Page 8 of Falling for the Bad Boy Firefighter
"Breaking and entering, Penelope?" His voice is low, rough-edged, with a hint of amusement as he approaches. "Didn't think you had it in you."
I lift my chin, refusing to be intimidated. "It's not breaking and entering when you have a key, Mr. Walker."
His lips twitch. "Mr. Walker was my grandfather. And he was a mean old bastard."
"Well, I certainly wouldn't want to confuse the two of you," I say primly, but I can feel a smile tugging at my own lips. Something about his grouchiness is oddly endearing, like a thundercloud that grumbles but never quite storms.
His eyes scan the damaged building, narrowing at the blackened bricks and the shattered windows now covered with plywood. "Should we even be in there? Place looks one stiff breeze away from collapsing."
"The structural engineer cleared the basement level this morning," I explain, fishing the keys from my purse. "The archives are underground—they escaped the worst of it."
Jax grunts, unconvinced. "If the ceiling caves in on us, I'm blaming you."
"Such a ray of sunshine," I tease, surprising myself with the boldness. "The team reinforced everything. We're perfectly safe."
"That's what they always say right before disaster strikes," he mutters, but he follows me to the side entrance nevertheless, hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders hunched against the evening chill.
The door opens with a metallic groan, revealing a darkened stairwell. I flick on my flashlight—the power is still out in parts of the building—and lead the way down the narrow steps.
"Watch your head," I warn, ducking under a low beam. "The Archives were built in 1910 when people were apparently much shorter."
"Or they just wanted to make sure I'd hit my head a century later," Jax grumbles, but he ducks just in time, his broad frame barely clearing the obstacle.
The basement level looks almost eerily normal compared to the chaos upstairs—rows of metal shelving filled with acid-free boxes, climate-controlled cabinets housing the most delicate materials, and the heavy oak table where I've done most of my research over the years. The only signs of the fire are the faint smell of smoke that's seeped through the building and a fine layer of dust from the damaged ceiling upstairs.
I flip on the emergency lights, illuminating the space with a soft glow. "The power's still working down here, thankfully. The preservation systems need consistent temperature and humidity."
Jax strolls into the room, his eyes scanning the documents I've already spread across the table. "So, what's so important that you had to drag me into a half-collapsed building after hours? Must be one hell of a smoke detector emergency."
The teasing in his tone makes my stomach flutter. I gesture to the chair opposite mine, grateful when he actually takes it. His large frame makes the antique chair look almost comically delicate.
"I found something," I say, pushing a folder toward him. "Something that changes everything we thought we knew about our families."
Jax's expression shifts, wariness replacing amusement. He doesn't open the folder immediately, just watches me with those dark, assessing eyes.
"That right?"
I nod, suddenly nervous. "It's about the feud. About why it started in the first place."
He leans back in the chair, arms crossed over his chest. The movement pulls his t-shirt tight across his shoulders, and I force my eyes back to his face.
"Sweetheart, I know why it started. Every kid in Fox Ridge gets that bedtime story. Your great-granddaddy accused mine of stealing land that rightfully belonged to the Clarks. Next thing you know, there's bad blood that lasts a century."
The casual "sweetheart" makes my cheeks warm, but I press on. "Except that's not what happened." I flip open the folder, revealing the faded documents inside. "These are the original land deeds from 1923. And letters between Elizabeth Clark and Thomas Walker."
Jax's eyebrow rises again, but he leans forward slightly—the first crack in his carefully maintained indifference.
"According to these records, there was never any theft. The land was legally purchased by Thomas Walker from a third party. The Clarks misunderstood the boundaries of their own property." I slide another document toward him—a yellowed letter in elegant script. "And worse... my great-grandfather knew the truth. He deliberately spread lies about your family to turn the town against them."
Jax's jaw tightens as he skims the letter, a muscle working in his cheek. When he finally looks up, his eyes are darker than before, storms gathering on the horizon.
"So your family screwed over mine and got the whole town to play along. Tell me something I don't know, Penelope."
"Penny," I correct automatically, the words tumbling out. "Just... call me Penny. Everyone does."
Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, at this small offering of familiarity.
"Penny," he repeats, and the way my name sounds in his deep voice sends a shiver down my spine.
