Page 12 of Falling for the Bad Boy Firefighter
As the coffee machine groans to life, I stare at it like it might offer some solution to the mess I'm facing.
"I wasn't looking for this," I say finally, the admission surprising even me.
Samuel studies me over the rim of his mug. "Sometimes what we're looking for isn't what we need."
Before I can untangle that bit of fortune-cookie wisdom, Chief Mason strides in, clipboard in hand as always. His weathered face gives nothing away as he begins the morning briefing, assigning tasks and going over the day's schedule.
I'm on equipment inventory, which means hours of checking and double-checking gear in the relative solitude of the storage room.
Perfect.
Two hours later, I'm deep in the tedium of oxygen tank inspections when my phone vibrates in my pocket. I ignore it at first, focused on documenting pressure readings.
When it buzzes again ten seconds later, I pull it out with a scowl that evaporates the moment I see the name on the screen.
Penny Clark.
My thumb hovers over the notification, hesitating. Two text messages in a row means it's not casual. It means she's thought about last night too.
The first message is simple: "Can we meet? I need to see you."
The second, sent moments later: "Please."
That single word—please—hits me harder than it should. Penny Clark doesn't seem like the type to beg, to put herself out there. Yet here she is, reaching out to me when half the town is probably already warning her to stay away.
I stare at the phone, conflicted. The smart move would be to let this go now, before it gets worse. To spare her the fallout of being associated with me.
But I think of how she looked last night, standing in that archive with her chin raised, insisting that truth matters. How she said she was tired of being exactly what everyone expected her to be.
I get that. Christ, do I get that.
My fingers move before I can overthink it.
"When and where?"
Her response is immediate, as if she's been waiting with her phone in hand.
"After your shift? The old boathouse by the lake. 7 PM?"
The boathouse is secluded, away from prying eyes. Smart. I type back a single word.
"Done."
Pocketing my phone, I return to the oxygen tanks with renewed focus. The mundane task gives my hands something to do while my mind races ahead.
This thing with Penny, whatever it is, is a complication I didn't see coming. My life has been a careful balance of work and solitude, of proving myself through actions rather than words.I've avoided entanglements, especially with women the town considers "too good" for me.
And Penny Clark? She's Fox Ridge royalty.
Yet there's something about her that feels different. She sees me—not just the tattoos or the reputation or the Walker name, but me. The way she looked at those documents last night, determined to right a wrong that happened before either of us was born...
It matters. She matters.
"You look like you're trying to solve world hunger over there," Wyatt remarks, appearing at the door of the storage room. "It's just oxygen tanks, Walker. Not exactly rocket science."
I don't look up from my clipboard. "You need something, or are you just here to be a pain in my ass?"
He chuckles, leaning against the doorframe. "Little of both. Chief wants everyone in the conference room in five. Something about updated protocols for multi-story structures."
