As a paramedic, I respond to tons of car crashes. I didn’t expect to get aroused by a fireman with a resting grump face whom I’d just met.

I’m wishing I’d packed lipstick in my jump bag, maybe worn my prom dress.

We’re harnessed upside down, our faces inches apart, in an overturned car rocking on the edge of a cliff outside our small town.

Instantly, I’m flooded with the yummiest take-me-home scent of musk and pheromones.

No, no, no. Love or smell at first sight is silly.

It’s the total opposite of my hard-earned personal power and independence.

Suddenly, this alpha control freak is barking orders at me like an army sergeant, sounding very much like my army vet, loner brother who still thinks he’s in the trenches.

He’s grabbing the spinal board that I was strapping to the driver and pushing us both out of the car while he tries to stop its slide down 100 feet.

Oh great, now I owe my life to this tempting smelling jerk.

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