Page 11 of Falling for the Bad Boy Firefighter
I sit up, running a hand over my face, feeling the stubble that's crossed firmly into beard territory. The clock reads 5:47 AM—thirteen minutes before my alarm. Outside, Fox Ridge is just waking up, the early risers shuffling to their cars, the ambitious ones jogging past my window.
None of them know. Yet.
But they will.
In a town like this, news travels faster than a brushfire in August. By noon, everyone will have heard about Penny Clark—town darling, historical society curator, and keeper of all things proper and good—locked in an embrace with Fox Ridge's favorite screw-up in the archives of the Historical Society.
I should feel guilty. I should regret it. I should be figuring out how to minimize the damage to her reputation.
Instead, all I can think about is how her lips felt under mine, soft and yielding yet unexpectedly demanding. How her curves fit against me like they were made to be there. How she looked at me afterward, eyes bright with something that wasn't shame or regret, but possibility.
"Goddamnit," I mutter to the empty room, swinging my legs over the side of the bed.
My apartment is sparse but clean—no dirty laundry on the floor, no dishes in the sink. The military-tight corners of my bed and the precision with which my books are arranged on the shelf would surprise people who think they know me. They expect chaos from a Walker. What they don't understand is that when your name is synonymous with disorder, sometimes the only rebellion is control.
The shower is scalding, just how I like it. I stand under the spray longer than necessary, letting the water pound against muscles that remember the feel of Penny's hands gripping my shoulders, her fingers tangling in my hair.
Steam fills the bathroom, fogging the mirror and clouding my thoughts.
I know exactly how this plays out. The town will assume I corrupted her, that I somehow tricked their precious Penny into a moment of weakness. They'll whisper when she walks down the street, cluck their tongues in that special Fox Ridge way that's both judgment and pity."Poor thing, got mixed up with that Walker boy."
The thought makes my jaw clench so hard it aches.
Penny deserves better than that. Better than the scandal that's coming. Better than me.
And yet, the memory of her pressing up on her toes to meet my kiss, her small gasp when I backed her against the shelf, the way she whispered my name—none of it feels wrong. It feels like the most right thing I've done in years.
Turning off the water, I grab a towel and roughly dry myself, avoiding my own reflection in the now-clearing mirror. I don't need to see the conflict I can feel etched into every line of my face.
Outside, I bypass my bike, opting instead for the old truck I keep for bad weather. The rumble of the engine is comforting, familiar. I roll down the windows despite the morning chill, needing the clear air to blow away the fog in my head.
Fox Ridge in the early morning has a certain charm, I'll give it that. The sun catching on dew-covered lawns, the storefronts still dark and peaceful before the day's bustle begins.
I take the long way to the station, past the Historical Society without meaning to. The building stands silent, yellow caution tape still fluttering around the damaged section. Just last night, in the basement of that building, something shifted between Penny and me—something that can't be shoved back into whatever box it came from.
The firehouse is already humming with activity when I pull into the lot. I sit in my truck for a moment, steeling myself for what's coming.
"Morning, sunshine," Wyatt calls the second I step inside, his voice dripping with false sweetness. He's leaning against the lockers, arms crossed, a knowing smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Sleep well?"
I grunt in response, heading straight for my locker without making eye contact. The locker room feels suddenly crowded as Dominic appears, pretending to sort through his gear.
"Heard there was some excitement last night," he says, eyes gleaming with barely suppressed glee. "Something about our very own Jax Walker and Penny Clark having a private after-hours session."
I slam my locker shut harder than necessary. "Don't you two have actual work to do?"
"Hey, we're just looking out for you," Wyatt says, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Making sure you know what's coming."
"I give it an hour before it's on the town Facebook page," Dominic adds, grinning. "Mrs. Patel saw Officer Michaels leaving the Historical Society last night. Said he was smiling like the cat that got the canary."
I curse under my breath, grabbing my station t-shirt from my locker. The movement pulls at muscles still tight from carrying Penny out of the burning building two nights ago. It feels like a lifetime has passed since then.
"You all need better hobbies," I mutter, pushing past them toward the coffee maker, which sits like a beacon of salvation on the counter.
Samuel's already there, stirring what looks like his second cup of the day. Unlike the others, his expression isn't teasing—it's concerned, which is somehow worse.
"The town's already buzzing, Jax," he says quietly, his voice low enough that only I can hear. "Just... be careful."
I nod once, acknowledging his warning without responding to it. Samuel's been around long enough to know how Fox Ridge operates, how it builds people up just to enjoy tearing them down.
