Page 1 of His Big Holiday Firefighter
CHAPTER ONE
The “Welcome to Pine Ridge”sign hadn’t changed since I’d first learned to read it, the carved wooden letters still edged in perpetual Christmas lights. What had changed was everything else—including me.
I eased my rental car down main street, my grip tight on the steering wheel as fat snowflakes danced in the headlights. The overcast December sky cast a premature twilight over the town, the heavy clouds hanging low and gray, barely distinguishable from the swirling snow. What little remained of the afternoon sun filtered weakly through the dusk, making the streetlights flicker to life early.
Pine Ridge had transformed itself into a Hallmark movie set, every storefront twinkling with white lights and fresh garlands. The lampposts wore red velvet bows, and the air itself seemed to sparkle with holiday cheer. I watched couples stroll the sidewalks with shopping bags and coffee cups, their laughter visible in warm puffs of breath, while children pressed mittened hands against display windows.
“It’s just a week,” I muttered to myself, mentally going over the checklist I’d created in my calendar app before leaving Seattle.
Submit the competition paperwork, meet the real estate agent, and clear out the bakery. That’s it.
But as I passed Sullivan’s Hardware with its traditional mechanical Santa in the window, my grandmother’s voice echoed in my mind: “A Lee never runs away, little dumpling. We face things head-on, with flour on our hands and love in our hearts.”
The memory hit me, so clear I could almost feel her small hands guiding mine as we shaped cookie dough, could almost see the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled.
“Sorry, Nai Nai,” I whispered, swallowing past the tightness in my throat. “But some things you can’t fix with baking.”
The rental car’s tires crunched through fresh snow as I pulled into a spot in front of Lee’s Family Bakery. The building stood dark and silent, its once-cheerful blue awning now faded to gray. Through the front windows, I could make out the shapes of covered equipment and stacked chairs. My mother’s hand-painted window sign cast familiar shadows—each character of both English and Chinese lettering done with painstaking care twenty-five years ago.
Getting out of the car, I couldn’t help but shiver despite my coat and sweater. I approached the door of the shop, the key sticking in the lock, requiring the same hip-check it always had. The bell above the door chimed weakly as I stepped inside, the sound echoing in the empty space. The air smelled stale, with only the faintest hint of the vanilla and butter that had once perfumed every corner.
My eyes landed on the collection of faded photographs on the wall beside the entrance, chronicling three generations of the Lee family—my grandparents on opening day in their crisp aprons, my mother’s first attempt at decorating a wedding cake, myself as a toddler covered in flour while my grandmother laughed. A knot formed in my stomach.
My phone pinged. Another message from Sarah, my real estate agent:Multiple interested buyers. Need paperwork ASAP. Holiday market increasing interest.
“Right,” I muttered, pocketing the phone. But first things first, I needed to turn in my application for the baking competition.
I took one last look at the photos before locking up and dashing across the street to town hall. It looked like Christmas elves had attacked it, with every surface covered in lights, tinsel, or both. Warmth hit me as I stepped inside, along with the pleasing scent of the festively decorated tree in the atrium. I brushed snow from my cashmere coat and checked my watch. Ten minutes until closing, plenty of time to submit my competition entry and?—
“Watch out!”
The warning came too late. I turned directly into a solid wall of muscle, the impact sending hot coffee splashing between us. Strong hands gripped my shoulders, steadying me even as I registered the coffee soaking into my three-hundred-dollar sweater.
“Shit, I’m so sorry,” said a deep voice that seemed to rumble straight through my chest. “Are you okay?”
I looked up, ready to snap, but the words died in my throat. The man holding me wore a faded Pine Ridge Fire Department hoodie stretched across broad shoulders, and my first thought, after the shock of the coffee ruining my sweater, was that he was ridiculously handsome. His face was creased with concern under slightly tousled reddish-brown hair. A dusting of freckles crossed his nose, and his green eyes widened with recognition.
“You’re James Lee,” he said, still holding my shoulders. “From the bakery. I’d know you anywhere—you look just like your grandmother.”
I stepped back, breaking the contact with the disconcertingly handsome stranger and ignoring the way my skin tingled where his hands had been. “Was from the bakery,” I corrected, plucking at my ruined sweater. “And you are?”
“Noah Sullivan,” he said. He moved to shake my hand before realizing he still held a mostly empty to-go cup. He tossed it into a trash can near the entrance and wiped his hands on his jeans, looking embarrassed. “I, uh, used to buy cookies from your grandmother every Saturday. Best snickerdoodles in Colorado.” His smile was warm, genuine, and did uncomfortable things to my pulse.
“I really am sorry,” Noah continued, anxiously pulling his sweatshirt sleeve over his hand. He stepped forward, attempting to blot the coffee stains on my sweater, but I instinctively took a half step back. Noah let his hand drop, realizing the futility of trying to fix the mess with his sleeve.
“You know, it’s kind of funny,” Noah said, though I failed to see any humor in our current situation. “It’s like in one of those movies, us literally running into one another. They call it a meet-cute, right?”
I wanted to be mad, but this guy seemed so sincere. He obviously hadn’t meant to spill his drink all over both of us.
“I’d say this is more of a messy meet-awkward.”
“That sweater looks expensive. Let me pay to get it cleaned. Or let me buy you a coffee later for all the trouble I’ve caused... though I’m guessing that, thanks to me, you might’ve had enough coffee for the day.”
“Thanks for the offer, but I need to submit this before closing.” I held up my competition entry form, using it as a shield against that earnest smile. “Some of us have schedules to keep.”
“Right, of course. The cookie competition. I’m actually here for the same thing.” He held up his own crumpled form. “Cutting it kind of close, aren’t we?”
“I did have to fly in from Seattle,” I said drily, turning toward the clerk’s desk on the other side of the atrium. The elderly woman behind it was already reaching for her “CLOSED” sign, her silver hair catching the Christmas lights strung in the window behind her. “Excuse me, I need to submit this form.”
