Wait . . . was she really thinking that if that wasn’t the case, she might sleep with him

She glanced over. Danny’s expression was grim, his brows down, his jaw locked. And as they left the Cat’s Meow in the dust, an image from the week before barged into her brain.

The crew had just come back from a box alarm. It had been a no-BFD, only a minor kitchen fire, hamburger patties cooked past well-done and into incineration. Deshaun had backed the engine into the bay and they had all gotten off.

It was the kind of thing that they did over two hundred times in a month, nothing unusual or remarkable. But it had been at sundown, and the golden rays penetrating the firehouse’s vehicle floor had bathed Danny in a glow that was unreal. Anne had ducked her head and watched him as he’d shucked his turnouts, peeling off the heavy flame-retardant jacket and hanging it in his locker, then shucking his suspenders and stepping out of his boots and pants.

His shoulder muscles had flexed as he’d twisted and turned, his biceps stretching his T-shirt sleeves thin, his pecs bulking and then releasing. He’d been laughing at something Deshaun had said, that smile cocky and sure, those Irish eyes flashing blue.

And then he’d caught her staring.

An expression similar to the one he had now had overtaken his face, and that big body had stopped in mid-motion.

As Anne refocused on the sidewalk ahead, she thought of When Harry Met Sally—the part where Harry tells Sally that men and women can never be friends.