Lena Shirakawa swayed in her spot as the unseasonably warm October sun beat down against them. She wiped the beads of sweat from her brow and waited for the models to get into position.She heard them as they approached, filling the quiet beach with rowdy banter. Twelve drop-dead gorgeous firefighters from different stations across the Virginia coast filed into the partitioned section of sand and surf. Her heart raced at the sight of the men in uniform—chiseled, well muscled, and confident.
“Where do you want them?”
Lena snapped her mouth closed as her assistant waved a handkerchief in her face.
“I wasn’t drooling,” she told Hallie, aware of the indignant tone in her voice.
“It’s for your forehead. You’re sweating … but now that you mention it—”
“Shut it, Hal.”
Hallie laughed as she gathered a reflector and started her stroll toward the group.
“Can you line them up by month? I want a few shots of all of them and then we’ll go down the line, January through December.”
“Any particular poses?”
Lena shook her head and snickered as her gaze fell to the table of props. A few axes, a coiled fire hose, rope, chains, and a bottle of baby oil covered the surface of the table. This was going to be fun. She counted the men as Hallie lined them up and stopped short at eleven.
“Hal? There’s one missing. And where’s my truck? I was told we’d have a truck and that I’d get real flames to work with.”
Hallie nodded. “The truck is on the way, along with Mr. December . . . Michael Oliver.” She nodded to the pile of driftwood stacked about twenty yards down the beach. “There’s your fire.”
Lena cocked an eyebrow and smirked. “I trained you right, didn’t I?”
Hallie chuckled and continued positioning firefighters which turned out to be more difficult than it seemed. They were loud, boisterous, and Lena couldn’t stop herself from snapping candid shots as they teased and flirted with her assistant.
Six of the men were from Station 31, Golden Beach’s local firehouse. She knew most of them by reputation alone, and one due to a mistake she’d made a year earlier.
“Okay, fellas. Line up. Backs to the waves, if you please. Let’s go ahead and get your shirts off.” Hallie directed them without batting an eye and Lena just stood back and watched.
She started plotting the next few hours in her head, planning for the best poses, but lost her focus as bare chests, tattoos, and washboard abdominals came into view.
Stop it. You are a professional. Ogling is not okay.
She snatched the bottle of baby oil and tossed it at Hallie with a wink.
“Glistening,” Lena instructed.
“Some days this job sucks. Today is not one of them.”
As Hallie offered oil to each of the guys, Lena turned her back, organizing her thoughts and planning the shoot. The waves crashed behind them, and the sun hung low in the sky. All she needed was the damn fire truck and Mr. December.
The sound of a siren broke through the chatter. Engine 31 rolled down the beach, lights flashing, and Lena rolled her eyes.
Michael parked the truck and jumped down from the driver’s seat, a wide grin on his perfect face.
“Damn. That man is beautiful.” Hallie’s breathy whisper echoed Lena’s own feelings. He was beautiful. Pouty lips, a chiseled jawline, gentle eyes graced with soft laugh lines. She knew what those lips felt like . . . everywhere.
“Physical perfection. Too bad he’s only pretty on the outside,” Lena muttered.
“I don’t know. Might be worth it.”
Lena offered a light shrug and walked over to inspect the truck.
“Freshly waxed just for you.” Michael’s deep baritone drew a layer of arousal over her body.
“Good. You’re late,” she snapped.
“You’re welcome.”
She eyed him, trying to get past the jaw-dropping good looks and focus on the reason she was here—a calendar for charity.
“Shirt off, please,” she ordered. “Let’s see what we’ve got to work with.”
That had been a bad choice. He stripped off his thin, blue t-shirt and tossed it at her. It smelled of leather and something spicy. She had to force herself not to bring the fabric to her nose and inhale deeply.
“Do I get your stamp of approval?” He cocked an eyebrow and smirked at her as he flexed his chest.
She had to clear her throat before she could get her voice to cooperate, then she shrugged.
“You’ll do,” she threw over her shoulder as she walked away, gripping her camera tightly and trying to control the shaking of her fingers.
After a few deep, calming breaths, she got past the sparks of attraction she felt for Michael, and the shoot fell into place. At the end of the night all that remained were the embers of the bonfire and three firefighters, including Michael. They sat around the dying fire, talking and watching the waves.
“Should we leave?” Hallie asked under her breath.
Lena shrugged as she continued packing up. Donovan Miller, the newest firefighter at the station, had already taken the truck and borrowed props back to the firehouse. All that was left to do was make sure the flames were extinguished and load the table in the back of her van.
She tipped the table on its back and started collapsing the legs while Hallie carted a bag up the path to the parking lot. Struggling to gain traction in the sand, Lena lifted the long rectangle at one end and began to pull.
“Let me help you with that, princess.” Michael’s voice sent warm tingles down her spine.
He grabbed the other end of the table and lifted it with ease, grinning as he followed her lead and they made their way to the waiting van.
Hallie snickered and cast her a knowing glance as she passed the pair on her way back to the beach. “I’ll get the boys to help me put out the fire. You don’t need to hang around on my account, L.”
She could practically feel his broad smile behind her and she shook her head, fighting a laugh.
The idea of a night or two tangled in the sheets with a gorgeous man sounded exactly like what she needed. Unfortunately for Michael, she wasn’t willing to give him the satisfaction of adding her notch to his bedpost—again.
As he helped her load the table he brushed his fingers along the exposed skin of her shoulder. She fought off an involuntary shiver, pushing the door closed and turning to face him.
“So, are we doing this?” His tone was confident as he closed the distance between their bodies—his hips touching hers.
A wave of need crested over her. It was all she could do to wait for it to recede.
“Not tonight.” She could barely manage a whisper.
His lips turned down in a playful pout but instead of backing away, he pressed closer, one hand on either side of her face.
L.A. Fiore is the author of several books including Beautifully Damaged, Collecting the Pieces and His Light in the Dark. Her favorite movie is Star Wars, a love her son shares. They hope to build their own Millennium Falcon one day. She would like to meet the Winchester Boys to thank them for enlightening her on the versatility of salt as not just a food enhancer, but as protection from supernatural threats. And she thinks it would be interesting to be a zombie, to get an idea of what life is like as a brain-addicted fiend so she can be their voice to tell their side of the story. She lives in Pennsylvania with her husband and kids, their two spoiled cats and their awesome dog.
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Damian Tate. One look into his sad green eyes and I was hooked. I wanted to be the one to make him laugh, to make him smile. I hadn’t expected him to be the one to make me blush, to make me hot…to make me fall in love. He was my first kiss, my first love, my first everything. I wanted forever with him, but life got in the way.
Clarke aka Mary Ting resides in Southern California with her husband and two children. She enjoys oil painting and making jewelry. Writing her first novel, Crossroads Saga, happened by chance. It was a way to grieve the death of her beloved grandmother, and inspired by a dream she once had as a young girl. When she started reading new adult novels, she fell in love with the genre. It was the reason she had to write one-Something Great. Why the pen name, M Clarke? She tours with Magic Johnson Foundation to promote literacy and her children’s chapter book-No Bullies Allowed.
Wall Street Journal best selling author Ilsa Madden-Mills writes about strong heroines and sexy alpha males that sometimes you just want to slap.
Born and raised in Savannah, Georgia, Aly Martinez is a stay-at-home mom to four crazy kids under the age of five- including a set of twins. Currently living in South Carolina, she passes what little free time she has reading anything and everything she can get her hands on, preferably with a glass of wine at her side.
The Sassy Bookista 
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