Page 15 of Uxpectedly Ever After

Is he lying there regretting his confession, or is he plotting exactly what he’s going to say when we talk about it tomorrow? And why in the ever-loving hell can't I stop hoping hedoesn'tregret it?

I roll onto my side, punching my pillow. This whole arrangement was supposed to be temporary. A simple, no-big-deal favor for Kasen that would last three months, and then my life would go right back to normal. Instead, one freaking week in, and everything is completely upside down. My routine, my personal space, years of diligently practiced 'I don’t want to bang my brother’s best friendat all’denial—all of it dismantled with just one stupid sentence.

And the scariest part of all this? The part that I can barely even admit to myself in the dark, silent safety of my bedroom?

I don't want him to stop looking at me the way he did tonight, like I'm some precious, maddening puzzle he suddenly wants to solve. Like he's wondering what I’d sound like if I were screaming his name. I don't want him to take back a single word about what goes through his head when he sees me. In fact, I kind of want to hear more. Every single explicit, underwear-soaking detail.

I’m up and halfway through my third batch of cinnamon rolls before I even realize what I'm doing. There was absolutely no way sleep was going to happen with the way my thoughts were spiraling out of control. Banks is passed out on the couch and I’m trying to be quiet, but he must’ve been tired enough that he’s sleeping through everything.

Flour dusts my arms up to my elbows, and the kitchen counter has completely disappeared under a chaotic landscape of mixing bowls and measuring cups. Baking usually manages to calm my frazzled nerves, but tonight my hands won't stop shaking. Banks Priestly has not only invaded my apartment but has also set up permanent residence in my brain, and the only way my subconscious knows how to deal with it is to bake enough pastries to feed a small army.

"He’ll be gone in less than three months," I whisper, needing to hear the reminder out loud so it really sinks in. “You can do this.”

If I'm being honest with myself, there's a growing feeling that there's no timeline in which Banksdoesn'tleave some kind of permanent, irreversible mark on me. And I'm just really, really afraid I'll never be able to move on.

Three things in life are guaranteed: death, taxes, and Captain Bill Morgan chewing your ass out the second you so much as blink wrong.

“Priestly!” His bark slices through my mental fog like a chainsaw through butter. “What the hell was that? You trying to kill yourself and Foxton?”

I blink, disoriented, suddenly realizing I’m standing in the training yard with my harness half-buckled and zero clue how I got here. Brenna’s dangling from the tower, perfectly secured for the rescue drill, giving me serious side-eye. The rest of the crew is dead silent.

“Sorry, Cap.” I fumble with my equipment, snapping the buckles tight. “Got a little distracted.”

“A little?” Morgan’s thick eyebrows angle together over eyes that’ve seen too much tragedy to tolerate carelessness. "You're supposed to be anchoring Foxton, not daydreaming about whatever has you walking around with your head up your ass today."

Heat crawls up my neck. All I can think about is last night. The walk home with Clover, the way I cornered her against that wall, the words I spat out before my brain caught up to my mouth:

There’s nothing brotherly about what goes through my mind when you walk into a room.

Jesus. Her face afterward—shock, confusion, maybe something else—has been stuck on an endless loop in my head ever since. Neither of us even said goodbye this morning. I left for my shift at five, and we both pretended we were too busy to talk about it.

“You want to tell me what’s going on?” Morgan’s tone drops low so the rest of the crew can't hear. “Or should I bench you now, before you get someone killed?”

I straighten up, forcing myself to focus. “I’m good, Cap. Won’t happen again.”

His gaze drills into me, not buying it for a second. “My office when we’re done.”

That’s not a suggestion. I give a tight nod and force myself to run through the motions. We finish the drill without further screw-ups, but I can feel Morgan’s stare burning holes in my back the whole time.

An hour later, I’m perched in front of him in his cramped office—walls plastered with decades’ worth of crew photos and commendations. I’ve been in this hot seat before, usually for taking too many risks on calls. Never for being so lost in my own head I forgot how to do a damn anchor.

“Out with it,” Morgan says, leaning back in his creaky chair. “What’s got you so distracted you can’t remember basic protocol?”

I consider bullshitting him—maybe a story about insomnia, or the fiasco with my apartment. But Morgan’s bullshit detector is a finely honed weapon after twenty-plus years in the department.

“I’m staying with my best friend’s sister while my place gets fixed,” I admit. “It’s… complicated.”

A flicker of understanding flashes across his weathered face. “Ah. You sleeping with her?”

“What? No!”Not yet.I drag a hand over my face, flustered. “It’s not like that.”

His raised eyebrow practically calls me a liar to my face.

“Fine. It’s exactly like that, except we’re not actually sleeping together.” I lean forward, elbows braced on my knees. “I’ve known her for years. She’s always been off-limits. But now that we’re living together…”

“It’s testing your self-control,” he finishes, “and you’re so busy thinking about what’s under her clothes, you’re forgetting there’s a team depending on you.”

When he lays it out like that, it sounds downright reckless. Which, yeah, it is.

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