Page 5 of Off-Limits Daddy
“Come on, Whiskers. Don’t make me have to call someone with actual upper body strength.”
That was when Jamie, still hovering, finally confessed: “Um... I already did.”
I paused. “What?”
“I called the firehouse. My brother Kyle said they rescue cats and stuff.”
Ofcoursehe did.
I opened my mouth to tell him that this wasn’t exactly an emergency. But then—I heard boots. Crunching over dead leaves. Heavy. Purposeful.
A shadow shifted across the gap of light under the shed.
"This where the rescue’s needed?" came a deep, rough-edged voice I hadn’t heard in years but could still pick out of a crowd—blindfolded, in a thunderstorm.
My heart stuttered. “Hey, stranger,” I called out, playing it cool. “Miss me?”
Silence. Then the unmistakable sound of a grown man sighing through his entire soul.
“Figures.”
Slowly—carefully—I twisted around as much as I could and peered up toward the voice.
There he was.
Reid Morgan.
Older. Broader. Still wearing that permanent scowl like it had been custom-fit. His bunker pants rode low on his hips, suspenders hanging loose over a black T-shirt stretched tight across his chest. And his arms—God help me—hisarmslooked like they could bench-press the entire shedwithme clinging under it.
And just behind him stood two other firefighters—Griff and Marco. They were fighting off matching grins.
“Of all the people,” Reid muttered, folding his arms.
I smiled sweetly up at him from the dirt. “How’s it going?”
Griff coughed, definitely covering a laugh. Marco elbowed him, stage whispering, “Didn’t know we were rescuing kittens and brats today.”
“Shut it,” Reid growled at them without looking away from me.
Heat rushed up my neck. “What can I say? Always happy to provide local entertainment.”
Reid squatted down, boots planted wide, thighs straining against the fabric of his bunker pants, the muscles there flexing like they knew exactly the kind of trouble they were causing me. “What exactly is your plan here?”
“Charm the cat out,” I said. “Maybe promise him a better life. Joint custody. Trips to the beach.”
He didn’t smile. But his eyes flickered, sharp and assessing. “You’re stuck, aren’t you?”
I tugged at my hoodie a third time—nothing. Fourth—still nothing.
“...Define stuck.” I gave a weak laugh, pretending like this wasn’t rapidly turning into my new Most Embarrassing Moment. “Okay, okay,” I muttered. “I’m mildly stuck. Gently imprisoned. Totally dignified.”
“You always were a handful,” he muttered.
Another creak echoed overhead, louder this time. Reid’s sigh came first, then the sound of him coming closer.
He didn’t reach for me. Instead, he angled lower, careful, eyes narrowing as he scanned the spot where my hoodie had snagged. Two fingers hooked the hem, gave a testing tug. The fabric held tight against a jagged bit of rusted metal.
“Don’t move,” he said, and pulled a pocketknife from his belt. “Gonna free you.”
