Shared By Three Fireman (Firehouse Fantasies #1)

Chapter One Lila

As it turns out, the smell of desperation pairs surprisingly well with an almond milk latte.

Or maybe that’s just the dregs of my Maison Margiela perfume, coaxed out from the very bottom of the sample-size bottle and vaporized into a pathetic mist because I simply cannot afford to not smell expensive and capable today.

It’s not that times are tough. It’s just that everyone struggles in New York City before they wriggle their way to success. That’s the glamour of it, right?

“Okay, anyway!” I chirp abruptly, startling a nearby tourist when I clap my hands loudly. Beside me, Lou snorts and shakes her head. “Let’s review. First things first: We do not make dorky jokes about sexy firefighters to the sexy firefighters’ faces.”

“And why are you lecturing me about that?” Lou scoffs. “I’m married. To a woman, by the way.”

“Yes, yes, and we all love Gina very much.”

In unison, we carefully sidestep a puddle of mysterious goo that’s coagulated at the edge of the sidewalk—mere moments before a businessman marches right through it. He’s too busy barking on his phone to notice he now has a liquified form of the bubonic plague on the soles of his shoes.

God, I love this city.

Lou throws me a sideways look. “Dude, how much espresso have you had this morning? You’re shaking like a chihuahua.”

I shake my iced latte in her face. “This is only my second latte of the morning, dude.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“Anyway,” I repeat. “Second thing: We will be professional and very serious about this.”

Lou nods. “Super professional. Incredibly serious.”

“I’m talking, like, as serious as a heart attack.”

“For sure, boss.”

I take a sip of my latte, which, unbeknownst to my friend and coworker, I ordered with a triple shot. “They’re fragile right now, these firefighters.”

“And fragility isn’t sexy, like, at all.”

“Lou.”

“Yeah, I get it. They’re a bunch of emotionally delicate heroes who desperately need our help. It’s not a laughing matter.”

I can’t help grinning at the slightly sardonic note in her voice. She’s not wrong, though. For the past week or so, Station 47 has been the punchline of every local morning show and the subject of countless social media thinkpieces about the so-called “questionable devotion” of our public servants.

It all started with a TikTok. An FDNY rookie named Noah Trent concocted an overly dramatized and impressively parodic video of him saving a stray cat from a tree in Bryant Park, wearing nothing but those fireman overalls, his chiseled eight-pack, and a devilish grin.

Personally, I thought it was pretty funny. A fun play on the stereotypical joke of firefighters being summoned for things far below their skillset.

I understood that he was just trying to inject a little bit of joy into people’s lives, but it turns out that I’m one of the few people in New York City with a sense of humor.

The thirty-second video, which was posted on the official FDNY TikTok page, caused an uproar from the public about the horror of “overt sexualization” and the “blatant undermining of taxpayer trust.”

PETA also got involved, if you’d believe it, claiming that Trent purposefully hurtled that kitten up into the tree himself just so that he could pretend to save it.

And then came along the modern-day puritans who claimed that children should simply not be exposed to shirtless men in such an innocent place as Midtown Manhattan. Especially not the muscular, tattoo-covered chests of former-Marines-turned-firefighters. The horror.

Mind you, I witnessed someone doing an impromptu strip tease to Dua Lipa’s “Physical” outside of Macy’s the other day, and that’s not even the weirdest New York thing I’ve seen this week.

Still, in this day and age, people can be very touchy, and now Station 47’s funding is on the chopping block thanks to a boring old mongrel formally known as Councilman Andrew Banks.

It’s a public relations nightmare for them, but it’ll be the perfect opportunity for me to put my struggling, two-person PR firm on the map.

Lou blows out a long breath as we round the corner and Station 47’s massive firehouse comes into view. “Are you ready for this, Lila?”

I straighten the lapels of my blazer and glance down to make sure I don’t have any gum stuck to my platform loafers.

“Girl, I was born ready.”

***

“It smells like testosterone and wet dog in here,” mutters Lou as we step through the side door that serves as a public entrance.

“That’s the scent of bravery,” I whisper back.

There’s no smiling secretary behind a front desk to greet us, and I’m not really sure why I expected there to be.

Instead, we’ve managed to step right into the massive firetruck bay, which resembles a small airplane hangar thanks to its absurdly high ceiling and an exposed mezzanine level that wraps around the entire space.

For a moment, Lou and I gape around us, and then a sharp whistle catches our attention.

“Hey, there! You must be the clean-up crew!”

Lou and I turn in unison and my brain short-circuits for exactly one stupid second.

He’s tall—scratch that, totally huge—with sandy blond hair, a boyish pair of dimples, and biceps that look like they were sculpted by a personal vendetta against sleeves. He’s leaning into the open passenger side of a firetruck, rag in hand, like he lives here. Like he belongs here.

And my body reacts before my brain does.

A quick tightening low in my stomach. A heat-flash of awareness that makes no sense because I’m here to contain a PR disaster, not… notice the impressive span of a stranger’s shoulders.

I blame caffeine. Or New York. Or the fact that I’ve been working too much and sleeping too little.

Whatever it is, I ignore it. I’m very good at ignoring inconvenient physical responses.

Then recognition snaps into place.

Noah Trent. The cat guy. The TikTok menace. The reason my bank account is praying.

Lou makes a confused sound. “No, we’re not here to clean. We’re from Hartstrings PR.”

Noah straightens with an easy grin, tossing the rag over his shoulder like a towel after a swim.

“Right—sorry. I meant you’re the clean-up crew for my reputation.

” His eyes flick down to my blazer, my latte, then back to my face—warm, playful, a little too aware.

“I’m Noah. Promise I’m less of a disaster in person. ”

He thrusts out a hand the size of a bear paw.

“Lila Hart,” I introduce myself, marveling at the way his grip swallows my hand whole.

Noah’s thumb shifts—barely—rubbing once over my knuckles like he can’t help himself.

It’s nothing. A reflex. A friendly gesture.

My pulse disagrees.

He lets go, but not before his grin turns faintly wicked, like he knows exactly what my body just did and he’s filed it away for later.

I’m just about to introduce Lou when another tall figure materializes from around the back of the firetruck.

He looks like the antithesis to Noah Trent, though he’s nearly as large. If the blond firefighter exudes sunshine and cupcake sprinkles, this dark-haired, stern-faced man is all thunderclouds and bitter black coffee. It’s working for him, though. He’s insanely hot.

Are they all hot? Is that a requirement?

Because if so, I’m wildly unprepared for this assignment.

My pulse skids, traitorous and loud, and I straighten my spine like posture alone might stop my body from reacting to different kinds of masculine energy at once.

Noah’s smile fades slightly and he straightens his spine, stepping back to allow the darker man to stalk forward.

“Captain Hargrove, but you can call me Hale,” he greets us stoically. He must be allergic to smiling. “You’re late.”

He doesn’t just say it—he steps in.

Close enough that the air between us changes. Close enough that my body goes quiet, listening.

Then his hand lands at my lower back. Not a caress. Not gentle. A simple, unmistakable guide as he shifts me a half-step out of the bay’s path like he’s rearranging a scene that belongs to him.

It lasts one breath. Two.

And when he removes his hand, the absence feels… loud.

The words land heavier than they should.

Not because it’s unfair — it’s not — but because something in his tone curls low in my belly, sharp and commanding in a way that makes my skin prickle.

Interesting.

I don’t like being talked down to.

I like even less that a part of me responds to it.

I glance down at my watch. “Technically, we’re exactly forty-two seconds early. Perhaps your clock runs slow. We do appreciate the warm welcome, though.”

Noah makes a choked kind of noise.

The captain narrows his eyes slightly. I offer him my prettiest smile.

“My name is Lila Hart,” I start again. “And this is my partner-in-crime, Lou Giovani. We’re with Hartstrings PR.”

Lou and I decided that saying we’re with the company makes it sound like there are more than two of us. There aren’t, of course, but the entire point of our field is to know how to make others and ourselves look good.

At that moment, another tall man emerges onto the scene.

He bursts through a heavy metal door on the far side of the space and jogs over, frowning down at his watch.

I notice strange markings on his forearm when he does so.

It looks like someone attempted to draw an anatomically correct frog on his light brown skin in green marker.

This man is leaner than Blondie and Broody, with stunning hazel eyes and black hair shaved close to his skull.

He’s the shortest of the trio, but still definitely over six feet tall.

Poor Lou, who has the misfortune of being pretty short, is probably going to develop neck pain from having to look directly up at all of them.

“Sorry, Cap,” the third guy says to Hale, clapping him on the shoulder and tossing a friendly smile in Noah’s direction. “Leo’s nanny was running late this morning.”

“Actually, you’re right on time,” I tell him, holding up my watch. “Literally eleven-fifteen on the dot.”

He grins and leans forward to offer me his hand. “Cool. Hi, by the way. I’m Evan Reyes.”