down on the table. “You going to walk Gage to the door for safety, too?”
Strangely, he didn’t smile. “No,” he said quietly.
He stood so close she could just reach out and touch him, just lightly run her hand down his chest.
She felt it then, the tug of longing, the game suddenly crashing down between them. The darkness of the hour folding in, inviting her to take a chance.
Teammates. They’d been dancing around that word for months now and—
“Jess.”
His soft, low voice just sort of slid into her, around her, and she caught her breath. Oh shoot—if she looked up at him, she knew he’d see it, no more acting. All her emotions right there on her face.
He took a breath too and took a step toward her.
His hands fell on her shoulders.
She closed her eyes, lifted her face.
He was going to kiss her. She could feel it in the simmer between them as he stood there. And she was going to let him.
No, she was going to kiss him back.
“I need to ask you something.”
She opened her eyes. Swallowed. Met his beautiful eyes with an imperceptible nod. Yes, Pete, you can kiss—
“I think I’m going to apply for incident commander for the PEAK team.”
She blinked at him.
“And I was wondering if”—he drew in a breath, his face solemn—“you might help me write a résumé. It’s required, and I wasn’t so great in school.”
He walked over to the pizza, leaving her standing there, the heat of his hands still on her shoulders.
“Résumé?”
He dug out another piece of pizza and leaned against her table, looking so relaxed, his blue eyes innocent and easy, as if he hadn’t just tilted her world off its axis. “I’ve never done one—just sort of worked odd jobs, and then I was a smoke jumper, so I didn’t have to. The Forest Service kept us pretty busy, even in the off season. But I need a real job. Not just working for my uncle down at the lumberyard, but something I’m good at.”
He was serious. And being strangely sheepish about it, with his furtive looks and wry smile.
“Yeah. Of course,” she said, her voice rebounding. “I think it’s a good idea.”
“You do?”
His question rocked her, as if he actually needed her input. Or approval.
She wanted to retrieve her own piece of pizza, but probably it wouldn’t make it through the knots in her stomach. She plastered on a smile, shrugged. “Yeah. Of course. You’re a quick thinker, and you always know what to do. I think you’d make a great IC. I mean, your brother would probably have to hire you, but that’s no problem, right?”
Pete looked away, his jaw tight. “Shoot. You’re right.” He tossed the pizza in the box. “I gotta go.”
Oh. “Pete—”
“I’ll come back in the morning, see if we can knock out that second layer of paint.”
She frowned at him, but he flashed his killer smile, reached out, and touched her chin. “Only you, Speedy, would paint a bathroom purple.” He kissed her forehead. “Thanks for saving my hide from the grizzly tonight.”
And then he left her there, closing the door behind him.
Anytime, Pete. Anytime.
3
IT FELT DOWNRIGHT SINFUL that the search committee for the new youth pastor should meet in the back room of the Summit Café at lunchtime, on a Friday afternoon.
During Willow’s shift.
In her area.
It was probably God’s punishment for her betrayal of Sierra. Not that God was vindictive, Willow knew that. But she’d been walking around with the memory of kissing Sam in her heart for a week now—a sharp-edged burr that stung every time she looked at Sierra.
Willow deserved a little punishment, and would take it with a smile. Even if it nearly dismantled her watching her dream job being handed over right before her eyes to a twenty-year-old preppy Bible school youngster in blue jeans rolled up at the ankles, a printed black T-shirt, and suit jacket. He had such a baby face he could double for Justin Bieber. He drank a caramel latte as he talked about his plans for the youth program—to start a Bible certificate program and a youth choir.
She put his Reuben sandwich in front of him, then looked at the gathering around the table, doing a quick appraisal.
Grilled cheese and tomato soup for Pastor Hayes, a pastrami on rye for Nora Webster, the associate pastor’s wife, and a chicken salad sandwich for Chet King—he looked up and smiled at her. At least she had one friendly face in the crowd.