Christmas with the Firefighter (Christmas in Hope Peak #2)

Chapter 1 – Miranda

The Snowcap Inn looks exactly like the kind of place where people fall in love in movies, which means it's exactly the kind of place I should avoid.

But here I am anyway, standing in the lobby with my oversized duffel bag dripping melted snow onto vintage hardwood floors, because sometimes you run out of better options.

The smell of cinnamon and pine wraps around me like a hug, and there's a fire crackling in a stone fireplace that probably costs more than my car.

Garland drapes the wooden banister in perfect swoops, and somewhere overhead, Bing Crosby croons about white Christmases through speakers hidden in crown molding.

It's aggressively cozy. Offensively romantic.

I tug my damp sweater down over my hips and try to make myself smaller, which is a lost cause considering I take up the space I take up whether I like it or not.

The woman behind the front desk smiles at me like I belong here, like I'm not a woman fleeing Christmas Eve dinner with relatives who think my life choices are a personal insult to their family values.

"Welcome to the Snowcap Inn, dear. You must be Miranda."

Her voice is warm as maple syrup, and I almost cry again just from the kindness in it.

I've been crying on and off for the last three hours of driving through Montana winter, my eyes still puffy and my cheeks still blotchy, but something about being welcomed threatens to undo what's left of my composure.

"That's me." I sign the paperwork and accept the old-fashioned brass key she slides across the mahogany desk. "Just the one night."

"Room twelve, up the stairs and to the right. Breakfast starts at seven, but we always have coffee and cookies down here if you need a little something later." She glances at the grandfather clock ticking in the corner. "Though I suppose it is rather late."

The stairs creak under my weight, each step announcing my presence to anyone who might be listening, and I grip the brass banister a little tighter than necessary.

My room is small and perfect, with a queen bed covered in a big quilt and a window that faces the snow-covered mountains. There's a tiny Christmas tree on the dresser, complete with miniature ornaments, and I have to look away before the loneliness can settle too deep in my chest.

I drop my bag on the floor with a soft thud and immediately start unpacking my laptop, my presentation notes, and my stack of client files.

Work doesn't judge me for eating my feelings or avoiding family gatherings or booking last-minute hotel rooms because I can't bear the thought of spending Christmas morning alone in my apartment, pretending everything is fine.

The papers spread across the quilt—quarterly reports and market analyses and strategic recommendations that prove I'm useful, valuable, successful in at least one area of my life.

I pull up the presentation I'm supposed to deliver next week and start typing, letting the familiar rhythm of productivity drown out the voice in my head that whispers about all the ways I don't measure up.

But my fingers are cold, and the radiator under the window hums without producing much actual heat, and suddenly I'm craving the kind of comfort that only comes from something warm and sweet and made with your own hands.

I dig through my bag until I find the travel burner I always pack, a habit left over from too many hotel rooms with broken coffee makers and too many late nights when room service wasn't an option.

There's a small saucepan in my arsenal too, and individual packets of cocoa powder, and a thermos of whole milk I picked up at the last gas station.

This is self-care, I tell myself as I set up my makeshift kitchen on the small table by the window. This is choosing comfort over chaos, warmth over wallowing. This is exactly the kind of small, perfect moment that makes traveling alone worth it.

The burner flickers to life with a soft whoosh, and I pour milk into the pan, watching it shimmer in the blue flame.

The smell is clean and sweet, promising something better than the mess I left behind.

I grab my phone to document the moment—because if you don't photograph your self-care rituals, did they really happen?

—and start scrolling through filters while the milk warms.

I'm so focused on finding the perfect filter that I don't notice the smell changing from sweet to sharp until smoke starts curling from the saucepan in gray ribbons.

"Shit, shit, shit—"

I lunge for the burner, nearly knocking over my laptop in the process, but it's too late. The milk has scorched black on the bottom of the pan, and smoke is billowing toward the ceiling in accusatory puffs, and somewhere above my head, a fire alarm starts shrieking like a banshee.

Not just the smoke detector in my room. The entire building erupts in coordinated chaos, alarms blaring from every direction, emergency lights flashing red through my window, and the unmistakable sound of sprinkler systems activating in the hallway outside my door.

"No, no, no, please—" I wave my hands frantically at the smoke detector, as if I can somehow convince it that this is just a minor culinary mishap and not an actual emergency.

But it's too late for negotiation. Through my door, I can hear guests in the hallway, voices raised in confusion and alarm, the sound of doors slamming and feet running on hardwood floors.

I've triggered a full evacuation of the inn because I burned milk while choosing an Instagram filter.

This is my life now.

The hallway sprinklers are going full force when I crack open my door, water cascading from the ceiling in sheets.

My sweater soaks through immediately, clinging to my curves in ways that make me want to disappear entirely, and I'm standing there dripping and mortified when I hear the sound of heavy boots on the stairs.

Authoritative footsteps. Purposeful. Coming my way.

I consider hiding in the bathroom until whoever it is goes away, but that seems like exactly the kind of behavior that gets you labeled as the crazy woman who floods historic inns.

So I stay put, water dripping from my hair and my dignity somewhere around my ankles, and wait for the inevitable judgment.

The footsteps stop outside my door.

"Miss? Fire department."

His voice cuts through the chaos. Calm, steady, with just enough authority to make me believe everything might actually be okay. I pull the door open wider and find myself looking up at a man who seems to take up the entire doorframe without trying.

His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows despite the winter cold, revealing defined forearms, and his dark uniform shirt fits him like it was tailored specifically for his broad shoulders.

Short hair, light brown with touches of gold that catch the emergency lighting.

A beard that's neat without being precious.

Eyes that are some indeterminate color between green and brown, focused entirely on my face.

"I'm so sorry," I start, words tumbling over each other in my rush to explain. "I was making hot cocoa and I got distracted and the milk burned and I never meant for this to happen, I swear I'm not usually this much of a disaster—"

"Hey." His voice is gentle, cutting through my rambling with quiet authority. "It's okay. These things happen."

He steps into my room without invitation, but somehow it doesn't feel like an intrusion.

He surveys the scene—the blackened pan, the still-smoking burner, my laptop balanced precariously on the edge of the bed surrounded by scattered papers.

"Mind if I turn this off?"

I nod mutely, watching as he switches off the burner with efficiency and moves the ruined pan to the windowsill where it can't cause any more trouble. His movements are economical, sure, like he's done this a thousand times before.

"No actual fire," he says, more to himself than to me, pulling a radio from his belt. "Control, this is Engine Twelve. False alarm at the Snowcap Inn. Accidental activation from cooking smoke. Building is secure."

The radio crackles back with some code I don't understand, and he clips it back to his belt before turning his attention to me again. I'm still standing there dripping, arms wrapped around myself, feeling like the world's most incompetent adult.

"I'm really, truly sorry," I say again, because it bears repeating. "I know you have better things to do on Christmas Eve than deal with my kitchen disasters."

He pauses in his inspection of the smoke detector, looking down at me with something that might be amusement. "Actually, this is exactly what I signed up for. Kitchen disasters are kind of my specialty."

There's warmth in his voice that makes my chest tight.

"You're soaked," he observes, and suddenly I'm reminded of how the wet sweater clings to my breasts, my soft stomach, the curve of my hips. I cross my arms tighter, but he's already moving, pulling a clean towel from the bathroom and offering it to me.

"Thank you." I take the towel gratefully, but when our fingers brush during the handoff, something electric shoots up my arm and settles warm in my belly.

The alarm stops abruptly, leaving the room in sudden, ringing silence.

"That's better," he says, but his voice is rougher now, like the quiet caught him off guard too.

I dry my face and hands, hyperaware of his presence filling the small space.

He's checking the detector with professional thoroughness, but I catch him glancing in my direction when he thinks I'm not looking.

Not at my body, though I'm sure he's noticed the way my clothes have molded themselves to every curve, but at my face, like he's trying to figure out something that puzzles him.

"The system needs time to cycle through the reset," he explains, tucking his tools back into their case. "I'll need to wait here until it's complete, make sure everything's functioning properly."

"Of course." I nod like this is totally normal, like I have firefighters in my hotel room all the time, like I'm not desperately trying to figure out what to do with my hands. "I should probably... I mean, I don't want to keep you from..."

"You're not keeping me from anything." His gaze meets mine, steady and sure. "But you might be more comfortable waiting in the lobby. The heating system should kick back on soon, and there's usually coffee down there."

The lobby. With its crackling fire and soft lighting and absolutely zero chance of me making any more catastrophic mistakes. It sounds like heaven.

"That's probably a good idea," I admit, grabbing my phone and room key from the bedside table. "I should probably get out of these wet clothes too."

The words hang in the air between us, loaded with implication I definitely didn't intend, and I feel my cheeks flush hot with embarrassment. But when I risk a glance at his face, there's no judgment there. Just a quiet intensity that makes my breath catch.

"I'll walk down with you," he says simply. "Make sure the hallway's clear."

The sprinklers have stopped, leaving the hallway damp but passable, and he falls into step beside me as we head toward the stairs.

The lobby is blessedly empty except for the inn's owner, who's waiting by the front desk with worried eyes and a steaming pot of coffee.

"Is everything all right?" he asks, bustling over with a concerned expression.

"Everything's fine, Mr. Ford," my firefighter says—and when did I start thinking of him as mine? "Just a minor cooking incident. The system should be fully reset within the next fifteen minutes."

Mr. Ford nods and disappears back to wherever innkeepers go at midnight, leaving us alone in the warm glow of the fireplace. The Christmas tree lights twinkle softly in the corner, and Nat King Cole has replaced Bing Crosby on the hidden speakers.

It's romantic as hell, and I'm standing here in wet clothes with my hair dripping and my dignity in tatters, and somehow this steady, solid, unexpectedly gentle man is looking at me like I'm something worth seeing.

“You look like you could use some warming up." he says, settling into one of the leather chairs by the fireplace like he has all the time in the world

He's right. I'm shivering now, the adrenaline wearing off and leaving me cold and shaky and more vulnerable than I want to admit. The fire looks inviting, and the chair across from him looks even better, and something about his calm presence makes me feel safer than I have all day.

So I sit.

And for the first time since I fled my cousin's dining room table, I stop trying to make myself smaller.

"I'm Corey, by the way," he says, leaning back in his chair like we have all night to get acquainted.

"Miranda." I tuck my feet under me and realize I'm smiling for the first time in hours. "And I promise I'm not usually this much of a walking disaster."

"I don't know," he says, and there's definitely amusement in his voice now. "You made quite an impression."