Chapter 3
Maisy
I stepped onto the porch, breath clouding in front of me, and scanned for the source. Maisy’s house. The curtains were all drawn, but lights were clearly on inside. There was no smoke, which was a good sign, at least. But something told me I’d find something unusual inside.
"Shit," I muttered, heart slamming against my ribs. Something wasn't right. My feet hit the lawn before I had time to think about it. The uneven ground threatened to trip me up, but I powered through, dodging shrubs and muttering a string of curses under my breath. Cold air stung my face, cutting through the heat that adrenaline pumped into my chest.
I reached her front door, already fumbling for the handle. Unlocked. Of course. Chief Frank had warned me she had a habit of leaving it open. “Damn it, Maisy,” I growled, pushing through with more force than necessary. The door slammed against the wall, rattling on its hinges as I stepped inside.
"Maisy?" I called out, my voice bouncing around the small space. No answer. The sound of the alarm upstairs made it hard to think straight.
Then it hit me.
Something bizarre was going on.
The living room looked like a tornado had torn through—coffee table shoved a little off-center, art supplies scattered near the couch. But what stopped me cold was the scene at the center of it all: a tea party. Not a normal one either. The place was full of . . . plushies?
They were seated neatly around tiny cups and saucers. Bears, rabbits, some weird unicorn-looking thing—all arranged like they’d been invited over for biscuits and gossip.
“What the hell?” I whispered, taking another step inside. My boots creaked against the floorboards, loud enough to make me wince. This . . . this is what she was doing? Hosting a stuffed animal soirée while alarms screamed bloody murder?
My pulse hammered in my ears as I scanned the room again, searching for any sign of Maisy. Nothing. Just the tea party and chaos.
"Maisy!" I barked, louder this time, the sound bouncing off the pastel walls. Still no answer. The house felt wrong—too still, except for the damn beeping.
I moved toward the kitchen, stepping over a stray paintbrush and something that looked like glitter glue smeared into the floorboards. The countertop was cluttered, covered with half-finished projects: a canvas splashed with streaks of bold colors, scissors, ribbons. It looked like she’d taken every art supply within a ten-mile radius and dumped it here.
"Maisy!" I shouted again, gripping the edge of the counter. My knuckles went white. No movement, no reply. Where the hell was she?
The plushies on the couch stared at me, their glassy eyes catching the light. They felt like silent witnesses, mocking me for not having a clue what was going on. I turned away from them, my jaw tight. No smoke, no fire—yet—but my gut told me I didn’t have time to waste.
"Come on," I muttered under my breath, heading for the staircase. The alarm let out another shriek, cutting through me with a fresh wave of urgency.
I took the stairs two at a time, my boots thudding against the wood. The air changed halfway up—warmer, heavier—and there it was: steam. Thick and humid, curling faintly around the stairwell. My nose caught something else too, sweet and unexpected—vanilla? What the hell?
"Maisy!" I shouted, my voice rough now. My throat burned from yelling, but I didn’t care. The smell, the heat—it set every nerve in my body on edge.
At the landing, I paused just long enough to scan the hallway. Steam clung to the air like a fog bank, blurring the edges of the dim light spilling out from under a door down the hall. The alarm screamed louder here, almost deafening, but all I could hear was the pounding in my chest.
"Goddammit, Maisy," I growled, bolting toward the door.
The door at the end of the hallway glowed faintly, steam swirling out through the gap like ghostly fingers. The alarm screamed again, ratcheting up my pulse. I lunged for the handle. Locked.
"Maisy!" I shouted, rattling it hard enough to make the frame shake. Nothing. No answer. Just the shrill wail and the oppressive heat pressing down on me.
I didn’t think twice. My shoulder hit the wood with a crunch, and the cheap latch gave way. The door swung open, slamming into the wall.
Steam poured out, thick as fog, clinging to my face and arms. The bathroom was small, the air stifling, condensation dripping from every surface. The mirror was streaked with moisture, reflecting nothing but haze. No flames. No smoke. Just water and—her.
"Holy fucking Christ," I muttered under my breath, freezing in place.
Maisy stood on a rickety-looking footstool, her toes gripping the edge for balance. Her arm was stretched high, gripping a sock that dangled from the fire alarm. The damn thing kept screaming, each beep hammering into my skull.
And she was naked. Completely. Naked.
Her soaked hair clung to her neck and shoulders, drops of water sliding down smooth skin. My eyes jerked away, landing anywhere but her body. Anywhere but her bottom. I found myself staring at the wall tiles, counting the tiny square patterns, trying to force my brain back into gear.
"Uh—" My throat dried up. I spun toward the towel rack, fumbling blindly. There had to be something—anything—I could shove in her direction. "Maisy, what the hell are you doing?"
"Getting this stupid thing to shut up!" Her voice was sharp, defensive. It cut through the chaos like a slap. She stretched higher, her footing wobbling dangerously on the stool.
"Maisy, stop moving—you’re gonna fall!" I kept my gaze pinned firmly on the towels, yanking one free with a shaky hand. My heart pounded harder than the night I got trapped in that burning house as a kid.
"Well, maybe don’t barge in next time!" she snapped, her voice mortified.
I yanked the towel from the hook, my fingers gripping it like a lifeline. My head stayed turned toward the fogged-up mirror, steam blurring everything but the edges of her reflection. Even that was enough to make my throat tighten.
"Here," I said, shoving the towel backward without looking.
"Give me a second!" Maisy snapped, her voice pitching higher as the fire alarm kept shrieking. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her reach for it, her foot wobbling on the stool. The damn thing creaked.
"Maisy—" I whipped around just as she lost her balance. She slipped, one foot skidding out from under her. My body moved before I could think.
"Whoa!" I lunged forward, grabbing her elbow to steady her. Her skin was slick and warm under my hands, and I immediately wished I hadn’t noticed that. My heart slammed against my ribs.
"Don’t look!" she hissed, snatching the towel from my grasp and nearly dropping it in the process. She yanked it around herself, fumbling to cover up as the stool teetered beneath her.
"Not looking!" I barked back, eyes snapping upward to the godforsaken alarm that was still wailing like a banshee.
The sound stopped abruptly, leaving the room ringing with silence and the heavy press of steam. Maisy hit the silence button, her hand shaking. The towel was finally wrapped securely around her, but not before I’d caught another accidental glimpse of bare skin—the curve of her shoulder, the line of her collarbone. The generous plunge of her cleavage.
"Are you okay?" I asked, stepping back like the air between us might cool the heat crawling up my neck. My voice came out rougher than I meant. I couldn’t meet her eyes.
"Was fine before you barged in here like some overzealous action hero." Her cheeks were burning red, her wet hair plastered to her face.
"Yeah, well, I heard the alarm," I mumbled, rubbing the back of my neck. "Assumed the worst." I risked a glance at her, only for my focus to snap right back to the broken doorframe. My chest felt too tight.
"Yeah? Well, next time assume I’m naked in my bathroom, not on fire!" She crossed her arms, gripping the edge of the towel so hard her knuckles went white.
The sock in her hand caught my eye.
"Is that . . . ?" I frowned, gesturing towards her hand. The damp fabric hung limply between her fingers, the toe end stretched out like it had been manhandled. My brain worked through the pieces—steam still clinging to every surface, no sign of flames, and now this. "You threw a sock at the alarm?"
Maisy’s face went so red I thought she might combust right there. "I didn’t throw it," she snapped, voice sharp enough to cut glass. "I was trying to muffle it. It was loud, okay?"
"Yeah, well, it is an alarm," I said, unable to keep the edge of sarcasm out of my voice. Her glare could’ve melted steel. I scrubbed a hand over my face, groaning softly. "Let me guess. Shower steam set it off?"
"Obviously." She tightened her grip on the towel, her knuckles stark white against the pale terrycloth. There was a slight tremor in her voice, but she masked it with bravado. "And then you decided to kick my door down like I was trapped in a burning building."
"To be fair, I didn’t know what was going on," I shot back, keeping my tone even. "Chief Frank asked me to check in on you while he’s out of town. Said something about you being . . . care-free." I let the word hang in the air. "He didn’t mention naked rescue missions, though."
Her jaw dropped, eyes wide for a split second before narrowing into a fiery glare. "Oh, my God," she hissed, clutching the towel tighter as if it would shield her from the embarrassment radiating off her. "This is mortifying. Just—just go back to hero-ing somewhere else, Brett."
"Hey, I’m not the one who tried to smother a fire alarm with a sock," I said, holding up both hands in mock surrender. Her eyes darted away, cheeks still blazing. For a moment, I felt bad. Almost.
Then I remembered the tea party.
"Speaking of things I don’t understand . . ." I shifted my weight, leaning slightly against the doorframe—what was left of it, anyway. "Are you . . . having a tea party downstairs?"
Her head snapped up so fast I thought she might get whiplash. "What?"
"Tea party," I repeated, trying not to grin. "Stuffed animals. Little cups and plates. You know, the works."
"That’s none of your business!" Maisy blurted, her voice high-pitched and defensive. She hugged the towel closer, almost like a shield. "I was just—" She faltered, lips pressing into a thin line. "It’s for me, okay? I was blowing off steam. Literally. Not that it’s any of your concern!"
"Okay, okay," I said quickly, raising my hands again. But the image of those plushies all lined up around the table wouldn’t leave my mind. "I mean, it’s . . . creative. Unexpected." My lips twitched before I could stop them. "Never pegged you for the tea-party type."
"Well, maybe you shouldn’t peg me as anything," she shot back, her voice icy despite the flush still painting her cheeks. Her arms tightened around herself, her gaze darting to the tiled floor.
"Hey," I said, my voice softer than I expected. "I think it’s… cute."
Her head shot up again, eyes narrowing like she thought I was messing with her. But there wasn’t a hint of teasing in my tone—I made sure of it. Her cheeks, already pink from heat and embarrassment, seemed to deepen in color. For the first time since I’d barged in, she didn’t look mad, just . . . startled.
"Really," I added, keeping my voice steady. "The tea party thing. It’s cute."
She blinked at me, hard, like she couldn’t make sense of what I’d just said. Her grip on the towel loosened—barely—and her shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch. It wasn’t much, but it was something. The air between us felt less like a live wire, more like static waiting to fade.
"Sure doesn’t seem like you mean that," she mumbled, still not quite meeting my eyes.
"Maisy," I said, leaning one hand against the busted doorframe for balance. "I’m not judging you. I swear." And I meant it.
She glanced up at me through damp lashes, her lips parting slightly like she wanted to say something but was still deciding if she could trust me. The pause stretched long enough that I caught myself staring at a bead of water rolling down the curve of her collarbone before she shifted, pulling the towel tighter. I jerked my gaze back to her face, heat creeping up my neck.
"Look," I started, clearing my throat, "do you need anything? I can fix the alarm or—" I gestured vaguely toward the mangled door hanging off its hinges. "Uh, that?"
She shook her head, quick and sharp, her eyes dropping to her feet. "No. You’ve done plenty already." The words came out stiff, but there was no bite left in them. Just exhaustion. She was still clutching the towel like it might vanish at any second. “Maybe you can fix the door another day? You know, before my dad comes back.”
"Sure," I said slowly, trying to ignore the way her bare skin glistened under the bathroom light. My throat felt dry. Too dry. "Just . . . anything you need."
"Yeah, well, I’m fine," she muttered, toeing at the tile grout. Her voice was quieter now. Softer. Almost like she was convincing herself as much as me. “If you can find away to forget this ever happened? Like, I don’t want all the guys at the station to know about it. Don’t really like the idea of being teased.”
“Of course. I won’t tell anyone at the station. No way I’m having you get teased for this.”
Maisy’s grip on her towel eased a fraction, and for the first time since I’d barged in, she let out a breath that didn’t sound like it was trying to strangle her.
"Thanks," she mumbled, her voice thin but genuine, like she wasn’t sure how else to handle the situation. Her shoulders loosened, just barely, and I took that as my cue to retreat. The air still felt charged, heavy with everything unsaid, but at least the damn alarm had shut up. Small mercies.
I made it halfway through the doorframe before her voice stopped me cold.
"And, uh, you know, since you’ve seen me naked, maybe you should strip too."
My brain short-circuited. I froze mid-step, heart hammering so hard it might’ve cracked a rib. For a second, I thought I’d misheard her—had to have, right? But when I turned back, her face was beet red, her eyes locked anywhere but on me.
"That would make us even," she added, voice cracking just enough to betray her nerves.
Jesus Christ.
For one insane moment, I actually considered it. The idea hit me like a sucker punch, sending a wave of heat straight through me. My pulse spiked; my body reacted before reason could catch up. Then the rest of her words sank in—"make us even"—and reality came rushing back, slamming the brakes on that dangerous train of thought.
"Wait, what?" I managed, my voice coming out rougher than intended.
Her head snapped up, eyes wide, horrified. "Oh my God, I was joking!" she stammered, practically tripping over her own words. "I don’t—I mean, obviously, I don’t want you to—"
"Right," I cut in, holding up a hand to stop her verbal spiral before she combusted. A grin tugged at the corner of my mouth despite myself. "Got it. Joking."
"Yeah," she muttered, burying her face in her free hand. If it were possible to die from embarrassment, Maisy Frank would’ve been six feet under. "Forget I said anything, okay?"
"Already forgotten," I lied smoothly.
She peeked at me from behind her fingers, her face about ten shades of crimson. The look on her face was almost enough to distract me from the fact that I still couldn’t get the image of her bare skin out of my head.
"Goodnight, Maisy," I said, forcing my tone back to something close to normal.
"Night," she mumbled into her palm.
I stepped out into the hall, letting the busted door swing uselessly on its broken hinges behind me. My feet carried me down the stairs, past the plushie tea party that now seemed weirdly innocent compared to… well, everything that had just happened.
By the time I hit the front door, the cold night air slapped me in the face, but it did nothing to cool the buzz coursing through my body. I shoved my hands into my pockets, staring out at the dark expanse of lawn between our houses.
"Professional," I muttered under my breath. "Real professional."
But no matter how hard I tried to push it down, the memory of her standing there—flushed, damp, beautiful—kept clawing its way back into my mind.
Maisy Frank was going to be the death of me.