Wrong Number, Right Firefighter (Wrong Number, Right Guy #5)

Chapter 1

CAMILLE

M argaritas were yummy. The yummiest thing I’d ever tasted. But then, everything tasted and felt a little better than usual right now. Okay, a lot better.

I sighed as I looked out the gigantic picture window in the rental cabin I’d found online—the only one in the whole town. How was that possible?

I knew how it was possible. I’d driven through town a few hours ago.

I noticed very little, aside from a diner, an inn, and a town square that was basically a strip of old-timey buildings with an insurance office, an antique store, and a bank.

I’d stopped at the small market to get some bread, eggs, and coffee for tomorrow morning.

Food. I needed food. I didn’t buy anything for dinner at the market. I’d just assumed I’d have something delivered when I got hungry. Every town had food delivery. If nothing else, I could get a pizza.

Pizza. Yes, that sounded perfect. But when I tried to push myself to my feet, I immediately plopped back down again.

Oh, no. What had I done?

This was my first sip of alcohol in my life—not counting the gulp or two I’d snuck at my cousin’s wedding reception a few years ago. My parents complained about the champagne all the way home, not realizing their daughter had a little of it in her system. But this was well beyond that.

I set the almost-empty margarita glass on the coffee table and took a deep breath, closing my eyes. Sobering up just took time. There was a chart somewhere online that said how long before I could get behind the wheel. But I didn’t need to get behind the wheel. I just needed to get to the kitchen.

So I took a deep breath, opened my eyes, and did my best job of pretending I was sober. I had to grab onto the wall a couple of times, but I eventually made it. And once I was there, I vowed to never take a sip of alcohol again.

I did not like this feeling of not being in control. I was always, always in control.

A loud clap of thunder almost knocked me off my feet. It wouldn’t take much right now. But luckily, I was holding on to the counter as I thumbed through the binder the owner had left. There it was. A page with the words emergency numbers at the top.

I’d smiled when I first got here at the fact that pizza delivery was listed as an emergency, but now I got it. This was definitely an emergency.

My phone was still across the room. Crap.

I snatched up the binder, clutching it to my chest as I headed back in that direction. This time, my footsteps weren’t quite as wobbly. Was I sobering up already? No, I’d probably just gotten used to being on my feet.

Bam!

The sound of thunder nearly had me grabbing onto the wall. “Stop doing that!” I yelled at the ceiling.

In response, a new noise filled the cabin. Rain. Hard, pounding rain. That meant pizza delivery drivers might not want to come out. Hopefully, it would pass over, though. I had to take the chance.

I plopped down on the couch, leaning forward to snatch up my phone. I eyed the margarita and considered taking another sip, not to extend this feeling, but to slide that yummy concoction past my lips one more time.

After I ordered, maybe I’d use that fancy margarita maker to blend a non-alcoholic version of this yummy drink. It would at least tide me over until the food got here.

I settled the binder on my lap and opened it to the page of emergency numbers. I ran my finger down the line. Police. Ambulance. Fire. Hartsville Pizza. I had no idea what or where Hartsville was. Was it a town or a street? Whatever the case, I was calling.

I snatched up my phone and dialed the number, aware halfway through that I probably could have pulled up the name on my phone and searched for pizza delivery near me.

It would’ve saved me the walk over to the kitchen.

Too late now, though. Apparently, after enough tequila, I didn’t think very clearly. Good to know.

Sighing, I moved the phone to my ear. I tapped on the screen to put it on speaker as it started ringing on the other end.

I sat back, closing my eyes. Pepperoni. Maybe some bacon. No onions or peppers. I was always having to pick those off when my roommate and I ordered pizza. No, this was my weekend, spent all alone while I worked on my grad school application. I could have whatever pizza I wanted.

“May I help you?”

A male voice suddenly replaced the ringing sound, pulling me out of my thoughts. I blinked in surprise.

Had he said the name of the pizza place? Maybe I’d missed it. He didn’t sound very polite, either way.

“Do you deliver to…?” I hesitated a second, then turned back to the first page of the binder to get the address.

“Thirty-six fifty-nine Blount County Road?”

“It’s pronounced Blunt,” the guy said.

I narrowed my eyes, my brows knitting together. This guy was definitely rude. Maybe I should ask to speak to his manager. No, I didn’t want to be that kind of person. The kind they made fun of on social media for throwing a fit at the slightest provocation.

Pro-vo-ca-tion. That was a funny word. Why wasn’t it pro-ca-va-tion?

Yeah, that was definitely the tequila talking.

“Ma’am,” the guy said, voice flat. “This is the fire hall. Are you reporting an active fire?”

I blinked, confused. “A fire?” I looked around the cabin just to be sure. “Oh! No, I mean—just in my stomach. I’m starving. I was trying to order a pizza.”

There was a pause on the other end. A long one. I shifted on the couch, trying to focus, but my head felt floaty. The margarita was working overtime now, and not in a fun way.

“This number is listed under Hartsville Pizza,” I continued, pointing at the binder, even though he obviously couldn’t see me. “Right under ambulance and fire. So, really, not my fault.”

“This is the Wildwood Valley Fire Station. We don’t sell pizza.”

“Well, that’s misleading,” I muttered. “I mean, unless you’re offering to come here and bake one for me.”

“Are you alone right now?” he asked, way too calm.

I narrowed my eyes. “Okay, wow. We just met.”

“That’s not what I meant. You sound…off.”

“Off?” I scoffed. “Excuse you. I sound delightful.”

He ignored that. “What’s your name?”

“Are you even allowed to ask that?”

“You called me, remember?”

I let out a dramatic sigh. “Fine. It’s Camille. But that’s not me admitting guilt. I stand by my binder.”

“Okay, Camille.”

He said my name more slowly this time. Like he was testing it on his tongue.

I suddenly felt very warm. Unreasonably so.

“Can you do something for me?” he asked. “Put your phone on the charger. Drink some water. Don’t leave the cabin.”

“That’s three things.”

“Please.”

I considered. “Only if you agree that labeling this number as pizza delivery is a crime against hangry women.”

“Deal.”

I nodded solemnly, even though he couldn’t see that either. “Okay then. I’ll stay right here. But if I pass out from low blood sugar, that’s on you.”

“I’ll take that risk.”

“I really wanted bacon.”

There was a quiet sound on the other end, like maybe he was smiling. Or maybe I imagined it.

I lowered the phone without saying goodbye, too sleepy to care. My eyelids felt thick and heavy. My legs were weirdly tingly. Not in a scary way. Just…fuzzy.

Maybe I would plug in my phone. Maybe I’d even drink that water. But first, just a minute. Just a tiny nap to stop the room from twirling like a carousel.

The last thing I remember was the sound of rain tapping against the window like impatient fingers. And the strange thought that I’d probably just flirted with a firefighter. Through the emergency line. Because I was trying to order pizza.

I was never drinking again.