Chapter Three
FIREHOUSE FLIRTING
Wes
The morning rush fizzled out a while ago. The tables are wiped, the espresso machine is idling, and the only thing left to do is pretend I don’t hear the drip from the slow faucet behind the counter. It’s too quiet now. The kind of stillness that makes your own thoughts feel louder.
Now it’s just me, a half-swept sidewalk, and the kind of muggy spring air that makes you regret wearing black. I lean against the doorframe of The Brew House, coffee in one hand, rag in the other, watching condensation trail down the inside of my cup.
Across the street, there’s movement. A crowd forming in front of the firehouse. I squint against the sun, trying to make sense of the commotion, but my gut figures it out before my brain does.
Jules.
He’s in uniform, tight navy shirt clinging like it was tailored to prove a point, turnout pants slung low like he just wandered out of a calendar shoot. He moves with the kind of casual confidence that makes everyone want to be near him, and makes it impossible not to look.
Which, technically, it is. But he moves like it’s a show. Hands waving, his smile is easy, and laughter loud enough to reach the sidewalk I’m standing on.
Someone hands him a clipboard. He signs it with a flourish and flashes a grin that makes two older ladies giggle like they’re decades younger.
He says something that gets a laugh from the group, then claps a kid on the shoulder.
A volunteer waves him over for a quick photo, and he angles his jaw just right like he doesn’t even have to try before flashing the camera a grin. All smooth charm and sunlit swagger.
He’s magnetic.
And it’s fucking annoying.
I take a sip, bitter and scalding. Remind myself to get back to work.
But my eyes don’t move.
Because now he’s tossing a football to one of the neighborhood kids, slow and easy, like he’s been doing this his whole life.
The short sleeves cling to his biceps, leaving the tattoo on his forearm fully exposed.
I pretended not to trace it with my fingers, but that ink’s etched into my memory.
It’s what I picture when things slow down, when I let myself remember how it felt.
His laugh cuts through the breeze again, low and rough and far too familiar. My jaw tightens.
Even from here I can see the corner of his mouth curve around the rim of a paper cup as he takes a sip between jokes, that same mouth that left me restless for days. He tilts his head back to laugh again, throat bare to the sun, and it punches right through my chest before I can look away
“Don’t you have scones to burn or something?” a voice says beside me.
I blink, then glance over.
It’s Rosie, one of the weekday regulars who treats gossip like a team sport and rarely misses a detail. She once guessed a breakup based solely on a customer switching to oat milk. Mid-sixties, sharp as a blade. She’s got a reusable mug in one hand and a knowing smirk on her face.
“You’ve been staring for a full minute,” she adds. “Might want to wipe the drool.”
“I’m not—” I start, then catch myself. “He’s just loud.”
“Mmhmm.” She sips her tea. “That why you’re glaring at him like he owes you money or because he hasn’t asked you out yet?”
I snort and shake my head, pushing off the doorframe. “You people are delusional.”
“We’re observant,” she says, following me inside just long enough to drop her mug on the counter. “Same thing.”
I mutter something noncommittal and retreat behind the espresso machine, letting the sound of the grinder drown out whatever comeback she’s lining up next. Because the truth?
She’s not wrong.
And that’s the problem.
Back inside, the espresso machine hums—the only sound loud enough to cover the silence I don’t want to feel. I wipe down the already-clean counter and pretend I’m not thinking about him. Again.
But the second I stop moving, he’s there. Golden and grinning and impossible to ignore. Every quiet moment becomes a minefield when your thoughts keep circling the same damn person.
Jules Morgan is not my type.
He’s flashy. Loud. Too charming for his own good. He’s the kind of guy who walks into a room and makes people forget what they were talking about. The kind of guy who thrives on attention and always knows exactly what to say.
And yeah, fine, he smells really fucking good. But that’s not the point.
The point is, I’ve known guys like him before. Guys who flirt like it’s currency and disappear when it’s time to actually show up for something real. Guys who leave you halfway open and still pretend it meant nothing.
I should’ve known better.
I told myself it was just a hookup. That I wouldn’t fall for the laugh or the soft spot in his voice when he said my name. But denial only works if you stop looking back and I haven’t. Not really.
But that day…
My hand stills on the rag. I don’t mean to go there, but I do.
He kissed like he wanted more.
The kind of kiss that short-circuits your brain and makes you forget where you are. My back against the cool wall, his palm framing my jaw like I was something fragile. His breath, hot and uneven between touches, like he wasn’t used to slowing down but wanted to. For me.
Slow at first, then desperate, like he was trying to memorize the shape of me. His hands weren’t greedy. They were reverent. Like he wanted to learn every response, every edge, every breath that caught.
And when he dropped to his knees… when he touched me like that… I forgot how to breathe. He didn’t just get me off. He looked at me like it mattered. Like I mattered. And I think that’s what ruined me most.
It wasn’t supposed to mean anything.
But it did.
The beeping of the oven pulls me back. I blink down at the tray in front of me.
Burned. Edges crisped and blackened. Shit.
There’s a smear of cinnamon on my palm, warm and sticky, and I stare at it like it might give me an answer.
It doesn’t. Just lingers there, like the echo of his voice in my head.
I mutter a curse under my breath and toss the batch in the compost bin, frustration simmering just beneath the surface. I never burn the pastries. Ever. It’s muscle memory by now. But I’m off today, and I know exactly why.
I glance toward the window before I can stop myself, like my body’s looking for him even when my head’s still trying to deny it.
He’s still out there.
Leaning against the fire truck now, talking to some kid with a wide grin and a firefighter helmet two sizes too big. Jules crouches beside him, says something that makes the kid’s eyes go wide. Probably a joke or a story, whatever it is, it works. He’s got the kid beaming.
And damn it, I get it.
I get the charm. I get the pull.
I just don’t trust it.
Because the ones who shine that bright always end up burning you. Maybe not right away. Maybe not even on purpose. But it happens. And I’ve spent too long learning how to protect what’s left of me to forget that.
Not from someone like him.
I grab another tray of scones, shove it into the oven, and force my eyes back to the order board. Stay busy. Stay grounded.
The bell above the door jingles. A customer walks in, chatting with Aaron, and I duck behind the espresso machine like a coward. Just in case.
Because if Jules looks over?
I won’t be able to lie to myself today.
So I don’t give him the chance.
I don’t look up.
I don’t look at all.
Because wanting him? Wanting more? That’s a kind of risk I don’t get to take twice.
The bell over the door rings, and I don’t need to look up. I know exactly who it is.
Of course it’s him.
Jules Morgan doesn’t just enter a place.
He takes it over. The sound of his boots on tile, the easy swing of his stride.
It all carries too much confidence for someone who should be working across the damn street instead of haunting my café.
He’s got that effortless thing about him, like he’s never second-guessing where to stand or what to say.
Cocky, sure. But worse than that—he’s charming.
Aaron beats me to the greeting. “Back already?” he asks, sliding a tray of croissants into the case.
“Couldn’t stay away,” Jules says, and I can feel the grin in his voice before I see it. Too smooth. Too direct. Aimed at me even though he doesn’t say my name.
I keep my head down, cloth in hand, scrubbing at a spotless counter like it needs saving.
“Thought I’d drop this off.” His tone is casual, but I hear the weight in it. A flyer flutters against the countertop as he sets it down. “Firefighters Day charity event. Whole town’s invited.”
The words land heavier than they should. Out of the corner of my eye I catch a glimpse of bright red paper, flames curling around bold letters, an open invitation to trouble.
“I saw the poster,” I mutter, forcing my voice steady. My rag moves in circles on that same spot that doesn’t need to be cleaned.
“Did you?” Jules leans in, just enough to cross into my space. “You coming?”
“Busy day. We’ll see.” I aim for firm, but it comes out too even. Too neutral. Not nearly enough to shut him down.
Aaron huffs a laugh from behind the register. Jules, of course, doubles down.
“Shame,” he says. “Could’ve used a caffeine sponsor. Or someone to distract from the calendar boys.”
Aaron perks right up at that. “Calendar boys, huh? That’s going on the tip jar.”
I don’t look at either of them. My focus stays on the rag, the counter, the tightness in my jaw.
Then Jules shifts closer, one forearm braced against the counter like he’s got every right to be there. His voice dips low, steady, aimed square at me. “You know, they say adrenaline and fire go hand in hand. But nothing burns hotter than denial.”
That one lands.
My hand freezes on the counter. Just for a second. Just enough for him to notice.
“What’s the matter, Calder?” he asks softly, all mock-innocent. “Afraid of heat you can’t control?”