Page 7 of Falling for the Bad Boy Firefighter
"What's this about?" I ask once we're alone, leaning against the brick wall and watching her carefully.
She takes a deep breath, as if steadying herself. "I need to go through some documents at the Historical Society. But after last night..." She falters, a flash of genuine fear crossing her face. "I don't feel comfortable doing it alone."
My bullshit detector pings immediately. This isn't just about feeling safe. There's something else here, something she's not saying.
"Pretty sure the police can give you an escort," I point out, testing her. "Or Liam from the library. He's always had a thing for you."
She shakes her head, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. "It has to be you."
The words hang between us, loaded with meaning I can't quite decipher. I should say no. I've got enough complications in my life without adding Penelope Clark and whatever game she's playing to the mix.
But I find myself asking, "When?"
"Tonight," she says quickly, as if afraid I'll change my mind. "After hours. Around eight?"
I raise an eyebrow. "After hours? At your place of work?" A smirk tugs at my lips despite myself. "Why, Ms. Clark, are you suggesting we break the rules?"
The blush deepens, but there's a flash of something else in her eyes—determination, maybe even a hint of mischief. "I have a key. It's not breaking in if you have a key."
"Still doesn't explain why it has to be me," I press, needing to hear her say it.
She hesitates, and for a moment I think she might tell me the truth. Instead, she says, "You know the building now. And after last night, I thought..." She trails off, then straightens her shoulders. "Please, Jax. It's important."
It's the first time she's addressed me like that. Not Walker, not Jackson, but Jax. The sound of it in her soft voice does something to my chest I don't want to examine too closely.
I run a hand over my face, irritation warring with curiosity. 'You Clarks sure know how to complicate a man's day, don't you?' I mutter. "Fine," I say, pushing off the wall and nodding once. "Eight o'clock. I'll be there."
Relief washes over her face, genuine and intense. "Thank you."
As she turns to leave, I catch her arm gently, surprising both of us with the contact. Her skin is warm under my fingers, soft in a way that makes me wonder how the rest of her would feel.
"One condition," I say, dropping my hand when I realize I've held on too long. "You tell me what this is really about."
Something flickers across her face—hesitation, conflict, maybe even fear. But she nods once, a silent promise.
"Tonight," she says softly. "I'll explain everything tonight."
I watch her walk away, her neat little cardigan and perfect posture at odds with the chaotic thoughts I can almost see swirling around her. Whatever secret Clark is keeping, I have a feeling it's about to change things between us in ways neither of us is prepared for.
And despite every instinct telling me to keep my distance, I find myself counting the hours until eight o'clock.
Chapter 4 – Penny
The clock on my watch ticks steadily toward eight as I wait on the steps of the Fox Ridge Historical Society, clutching my folder of documents tightly against my chest. The evening air carries the acrid smell of smoke that still lingers a few hours after the fire.
Yellow caution tape flutters in the breeze, cordoning off the right side of the building where the flames did the most damage. Workers spent all day boarding up shattered windows and reinforcing the weakened structure. The vintage clothing store next door is completely gone—nothing but charred beams and memories.
I run my fingers over the folder's edge, taking comfort in the solidity of the papers inside. Pure luck saved these documents—stored in the basement archives while the upper floors suffered smoke damage and partial destruction. The collection rooms on the second floor weren't as fortunate; we lost several displays of Civil War memorabilia and an entire cabinet of photographs from the town's founding.
"This is purely professional," I remind myself aloud, my voice sounding unnaturally bright even to my own ears as I pace the concrete walkway. "He deserves to know the truth about his family. That's all."
But even as the words leave my lips, I know they're only partially true. There's something about Jax that draws me in—something beyond the tattoos and the bad-boy reputation. I saw it in his eyes when he pulled me from the fire, a depth of feeling that contradicts everything I thought I knew about Jackson Walker.
The rumble of a motorcycle engine cuts through the quiet evening, and my heart does a ridiculous little skip. I smooth my hair, tucking a stray strand behind my ear, and stand a little straighter.
Professional. This is professional.
The bike pulls up in front of the building, engine cutting off with a final growl. Jax swings his leg over the seat with ease, removing his helmet to reveal slightly tousled dark hair. His leather jacket hangs open over a simple gray t-shirt that does nothing to hide the muscular chest beneath, and there's a day's worth of stubble shadowing his jaw.
