Page 28 of Uxpectedly Ever After

Morgan’s face is a storm cloud. He doesn’t even need to shout—his silent disappointment is worse than any curse he could hurl. Around us, the rest of the crew suddenly finds their own gear fascinating, desperate not to be the next one in his crosshairs.

Ten minutes later, I’m back in his office, standing at attention while he tears me a new asshole. I stare at the wall behind him, trying not to wilt under his glare.

“Third time this week, Priestly. Third. Fucking. Time.” Morgan’s eyebrows have fused into one giant caterpillar of rage. “What the hell’s going on inside that thick skull of yours? You keep this up, someone’s gonna die.”

I square my shoulders. “No excuses, sir. It won’t happen again.”

Morgan scowls. “It damn well better not. This isn’t a joke. I’ve got five other guys counting on you to be fully present, and your head’s off in la-la land. Get it together or enjoy desk duty.”

My stomach twists. Not because this is new—he’s chewed me out before—but because I know he’s right. My dad died because his partner lost focus on a routine call. One second of drifting can cost everything. If anyone should remember that, it’s me.

“I understand, sir.”

He leans forward, eyes narrowed. “This about that girl you’re shacking up with? Your buddy’s sister?”

My jaw grits. The fact he even remembers that conversation from a month ago catches me off guard. “What makes you think that?”

“Twenty years in this job, kid. I can tell when a man’s mind is somewhere else. And yours is clearly stuck on her.”

A lump forms in my throat. Denying it is useless—Morgan sees right through me. “Yeah. Something like that. It’s… complicated.”

“You said that last time we talked. Maybe it’s time you uncomplicate it.” He stands, effectively ending the discussion. “Fix your shit or I’m benching you indefinitely. I won’t have my crew put at risk because you can’t keep your dick in your pants.”

Am I really that fucking transparent?

It’s a goddamn miracle Kasen hasn’t figured me out yet.

I storm out of his office and head straight to the locker room, needing a breather to get my head on straight. I fling my locker open, the metal door cracking against the next one with a clang.

“Wow. Looks like someone’s having a stellar day.”

I whirl around. Brenna’s leaning in the doorway, arms crossed. Her blonde curls are pulled back in a tight braid, and she’s wearing the kind of expression that says she knows exactly what’s got me so pissed I could punch a hole in the wall.

“Not now, Foxton.”

“Oh, we’re doing this right now.” She steps inside, completely unbothered by my warning tone. “You almost dropped a rescue dummy from twenty feet up. That’s a kid, a victim, or one of us in a real scenario.”

My hands drag through my hair, tugging hard enough to hurt. “I fucking know that.”

“Then act like it.” She moves closer, voice dropping. “You’ve been half-dead for weeks. Today you nearly botched a rescue drill. Tomorrow it might be the real thing.” Her gaze drills into me. “It’s about her, right? Clover?”

I groan. “Morgan just ripped me a new one. I don’t need you piling on. You’re supposed to be my friend.”

“I am,” she snaps. “That’s why I’m calling you out. You’re a mess over this girl.”

A fresh wave of anger—and embarrassment—surges through me. “Why does everyone think my entire life revolves around that woman?” I slam the locker shut, the echo reverberating through the empty room.

“Because you’re walking around looking like my little brother after his first girlfriend dumped him—like somebody just curb-stomped your puppy, stole your ice cream, and told you Santa isn’t real all at once.” Brenna sinks onto the bench, clearly not leaving until she gets answers. “So? Did you sleep with the bartender or not?”

My anger deflates in a single whoosh. I slump onto the bench, suddenly exhausted. “Yes.”

“And?”

“And now we’re pretending it never happened.” I press the heels of my hands to my temples, trying to stave off the headache that’s been brewing all day. “It was her call, not mine.”

Brenna lets out a low whistle. “That good, huh?”

“You have no idea.” The memory blindsides me again—Clover beneath me, eyes locked on mine, saying my name like it meant everything. “It was… fuck, Bren. It was everything.”

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