Chapter 4 #2
She turns to face me, and suddenly we’re very close. Close enough that I can see the exact moment her breath catches. Close enough that I’m fighting the urge to reach out and tuck the strand of hair that’s escaped her ponytail behind her ear.
“What if I promise everyone stays seated?” Her voice has an edge of desperation now. “No mingling. Just sitting.”
“Jo—”
“What if I hire additional security? Put up barriers?”
“That’s not—”
“What if I sell fewer tickets? Twenty-five people. That shaves off five.”
“Jo.” I do reach out then, catching her hand before I can think better of it. Her skin is exactly as soft as I imagined, and the contact sends heat racing up my arm. “Stop.”
She freezes. Stares at where my hand is wrapped around hers, then slowly lifts her eyes to mine. The air between us thickens, charges. I should let go. I don’t.
“You’re not listening,” I say, and my voice comes out rougher than intended. “This isn’t about furniture arrangement or seating charts. Your building has structural limitations. The exits, the ventilation, the maximum safe occupancy—these aren’t suggestions. They’re life-safety requirements.”
“But nothing bad would actually happen—”
“You don’t know that.” I step closer without meaning to, still holding her hand.
“In a fire, every second counts. Every body blocking an exit is a potential casualty. I’ve seen what happens when people ignore capacity limits, Jo.
I’ve pulled bodies from buildings that were ‘just a little over.’ I’ve told families their loved one didn’t make it out because there were too many people blocking the only clear exit. ”
Her face pales. “I didn’t—I wasn’t thinking about it like that.”
“I know.” And I do know. Savannah was right—this isn’t malicious disregard. It’s passionate optimism meeting harsh reality. “You’re not trying to be reckless. You just don’t understand the stakes.”
“Then help me understand.” She turns her hand in mine, her fingers threading through mine in a way that makes my pulse stutter. “Explain it to me instead of just saying no. Help me find a way to make this work.”
The way she’s looking at me… Like I have answers, and I’m not currently struggling to remember my own name because her thumb is brushing across my knuckles and it’s taking every ounce of control not to pull her closer.
“I’m trying to help,” I manage. “That’s why I’m here.”
“Are you?” The question is soft, almost vulnerable. “Or are you here because you have to be?”
Both. Neither. I’m here because I haven’t stopped thinking about you since yesterday and it’s driving me insane.
I don’t say any of that. Instead: “I’m here because this matters to you. And I’m starting to understand why.”
Her expression softens. For a moment, we just stand there, hands clasped, breathing synchronized, suspended in possibility.
Then reality crashes back.
I drop her hand. Step back. Put professional distance between us even though everything in me protests.
“Here’s what I can offer. Use a different venue—somewhere with proper capacity for your numbers.
The community center, the beachfront pavilion.
Or drastically reduce your guest list. Twenty people maximum, and I’ll work with you on safety protocols. ”
“But I want it here.” Her voice breaks slightly. “This is my space. My dream. I want to show people what I’ve built, what’s possible. If I have it somewhere else, it’s just another event. Here, it means something.”
I understand. More than she knows. The need to prove yourself. To show that you’ve survived, thrived, rebuilt. To create something meaningful from the ashes.
But understanding doesn’t change the facts.
“Then I can’t approve it,” I say quietly. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry.” She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You’re sorry while you destroy everything I’ve worked for.”
“I’m trying to keep people safe—“
“You’re being inflexible!” Her eyes shine with unshed tears, and it kills me. “There has to be a compromise. Some middle ground where I get my event and you get your precious regulations—”
“This isn’t about being precious about regulations!” My voice rises despite my best efforts. “This is about people’s lives! Why won’t you just listen?”
“Why won’t YOU?” She steps closer, chin tilted up, defiant even with tears threatening.
“You show up with your clipboard and your codes and your absolute certainty that you’re right, but you won’t even try to find another solution.
You just shut everything down and walk away feeling noble about it. ”
The accusation stings because there’s truth in it. I do hide behind regulations. Use them as a shield against actually engaging, actually feeling anything that might be messy or complicated.
Like whatever this is between us.
Complicated doesn’t begin to cover it. She’s Asher’s mother. She’s breaking codes. She’s passionate and stubborn and so determined to create something beautiful that she can’t see the danger.
And I’m attracted to all of it. Every frustrating, impossible bit.
“I should go,” I say, because staying feels dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with fire safety.
“Of course you should.” Jo crosses her arms, and the gesture pushes her breasts up in a way I absolutely should not be noticing right now. “Run away. That’s what you do, isn’t it? Hide behind your rules so you don’t have to actually deal with people.”
The words hit like a physical blow. “That’s not fair.”
“None of this is fair.” She swipes at her eyes angrily. “You’re the one with all the power here, Chief Beckett. You get to decide everything. And I’m just supposed to smile and accept it when you crush my dreams because procedure says so.”
“Jo—”
“Just go.” She turns away, shoulders rigid. “Go back to your station and your regulations and your absolute certainty that you’re saving people by saying no to everything. I’ll figure this out on my own.”
I want to argue. Want to explain that I’m not the villain here, that I’m doing my job, that if she’d just be reasonable—
But looking at her proud, devastated posture, I realize Savannah was right about something else too.
I have been lonely. Have been using my job as armor against actually connecting with anyone. Have been so focused on preventing tragedy that I forgot how to create joy.
And Jo—stubborn, passionate, glitter-covered Jo—makes me want to remember.
I leave without another word. Rex whines the whole way home, like even he knows I’ve just made everything worse.
Tomorrow, I’ll figure out how to fix this.
Tonight, I’ll just remember how her hand felt in mine and wonder what the hell I’m supposed to do about Asher’s mother who’s breaking fire codes and breaking through every defense I’ve spent five years building.