Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 33213 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33213 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
“That’s not fair,” she whispers.
“It doesn’t matter if it’s fair. It’s true.”
I finally look at her.
She’s watching me with something soft and painful in her eyes.
“You haven’t slept,” she says.
“No.”
“You carry too much.”
“Someone has to.”
“Not alone,” she says quietly.
I stare at her like she’s speaking a language I’ve never learned.
She looks down at her hands. “My dad was a volunteer firefighter.”
I blink. “What?”
“Wildfire crew.” She swallows. “Rural team. He joined after serving in the Army. He loved the work. Said saving lives made sense to him.” Her voice cracks. “He died in a forest fire when I was ten.”
I straighten, something sharp cutting through my chest. “Briar…”
She shakes her head quickly. “It was a long time ago. But I still remember the smell of smoke on his clothes. I used to hug him and feel this… this pride. Like my dad was a hero.” She inhales shakily. “And then one day he didn’t come home.”
I don’t move. Don’t breathe.
“I think that’s why I stayed away from men who do what you do,” she murmurs. “Firefighters. Rescuers. Protectors. Heroes.” Her jaw trembles. “I associate you with loss.”
The words hit harder than any blow I’ve taken.
“And then I dated someone who was nothing like my dad,” she continues bitterly. “Thought I was choosing safe. Stable. Predictable.”
“Your ex.”
She nods.
“He wasn’t any of those,” I say.
“No.” She lets out a quiet laugh. “At least I had the good sense not to marry him. Turns out I have terrible instincts about men.”
“That’s not true.”
She meets my eyes. “Isn’t it?”
I’m close to reaching for her. I can feel the urge crawling beneath my skin. She looks at the porch boards again. “I’m scared, Saxon.”
My voice drops. “Of me?”
“Of choosing wrong again.” She swallows. “Of letting someone close and losing them.”
I shift toward her, my knee pressing fully against hers now. “Look at me.”
She does. Slowly. Her eyes shine in the low light. Vulnerable. Brave.
“I’m not him,” I say.
“I know.”
“I’m not your dad.”
“I know.”
“I won’t disappear on you.”
She says nothing. Her breath trembles. I reach out—slow, deliberate—and cup her face.
Her breath stutters. Her lips part. My thumb brushes her cheek, then down to the corner of her mouth. Her eyes flutter. “Saxon…”
“You can trust me,” I murmur.
Her hands, small and warm, clutch the hem of my shirt like she needs something to hold onto. I lean in. Closer. And closer. Her nose brushes mine. Her breath mingles with my own.
Her thighs press lightly against me, and I feel the tremor ripple through her.
She leans forward that last fraction of an inch and I lose control.
My other hand slides behind her head, tangling in her hair. I pull her toward me, gently but with a force that makes her gasp. Her knees shift, brushing my thigh. I feel everything.
Too much. Her hands slide up my chest, grabbing fistfuls of my shirt.
I groan—low, guttural. “Briar…”
She leans her forehead against mine. “Please.”
I exhale shakily, brushing my lips across hers. Not a kiss. Just a ghost of one.
Her whole body shivers. I press her closer, one hand gripping her hip now—thumb brushing the soft edge under that ridiculous oversized sweatshirt.
Her breath catches. “Saxon—”
“I’ve thought about this,” I growl. “More than I should.”
Her fingers curl into my chest. “Then do it.”
“Briar…”
“Please.”
Jesus Christ.
I tilt her chin up with my thumb, lowering my mouth again, brushing her lower lip with mine.
A breath. A swallow. A ragged sound from her throat that feels like it was meant for me.
And then my radio crackles. Harsh. Violent. Loud enough to blow the moment apart.
“Station 19, structure fire, Devil’s Pass Road. Repeat—structure fire, Devil’s Pass Road.”
I rip back like I’ve been struck, breathing hard enough my lungs burn.
“No,” she whispers. “No—wait—just—”
I press my forehead to hers once, a rough, agonized moment. Her breath shakes against my mouth. Then I force myself to stand. Chest heaving. Heart pounding. Want screaming through me like a siren.
“Saxon,” she says, rising to her knees in front of me.
I grab my helmet from the porch rail. “I have to go.”
Her voice trembles. “W-will you be okay?”
“I always am.” I lie.
Her hands brush mine when I take a step toward the stairs. My whole body jerks from the contact.
“Be safe,” she whispers.
I hesitate. Just long enough. Then I turn back, grab her shoulders gently, and press my forehead to hers one last time.
“Lock your door,” I murmur. “I’ll come back when I can.”
Her breath catches. And then I’m gone. Bounding down the steps. Radio clipped at my shoulder. Every instinct snapping back into place. But halfway across her yard, I look back. She stands in the porch light, sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder, breath trembling, lips still pink from almost being kissed. And I know—I feel it down to the bone—that whatever line we pretended existed between us is gone.
She’s not my fake fiancée anymore. She’s the one damn thing I can’t walk away from. Even when I have to. Even when I shouldn’t. And for the first time in years, running into a fire feels easier than turning away from her.