Page 4 of Falling for the Bad Boy Firefighter
Panic floods my system. The Historical Society is barely twenty feet from the burning building. Most of our records aren't digitized yet—decades of history could be lost in minutes.
I grab the phone, punching in 911 with trembling fingers.
"Emergency services, there's a fire on Main Street," I say quickly. "The vintage store next to the Historical Society is burning."
"Fire units are already en route, ma'am," the dispatcher assures me. "Please evacuate the building immediately."
"I will," I promise, already heading toward the archives. "But there are irreplaceable records here. I need to secure them first."
Ignoring the dispatcher's protests, I hang up and rush back downstairs. The most vulnerable documents are here—original town charters, handwritten journals from the founders, irreplaceable photographs.
I grab the fireproof case we keep for emergencies, stuffing it with the most critical items, including the newly discovered letters.
By the time I make it back upstairs, the situation has deteriorated. Thick smoke is seeping in through the old windows, and the heat from next door is intense enough to feel through the walls.
The front door is no longer an option—flames have jumped to our shared porch.
I head for the back exit, case clutched to my chest, but smoke is pouring in from that direction too.
My lungs burn with each breath, and my eyes water so badly I can barely see. Disoriented, I stumble against a display case, sending artifacts clattering to the floor.
"Help!" I call out, but my voice is lost in the crackling of flames and the distant wail of sirens.
I sink to my knees, where the air is marginally clearer. Crawling toward what I hope is the side exit, I try to stay calm, to remember everything I've ever learned about fire safety. Stay low. Cover your mouth. Find an exit.
But the smoke is getting thicker, darker.
Each breath is a struggle now, my lungs fighting for oxygen that isn't there. The case slips from my grasp as my strength wanes. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision.
This can't be how it ends. Not with so much unfinished, so much unsaid.
Through the haze of smoke and encroaching darkness, I hear a crash. Glass shattering. Heavy boots on hardwood.
"Penelope!" A deep voice cuts through the roar of the fire. "Penelope, where the hell are you?"
Jackson.
I try to call out, but all that emerges is a weak cough. My lungs feel scorched, each breath more painful than the last. Somehow, he finds me anyway, materializing through the smoke like an avenging angel. His face is grim behind his firefighter's mask, jaw set in determination, his mouth set in that perpetual scowl that seems to be his default expression.
Without a word, he scoops me into his arms, cradling me against his chest like I weigh nothing at all. His body shields mine as he navigates through the blinding smoke, each step sure and purposeful despite the chaos around us.
"The case," I manage to gasp. "The records—"
"Forget the damn records," he growls, tightening his grip. "They're not worth your life."
The world spins dizzyingly as he carries me through what must be a broken window.
Cool night air rushes over my skin, sweet and clear after the choking smoke. Somewhere, sirens wail and voices shout, but all I can focus on is the steady beat of Jax's heart against my cheek.
When he finally sets me on my feet a safe distance from the building, his hands grip my shoulders tightly. He's removed hismask, and his face is streaked with soot, eyes blazing with an emotion I can't quite name.
"What the hell were you thinking?" he growls, the familiar crease between his eyebrows deepening into what I'm starting to think is a permanent furrow. But beneath the anger, there's raw concern that makes my heart stutter. "You could have died in there!"
I stare up at him, gulping in clean air, suddenly aware of how close we are. His fingers dig into my shoulders, not painfully, but possessively, as if he's afraid I might disappear if he lets go.
For a moment, we simply stand there, breathing together under the glow of the flames.
And then it hits me with the force of a tidal wave: Jackson Walker just risked his life to save mine.
