Chapter 4
W ell.
That was the most humiliating night of my life.
The chair creaked under me as I flopped down. My desk was a disaster. Paperwork stacked high enough to block out the little bit of light coming through the narrow office window. Timesheets, shift schedules, and something that looked suspiciously like an overdue report from last month glared at me accusingly.
I jabbed the computer awake with more force than necessary. The screen flickered to life, but all I could see in my head was Brett. Standing there. In my bathroom. My breath hitched just thinking about it—his soaked t-shirt clinging to his chest, steam curling around his silver hair. God, why couldn’t my brain drop it already?
I rubbed my temples, but that only made the memory sharper. Me. Naked. Balanced on a footstool like some kind of deranged circus act, clutching a sock while trying to silence the smoke alarm. And Brett. Torn between looking away and rushing to help, his jaw tight and his hazel eyes wide.
"Ugh," I groaned, shoving at the papers in front of me. They didn’t budge much. Embarrassment burned through me so hot I half expected the fire alarm here to go off too. What had I even been thinking with that stupid stripping joke? Like that wasn’t going to haunt me forever.
Had I been joking?
Of course.
But if he’d seemed up for it?
Who knows.
I forced myself to focus. Shift schedules. Right. I grabbed a pen and stared at the roster, trying to make sense of who was covering what. But my mind slipped again, back to the way Brett had stood there looking like some kind of hero out of a movie—and me, the walking definition of chaos. I chewed my bottom lip hard enough to sting, but even the tiny pain couldn’t pull me out of the whirlpool of humiliation.
"Focus," I muttered to myself. "Just get through this."
Footsteps. Heavy, deliberate. My stomach twisted before I even glanced up.
There he was.
Somehow I’d known.
Brett strolled past the office door like he had zero cares in the world. Calm. Collected. Maddeningly perfect. His uniform fit him like it was custom-made to taunt me, every line sharp and clean, his silver hair catching the fluorescent lights just enough to remind me how unfair genetics could be. He didn’t look my way. Didn’t say a word. Just kept walking, steady and sure, like we hadn’t shared the most humiliating moment of my life less than twelve hours ago.
My pulse spiked anyway. Great. So this is where I live now—permanently on edge, waiting for him to say something or, worse, *not* say something about last night.
I ducked my head, pretending to focus on the stack of timesheets in front of me. Maybe if I acted busy enough, I wouldn’t combust. But even as I stared at the paper, I felt it—that weird, invisible pull of his awareness. Like he wasn’t just walking by. Like he was checking on me without stopping, fulfilling some unspoken firefighter code or, more likely, following orders from my dad. The Chief’s Daughter Must Be Protected At All Costs.
The footsteps faded.
Good. He hadn’t come in.
Was it good?
I shoved my chair back with a squeak that sounded way too loud in the quiet office. Nope, couldn’t do this. Not with him wandering around like Mr. Calm-and-Collected. Not with my brain replaying every stupid thing I’d said last night on a loop. I needed air. And caffeine. So much caffeine it drowned out the shame.
I grabbed my purse and slipped out the side door, hoping no one would notice me bailing. It was okay, I was due a break, anyway.
The Daily Grind was just down the block, and I beelined for it like it was an oasis in the middle of my personal desert of awkwardness. The smell of coffee hit me as soon as I opened the door—sweet, rich, kind of like a hug if hugs were caffeinated. Behind the counter, Marie looked up and grinned, her wild blonde curls bouncing as she waved me over.
"Maisy!" she called, her voice warm and teasing, like she already knew I was walking drama today. "You look like you need a latte and a long talk. Get over here."
"Okay, spill it," Marie said as she slid my latte across the counter. Her grin was so wide I could practically see all her molars. She leaned on her elbows, curls bobbing like they had their own personality. "You’re vibrating with whatever’s got you wound up. Don’t make me drag it out of you."
I took a sip of my latte, buying time. The froth clung to my lip, and I wiped it away with the back of my hand. My brain screamed at me not to say anything, but before I knew it, the words tumbled out like an avalanche I couldn’t stop.
"Last night," I whispered, glancing around even though the café was mostly empty. "It was a disaster. So I was in the shower, and I set the fire alarm off.”
“In the shower?”
“Right. The steam. It’s a crappy older model. Anyway, it was squawking and Brett came over—"
"Wait, Brett?" Marie's eyes widened, and her grin turned downright wicked. "As in firefighter Brett? Marcus’ brother? Tall, dark, and broody Brett?"
"Yes, that Brett," I hissed, cheeks burning. "He burst in. And . . . uh . . . I was naked!"
Marie gasped, slapping a hand over her mouth. "Oh my God. Naked, naked? Like full-on—"
"Yes! And don’t say it so loud!" My fingers gripped the coffee cup like it was the only thing tethering me to Earth. "I was trying to fan the stupid smoke alarm with a sock, standing on a footstool, and he just—" I gestured wildly, words failing me. "He walked in. He saw everything."
Marie blinked, then burst out laughing, the kind of laugh that made her curl into herself and clutch her stomach. "Maisy! That’s—" She wheezed between giggles. "That’s next-level meet-cute material. You can’t make this stuff up."
"Meet-cute?" I gawked at her. "It was mortifying! Not cute! Mort-i-fy-ing."
"Yeah, yeah. Sure." She waved me off, still giggling. "But come on, Maisy. Tell me he didn’t look at you like you were the only woman in the world. Please tell me there was some smoldering eye contact, or I’ll lose all faith in men."
"Marie!" I buried my face in my hands, heat crawling up my neck. "He wasn’t looking at me like that. He was probably just horrified. Or worried about lawsuit potential."
"Maybe." She tilted her head, studying me like she was piecing together clues. "Or maybe he was thinking how lucky he was that fate sent him to your door. Smoke alarms don’t just go off for no reason, you know. There’s no smoke without fire."
"Stop." I shook my head, groaning. "There’s no fate here, okay? My dad would kill me if I even—" I cut myself off, realizing I’d already said too much.
"Ah, there it is." Marie tapped a finger against the counter, her brown eyes sparkling. "Daddy issues. Classic Small Falls drama. But honey, let me tell you something—" She leaned closer, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Your dad might run the fire station, but your love life? That’s all yours. And if Brett Wilkins is gonna waltz into it? I say let him."
"Not happening," I muttered, finishing the last of my latte and avoiding her knowing gaze.
"Sure, sure." She winked. "But when you two are naming your future kids, just remember who called it first."
"Goodbye, Marie," I said firmly, grabbing my purse and escaping before she could wedge any more wild ideas into my brain.
Back at the fire station, the warmth of the café faded fast. I barely stepped inside before nearly colliding with three firefighters gathered near the lockers.
"Hey, Maisy!" one of them—Pete, I think—called out. "We were just talking. We’re heading to the diner for lunch. You should come. Kind of a welcome thing."
"Welcome?" I glanced between them, unsure if this was genuine or some weird hazing ritual.
"Yeah," another guy said, shrugging casually. "You’re part of the team now, right? Gotta celebrate."
"Uh . . ." I hesitated, thinking of how my dad kept hammering home the importance of fitting in. This seemed like the kind of thing he’d want me to do. "Who’s going?"
"Just the usual crew," Pete said. "Me, Jake, Brett—"
My stomach flipped. Of course, Brett. Because why wouldn’t my most embarrassing moment follow me everywhere?
"Right," I said, forcing a smile. "Sure. I’ll come."
***
T he diner door creaked as I pushed it open, the bell above jingling like a starter pistol in a race I wasn’t ready to run. The smell hit me first—greasy fries, sizzling bacon, and coffee strong enough to wake the dead. My stomach twisted, though I couldn’t tell if it was hunger or nerves. Probably both.
They were already there, crammed into one of those sticky vinyl booths that looked like it hadn’t been updated since the seventies. Pete saw me first, raising a hand. “Maisy! Over here!”
I plastered on what I hoped was a confident smile and made my way over, feeling every pair of eyes from the other diners track me. When I reached the booth, my gaze snagged on Brett. He was on the end, his broad shoulders crowding the space, silver hair catching just enough of the light to make him look unfairly good. He glanced up, hazel eyes locking on mine for a beat too long. My pulse did this stupid little stutter-step, and I hated it.
"Hey," I managed, sliding in across from him before I could chicken out. The vinyl squeaked under me, loud and awkward. Perfect.
"Glad you made it," Pete said, shoving a menu toward me even though I already knew I wouldn’t be able to eat much. My throat still felt tight.
"Wouldn’t miss it," I lied. My fingers curled around the edge of the menu, but I didn’t bother looking down at it. Instead, I braved another glance at Brett. He wasn’t looking at me anymore, thank God, but his jaw was tight, like he was keeping something in. Great. Maybe he was just as thrilled about this as I was.
"Alright," Jake started, leaning back like he owned the place. "Let’s get to know our new rookie, huh?"
"Rookie?" I shot back, raising an eyebrow. "I’ve been coming to the station since I was a kid."
"Yeah, well, we haven’t thrown you a welcome lunch until now, have we?" Pete grinned. "So, it counts now."
"Fair enough." I forced a laugh, trying not to sound defensive. They meant well. Mostly.
"Okay, so spill," Jake said. "Have you always wanted to be a fire station administrator, or did Daddy talk you into it?"
And there it was. I bit the inside of my cheek, forcing myself to keep the smile fixed in place. "Nope," I said casually. "I’m gonna be an illustrator one day. And no, my dad didn’t ‘talk me into it.’" I folded the menu closed, setting it neatly on the table. "Decided all on my own to give it a shot."
"Bold move," Pete chimed in, nodding. "Lotta pressure being the Chief’s kid, though, right?"
"Sure," I said, trying to keep my tone light. "But I’m not here because of him. I want to pull my weight like anyone else."
"Right, right," Jake said, smirking like he didn’t quite believe me. "But come on, Maisy. Be real. Is he as much of a ball-breaker at home as he is at the station?"
"He’s worse." The words came out sharper than I intended. I cleared my throat, glancing at Brett again. He was sitting quietly, arms crossed, his attention flicking between me and the others. Watching. Assessing.
"Well," Pete said, clearly trying to steer things back to friendly territory, "you’re holding up alright so far. You’ve not started any fires in the office yet, which is a miracle considering the amount of waste paper."
"Low bar," I muttered, earning a chuckle from most of them. Even Brett’s mouth twitched at the corner, though he kept quiet.
"Alright, Maisy," Jake said, leaning back and tapping his fork against the edge of his plate. "Be honest. Did your dad make you memorize every rule in the manual before he let you step foot in the station?"
The table chuckled, but my stomach tightened. I forced a smile, pushing a fry around my plate. "Memorize? No. But we have a pop quiz at breakfast every morning."
"Sounds about right," Pete chimed in, shaking his head. "The Chief’s got high standards. Tough shoes to fill."
"She’s doing fine," Brett said suddenly, his voice cutting through the low hum of conversation. He didn’t look up from his soda, just swirled the straw around like he hadn’t just thrown me a lifeline. "We’ve all had our first days. Nobody’s perfect out the gate."
"Speak for yourself," Pete joked, raising his hands in mock defense. The tension eased as laughter rippled through the booth, though my heart thudded harder. Brett’s words hung in the air, grounding me.
For a crazy moment, I imagined Brett telling everyone what happened last night. I wondered what the other men’s faces would look like.
There she was, guys, naked, wet, waiting for me .
I knew though, that he wouldn’t. He wasn’t that kind of guy.
"Thanks," I mumbled, not meeting his gaze. My face felt hot, but I wasn’t sure if it was gratitude or something else entirely.
"Don’t mention it," Brett replied, casual as ever, then leaned back, letting the others steer the conversation toward some old story about a prank involving a fire hose and a very unfortunate raccoon.
I tried to focus on the chatter, on the greasy fries cooling on my plate, but my attention kept snagging on Brett. The way his shoulders filled out his navy t-shirt. The quiet way he watched everyone, like he didn’t miss much. Even when he wasn’t looking at me, it felt like he was aware of me.
"Maisy?" Jake’s voice snapped me out of it. "You good over there?"
"Yeah, sorry." I grabbed my soda, taking a long sip to cover my flustered state. Of course, that didn’t stop me from catching Brett’s faint smirk out of the corner of my eye. Great—he’d noticed.
"Long day," Brett said smoothly, stepping in again. "Cut her some slack, Jake. Not everyone can keep up with your endless questions."
"Endless charm, you mean," Jake shot back, grinning, but the attention shifted off me, and I exhaled quietly. Brett caught my eye then, just for a second, and the corner of his mouth twitched. It wasn’t quite a smile, but it carried more warmth than I expected.
"Thanks," I muttered again, barely audible.
"Anytime," he said, just loud enough for me to catch. And then, casually, he reached for the ketchup, like he hadn’t just made my chest tighten with two simple words.
I stabbed at a fry, pretending to care about eating. Instead, I was hyper-aware of him sitting across from me, his arm resting on the back of the booth, his presence steady and calm. It was maddening. Even here, with these tough, cocky men, he was in charge. Totally dominant.
"Hey, Maisy," Pete said, drawing my attention back to the group. "What’s the toughest part of the job so far?"
"Uh . . ." My mind blanked. The toughest thing? I’d only been working a couple of days.
"Probably last night," Brett said, his tone dry but light. My eyes snapped to his, wide with alarm.
"Last night?" Jake perked up, his curiosity piqued. "What happened?"
"Had a false alarm," Brett said smoothly, shrugging one shoulder. "Maisy handled it like a pro. No big deal."
"False alarm, huh?" Pete smirked. "Let me guess—burnt popcorn?"
"Something like that," Brett replied, his gaze flicking to mine for just a heartbeat. There was no teasing in his expression, just something calm and unreadable. Still, my cheeks burned.
"Rookies," Jake said, shaking his head with a grin, and the conversation moved on. But I stayed stuck, replaying Brett’s words, his easy deflection. He hadn’t embarrassed me. If anything, he’d covered for me without making it obvious.
"Guess I owe you one," I murmured under my breath, leaning slightly toward him.
"Already keeping track?" he said, his voice low and steady. It sent a shiver down my spine, and I hated how easily he could do that.
"Maybe." I glanced at him, and for a split second, our eyes locked. His hazel gaze was steady, unreadable, but something simmered underneath. My breath hitched, and I quickly looked away, grabbing my soda like it was a lifeline.
"Careful," he said softly, almost too soft to hear. "You might end up owing me a lot."
I didn’t dare respond. I couldn’t. Not with the way my pulse hammered in my ears. Not with the memory of him standing in my bathroom last night flooding back in full force.
Instead, I focused on my fries, ignoring the weight of his gaze—or maybe imagining it. Either way, I was in trouble.