Page 3 of Falling for the Bad Boy Firefighter
The Historical Society feels different now, as if Jackson's presence has disturbed the careful equilibrium I've maintained for years. I can still smell him—that intoxicating masculine cologne that followed him from room to room. The scent clings to the places he touched, making it impossible to forget he was here.
I check my watch—nearly five. The Society is closed to visitors now, which means I have the building to myself. Perfect time to dive into work and forget all about Walker.
The archives beckon me with their promise of order and rationality. Down here, everything has its place. Every document is cataloged, every artifact labeled. No messy feelings or complicated family histories—just facts waiting to be preserved.
Or so I thought.
My fingers tremble slightly as I flip through the acid-free folders containing town records from the 1950s. I've been methodically working through this collection for weeks, digitizing the most important documents and creating a searchable database.
It's precise, meticulous work—the kind that usually calms my mind.
But tonight, the words blur before my eyes. Instead, I see Jackson's face when he caught me staring at him on the ladder, that knowing smirk that both irritated and thrilled me. I see the way his t-shirt rode up, revealing a strip of tanned skin and the edge of another tattoo disappearing beneath his jeans.
"Focus," I command myself, pulling out another folder.
That's when I find them—tucked between property records and town meeting minutes. A bundle of letters tied with faded blue ribbon, the paper yellowed with age. The handwriting on the top envelope catches my eye—elegant cursive that I recognize from other town documents.
Elizabeth Clark, my great-grandmother.
Curiosity piqued, I carefully untie the ribbon. These weren't in the catalog. Someone must have hidden them here deliberately, away from prying eyes.
The first letter makes my breath catch.
“My dearest Thomas,
What they're saying about you is unconscionable. Father is beside himself with rage, but I know the truth. I know it wasn't you who took those funds. I saw Richard that night, slipping into the office after everyone had gone. He's determined to ruin your family, to drive the Walkers from Fox Ridge forever…”
Thomas Walker. Jackson's great-grandfather.
My heart pounds as I read letter after letter, the truth unfolding before me like a map to buried treasure. The infamous embezzlement scandal that started the feud—the one that painted the Walkers as thieves and swindlers for generations—was a lie.
A deliberate setup by my own great-grandfather, Richard Clark.
The final piece falls into place when I find the ledger tucked between the letters, with Richard's distinctive handwriting detailing how he planted the evidence, how he turned the town against the Walkers with whispers and half-truths.
My stomach twists with a sickening lurch.
For seventy years, my family has perpetuated a lie. We've nursed a grudge built on false accusations and deliberate deception. And every Walker, including Jackson, has carried the weight of that injustice.
I sit back in my chair, letters spread before me like a confession. What do I do with this?
The truth could finally end the feud, could clear the Walker name once and for all. But it would also destroy my family's reputation, revealing generations of Clarks as liars and manipulators.
And then there's Jackson. Today, for the first time in years, I saw him as more than just "a Walker." I saw the man he's become—responsible, capable, with a quiet intensity that drew me in despite my best intentions.
What would happen if I showed him these letters? Would he see me as complicit in my family's deception?
I carefully return the letters to their folder, mind racing. I need time to process this, to figure out the right thing to do. The weight of seventy years of history presses down on my shoulders, making it hard to breathe.
Glancing at my watch again, I realize it's after seven. I've been down here for hours, lost in the past. The building is silent around me, the old walls settling with occasional creaks and sighs.
I gather my things, sliding the folder into my bag. These letters need to be somewhere safe until I decide what to do with them.
As I climb the stairs from the archives, a strange scent hits me—acrid, chemical, wrong.
Smoke.
My heart stutters as I reach the main floor. Through the tall windows at the front of the building, I can see an orange glow illuminating the twilight. The vintage clothing store next door is on fire, flames already licking up its wooden façade.
