The Heat in Maplewood

In the sleepy, picture-perfect town of Maplewood, there was one immutable law of nature: the Police Department and the Fire Department did not get along. They were housed in a sprawling municipal complex, a brick behemoth split strictly down the middle. The distinct line between the blue side and the red side was invisible, but as solid as a brick wall. The rivalry had festered for so long that the original cause was lost to history, replaced by a tradition of pranks, competition, and grudging respect.

Every autumn, the Maplewood Fall Festival hosted the "Battle of the Badges," an obstacle course designed specifically to test the city’s finest. It was the festival's main event, drawing crowds from three counties over. While the civilians loved the spectacle of public safety, the officers and firefighters took it dead seriously. Losing meant a year of insufferable gloating from the other side of the building.

Because of this, physical fitness wasn't just a job requirement; it was a religion. Both departments shared a central, high-end gym located in the neutral ground between their wings. It was a factory for well-built, finely tuned human machinery, a fact that the single population of Maplewood appreciated immensely.

On a languid, late-summer afternoon, the firefighters had pulled the massive engines onto the apron to wash them. The sun was high, the water was flying, and shirts were rapidly becoming optional.

Officer Jen Shuman and Officer Theresa Orr were leaning against Jen's cruiser, ostensibly on a break, but mostly enjoying the view. They offered the occasional, mandatory heckle, which the firefighters returned with practiced ease.

Jen was a firecracker packed into a five-foot-two frame. In her Kevlar vest and utility belt, she looked like a block of formidable gear, effectively hiding a figure that was nothing short of a distraction. She had curves that wouldn't quit—full hips and a trim waist—but she kept them hidden under loose uniforms. Her most guarded secret, however, was her hair. It was a riot of natural red curls that reached her waist, but on duty, it was gelled, twisted, and tortured into a severe bun. She wanted to be seen as an officer of the law, not a woodland fairy.

Theresa was her opposite in every way. Standing five-ten with a build that claimed Viking ancestry, she was intimidating, blunt, and openly gay. She had a cropped blonde cut, piercing blue eyes, and a reputation that terrified the rookie officers. Management generally left her alone; she was too good at her job and too scary to reprimand about her inter-departmental dating habits.

Together, they were a striking pair. "Mutt and Jeff," the sergeant called them, but never to their faces.

"Check out the new guy," Jen murmured, taking a sip of her iced soda.

Theresa squinted against the glare. "Which one?"

"Lovan. Reese Lovan. By the ladder truck."

Jen didn't need to point. Reese was hard to miss. He was a mountain of a man, easily six-four, with broad shoulders that tapered down to a narrow waist. He had thick brown hair that caught the sunlight and an easy, loping grace as he scrubbed the chrome bumper.

"How tall do you think he is?" Jen asked, her voice dropping an octave.

Theresa smirked, chewing on her straw. "He’s a giant, Jen. He’s got a foot and a half on you. You’d need a step stool just to say hello."

"Hush," Jen said, though she couldn't look away. "I’m just appreciating the tax-payer funded assets."

"You're drooling on your badge," Theresa teased. "Why are we standing in the direct sun again? My vest is turning into a sauna."

"Because the view is better from here," Jen shot back. "Fine, let's go."

Jen pushed off the cruiser, intending to circle around toward the precinct entrance. Theresa stayed put. "What? And leave all this prime man-meat un-harassed?"

Jen turned back, laughing. "I thought you didn't like man-meat. Change of heart?"

Theresa’s eyes suddenly went wide. She pointed a warning finger. "Jen, watch—"

It was too late.

A freezing arc of high-pressure water caught Jen squarely on the thigh, splashing up her side. She gasped, jumping back, her hand instinctively dropping to her belt before she realized it was water, not a weapon.

Two firefighters were doubled over laughing. One was Reese, the new guy. The other was John Haskins, a veteran smoke-eater known for hazing the rookies. He had clearly handed Reese the hose with instructions to initiate the rivalry.

"Real funny, Haskins!" Jen shouted, wiping water from her face. "Careful, old man, don't bust a hip laughing!"

Reese stepped forward, a grin splitting his face. "Aw, don't get mad, darlin'. You looked a little... hot. Thought you needed cooling off."

His voice was a deep, resonant Southern drawl that slid over Jen’s skin like warm honey. It was infuriatingly sexy.

Jen felt the heat rise in her cheeks. It was a rookie mistake to get caught in the spray, but the "darlin'" comment in front of the boys triggered her need to assert dominance. She couldn't let them think the "little lady cop" was an easy target.

"You've got a lot to learn, rookie," Jen warned, stepping into his personal space. "Mess with the police, you get the horns."

Reese looked down at her. He seemed genuinely amused, his green eyes twinkling. He hadn't meant any harm; he just wanted an excuse to talk to the redhead with the fierce attitude.

"I didn't mean to offend," Reese said, his voice dropping so only she could hear. " tell you what. I'm on duty alone tonight at the station. Why don't you stop by? I can help you with your... uniform. Make sure it dries out straight."

It was a bold, arrogant, and incredibly tempting offer. Jen felt a flush that had nothing to do with the summer heat. Furious at her own reaction, she smiled—a sharp, dangerous thing.

"Is that right?" she purred.

She reached out, taking his large hand in hers as if to shake it. Reese relaxed.

In a blur of motion, Jen twisted her wrist and dug her thumb into a pressure point at the base of his thumb. Reese’s knees buckled. He hit the pavement with a grunt, the strength instantly drained from his arm.

Jen leaned down, her face inches from his. "Don't mess with me, sweetheart," she whispered into his ear. "I can drop you anytime I want. And as for your offer? Stuff it."

She released him, spun on her heel, and marched to her car.

Behind her, Theresa was cackling. "That," the blonde shouted to Reese, who was shaking out his hand and looking stunned, "is why you don't poke the bear, fellas!"

Reese watched Jen’s SUV peel out of the lot. He was rubbing his hand, but the grin was back, wider than before.

"Damn," he muttered to Haskins. "She's magnificent."

Hours later, Jen stepped out of her shower at home, the steam clinging to the mirror. She toweled off aggressively, annoyed that the memory of green eyes and a Southern drawl was still taking up space in her head.

She caught her reflection. Without the bulky uniform, the "short stack" looked different. Her skin was creamy and unblemished, her breasts full and high. She turned, inspecting her hips. A little wider than she liked, but she was strong.

She brushed out her damp hair. It fell in heavy, copper ringlets down her back, wild and untamed. She looked like a different person—softer, mystical. She hated it. It made her look vulnerable.

With a sigh of resignation, she twisted the mass of curls up, anchoring it with heavy-duty pins until her scalp felt tight. Armor on.

She threw on jeans and a tight t-shirt, grabbed her keys, and headed out. Her fridge was empty, and her mood was restless.

Twenty minutes later, she was sitting in her SUV in the dark parking lot behind the Water Department building. The smell of pepperoni and mushrooms filled the cab. On the passenger seat sat a large pizza from Mama May’s—the best in town.

"You are pathetic," she told herself. "He mocked you. He’s a fireman. He’s arrogant."

He has eyes that could melt steel, a traitorous voice whispered back.

She groaned, grabbed the pizza box and a six-pack of soda, and slipped out of the truck. She skirted the edge of the building, avoiding the security cameras, and approached the back door of the fire station.

The garage was quiet, the massive trucks sleeping giants in the dark. She could hear the faint murmur of a television from the living quarters. She hesitated at the door, her heart hammering a rhythm against her ribs.

She gave the door a sharp kick.

The TV muted. Heavy footsteps approached. The door swung open, and Reese filled the frame. He was wearing grey sweatpants and a t-shirt that strained across his chest.

He looked down, surprised, then delighted. "Well, well. What is that heavenly smell? Mama May's?"

Jen shoved the box at his chest, scowling to hide her nerves. "Double pepperoni. Don't make a big deal out of it. I was hungry."

Reese took the box, stepping back to let her in. "Come on in, Officer. I promise not to spray you with anything."

Jen walked into the "Red Side." It was the first time she’d been in the firemen’s living quarters. It was exactly as she imagined: oversized leather furniture, a massive flat-screen TV, and the faint scent of diesel and chili. It was a man cave.

"Have a seat," Reese said, gesturing to the sprawling sectional. "I'll grab plates. Fair warning, we're out of the good china."

Jen sat in the corner of the couch, kicking off her clogs and pulling her legs up under her, creating a defensive ball. Reese returned with plastic plates and paper towels.

"Peace offering?" he asked, sitting a respectable distance away, though his presence seemed to shrink the large room.

"Something like that," she muttered, taking a slice.

They ate in silence for a few minutes, watching a rerun of a sitcom. The tension was there, but the pizza helped. Grease and cheese were the great equalizers.

Slowly, the atmosphere shifted from awkward to companionable. They argued over the plot holes in the show. They debated the best pizza toppings. Reese made her laugh—a real, belly laugh that she rarely let out at work.

Jen didn't notice when the distance between them closed. She stretched her legs out, relaxed by the food and the low light. Her feet were near his thigh.

Without asking, Reese reached out and took one of her feet into his lap.

Jen froze. "What are you doing?"

"You're on your feet all day in those heavy boots," he said simply, his thumbs digging into her arch. "Hush."

He didn't make it weird. He just rubbed. And oh, God, it felt incredible. His hands were large, warm, and calloused, working out knots she didn't know she had. Jen felt her eyelids drooping. A low hum of pleasure vibrated in her chest.

He moved to the other foot, then back to the first, his hands gliding up to her ankle. Then higher. His palm was warm against her calf, sliding under the denim of her jeans.

The air in the room suddenly grew heavy. Jen’s breath hitched.

Reese looked at her. The playful glint was gone, replaced by a dark, hungry intensity. He gave a gentle tug on her leg, pulling her sliding across the leather until her hip bumped against his.

"You're tense," he murmured.

Jen tried to scramble up, panicked by the sudden proximity, but in the scuffle, her head bumped the armrest. The pins, already loosened by the relaxation, gave way.

Her hair tumbled down.

It cascaded over her shoulders, a wave of dark red silk. Reese froze. He reached out, not to hold her down, but to catch the falling strands.

"Wow," he breathed.

Jen flinched, trying to gather it up. "Don't look at it. It's a mess."

"Jen," Reese said, his voice rough. He caught her wrists gently, stopping her. "Stop."

He used his free hand to comb through the curls, spreading them out over her shoulders. "I knew you were hiding something in that bun, but... damn. You look like a painting. Why do you hide this?"

Jen stopped fighting. She looked at him, feeling exposed in a way that had nothing to do with nakedness. "Because I'm five-foot-nothing," she whispered. "Because if I look like a girl, they don't respect the badge. I have to be tough."

"You are tough," Reese said firmly. "I'm twice your size and you put me on my knees in a parking lot. You don't have to prove anything to me."

He wrapped a curl around his finger, tugging her gently closer. "You're beautiful. You're terrifying. And I have wanted to do this since you threatened to kick my ass this afternoon."

He cupped her face, his thumb tracing her lower lip. Jen melted. The fight drained out of her, replaced by a liquid heat that pooled low in her belly.

She leaned in, and he met her halfway.

His lips were soft, surprisingly gentle for such a big man. He tasted like soda and spice. He kissed the corner of her mouth, her jaw, the sensitive spot below her ear. Jen whimpered, clutching his t-shirt.

"Kiss me," she demanded.

Reese groaned and covered her mouth with his. This time, it wasn't gentle. It was possessive. His tongue swept into her mouth, claiming her. Jen felt small in his arms, but powerful, knowing she was the reason this giant of a man was trembling.

His hand left her face and swept down her side, tracing the curve of her waist, the flare of her hip. It settled on her thigh, squeezing firmly.

Jen arched into him, the friction of denim on denim sending sparks through her nerves. She felt his hand slide under the hem of her t-shirt, his skin hot against her ribs.

"Reese," she gasped, breaking the kiss for air.

"I've got you," he growled against her neck, his hand moving higher, seeking the warmth of her skin. "I've got you."