Clutching my book to my chest, I nearly lose all ability to speak as David approaches me. Wearing sneakers, a pair of khaki cargo shorts and a navy blue fire department t-shirt, he looks young and carefree—and freaking hot. His dark brown hair flops across his forehead so that he has to swipe it out of the way as he steps in front of me.

“Hi,” I croak, but it comes out more like a question.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he rocks on his heels. Nervousness pulsates in the small space between us, and crazily, I bask in the knowledge that it’s not just me who’s nervous. “Hey,” he mumbles the single word, somehow magically easing my nerves.

“I thought I gave you my phone number? Not my address.” Arching an eyebrow at him, I seem to get a grasp on my ability to speak.

Shyness washes over his face for a second and I catch a glimpse of the young boy I used to know. He’s there in the sparkling eyes and lopsided smile, but in so many ways, he’s not. This is clearly the older, more masculine, and self-assured version of the kid I once knew.

After pulling the piece of paper on which I wrote my number out of his pocket, he unfolds it and hands it to me. “You did, but”—he wraps his hand around mine, turning the paper over so I can see the backside—“you wrote it on the back of a library return receipt. They had your address printed on it, so I figured I’d take a chance and stop by.”

As my eyes scan over the receipt, my neck and cheeks heat, a furious river of red shading my skin. With as much quickness as I can muster without looking overly suspicious, I crumple the paper and shove it into my pocket.

“So how was it?” David asks, a smug smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He’s trying to stifle a laugh, but he’s failing miserably at it.

“What?” I play dumb, though I have a fairly good idea of what he’s getting at.

“I’ve never read Rescued from the Flames. You’ll have to give me the short version,” he jokes. Pulling my newest find closer to my body, I pray to God he doesn’t catch the title of this one.

“And I was going to invite you up?” I brush past him, attempting to make him feel at least a little guilty for making me blush like that. It’s really my own fault, but I want to dish out my fair share of kidding around, too.

Except, rather than simply laughing with me, or nicely asking me to wait, he gently reaches out for my arm. His voice, thick and rich like melted chocolate, washes over me as his warm fingers send a river of goose bumps across my skin. “Gracie, wait.”

Spinning back toward him too quickly nearly makes me topple over. Coordination has never been my strong suit—and that’s on a good day. Forget that there’s a sexy-as-sin man standing before me, begging for me to stay and talk to him—yeah, that was a battle with remaining upright I was bound to lose.

Silently, he pulls me over to the steps. We sit next to each other, the summer sun radiating off the blacktop in front of us, sounds of the city breaking what might be an awkward silence. Playfully, he nudges my knee with his. “So it’s really you then?” he asks. His tone has lost the guardedness with which he spoke the other day in front of the fire house. It takes me a second to figure out how he’s pieced me together for certain and then I realize how.

“The library receipt?”

He nods and we share a light laugh at what that silly slip of paper confessed to him.

Nudging me once again, an impish grin dances across his face. “You grew up nice, Gracie,” he admits, his voice thick with something I can’t exactly place.

Genuine male appreciation? That internal question has me rolling my eyes at myself.

He mistakes the eye roll for me not believing his words and he pulls his knee away from mine. Immediately regretting my self-deprecation, I’m at a loss for a recovery. “I’m sorry. Did I say something wrong?” he asks, treading carefully.

“No, it’s just that I’m not that girl.” The rest of what would be my explanation gets stuck in my throat. I want to say I’m not the girl who gets the compliments, who gets the attention of gorgeous men.

Since I don’t clarify what I mean, he shoots me a perplexed look. His shoulders sag and he says, “Then I guess I’ve got the wrong person.”

As he moves to leave, my nerves shoot my mouth into action. Well, a long rant-like string of nonsense that at least keeps him from leaving. “No, that’s not what I mean . . . Ugh, it’s just . . . never mind.”

The loud blare of a passing taxi honking at a bike messenger makes me jump in my seat, but luckily, it breaks the weird spell settling around us. Opting for goofiness, my usual cover for when things get uncomfortable, I stand before him. Extending my hand, I straighten my back and say, with as much formality as I can pull off without laughing my ass off, “I’m Grace McCann. It’s nice to meet you. And your name?” I ask, though I have to chew on my lip to keep the laughter at bay.

“David Andrews.” He pumps my hand, not holding back simply because I’m a girl. The firm grip of his fingers around mine sends tingles across my body. “Funny story,” he jokes, obviously picking up on my intent to make light of the unusual circumstances of our reintroduction. “I used to know a Grace McCann, but I used to call her Gracie. She lived next door to me when I was a kid.”

“You don’t say.” Covering my mouth with my free hand, dramatically, I gasp at the coincidence. This of course forces him to have to stifle his laughter.

“I even rescued her from a fire one night.” Sobered by the tone of his words, I drop my hand from my mouth, but he catches it mid-fall in his other hand. “And then she was gone. Moved away and I never saw her again. Been waiting eighteen years to tell her thank you.”

“Thank you?” The sincerity of his words makes my knees weak. He senses it and eases us both back down to the steps. “It seems like she should be the one doing the thanking.”

“Probably.” He smirks at me. “But without her, I never would have gone into this line of work, so really it’s her I’m grateful for.”

“Oh,” is all I can manage at his admission.

Abruptly, he stands before me. “But since you’re not my Gracie, I guess I’ll be on my way.” He turns his back on me and starts to walk away.

With a trembling in my voice that I wish wasn’t there, I call out, “I am your Gracie.”

When he spins back around, his lips are pulled into a full smile—a smug and beautiful smile. Hanging my head in my hands, I laugh at my little outburst. David laughs with me as he pries my hands away from my face.

“You know, I thought that was you,” he continues to joke and I smack him ruefully on the chest—his rock hard, slab-of-stone chest. As if they’re acting on their own volition, my fingers flex where they’ve settled on his right pec. A force of magnetism must be acting between us because I can’t pull it away—not that I try all that hard.

“Want to come up for some coffee?” I ask, hoping to spend just a little more time with him.

“Coffee?” he arches an eyebrow, as one side of his lips pulls up.

My eyes roll skyward. “Yes, coffee. And no that’s not code for sex.” He chokes on his own laughter as I call his bluff.

Not even bothering to wait for a response, I pull my keys out of my bag and walk in front of him. Walking up the small flight of stairs to the main entryway, I can feel his heat at my back.

When we step into the elevator, I press the button for my floor. His eyes scan the small enclosure, reaching into all four corners before settling on the fire inspection certificate behind the flimsy piece of plastic next to the buttons.

“Needs an inspection soon,” he says absentmindedly.

Clicking my heels together, I mock salute him. With an assured, “Yes, sir,” falling from my mouth, he laughs at me and my goofball reaction to him and his seriousness.