Chapter 33
Gabe
“Hey.”
My head jerks up, the voice cutting through the fog in my skull. Jake, Driftwood’s mayor, is leaning across his desk, brows raised like he’s been waiting for me to answer for longer than I realized.
Christ. My mind wandered again—straight back to last night, when we sat in Boone’s apartment, hands buried between Sadie’s thighs, taking turns working her open while she writhed and came on our fingers.
We didn’t go any further than that. Just our mouths on hers, our fingers inside her, the three of us holding her down as she shook apart.
But the memory hasn’t left me alone since. The second I got back to my apartment, I stripped and wrapped my fist around my cock like I was possessed.
Hours. That’s how long I sat there, jerking off to the sound of her moans echoing in my head, the taste of her still sharp on my tongue.
That’s not the kind of thing I should be replaying in my mind while sitting across from the damn mayor in a council meeting.
I clear my throat. “Sorry. Distracted.”
Jake studies me for a beat, then waves a hand. “Long night?”
“You could say that.”
He leans back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach. “I was saying—I’ve been talking to the head of police. With the rate of tourism climbing, and Driftwood only having a basic station, I think it’s time we expand. I’m considering bringing in a sheriff to the town.”
That pulls me out of my head fast. “A sheriff?”
Jake nods. “Someone who can oversee, coordinate with the deputies, and give us more authority. I wanted your opinion first. You’ve been running the firehouse for years, you know the pulse of the place.”
I lean back, crossing my arms, thinking it through. “It makes sense. More people coming through means more crime. We’ve already seen the numbers tick up. Vandalism, theft, fights. It’s not what it used to be.”
“Exactly.” He taps a pen against the desk.
“The beautification is working better than I expected. Sadie’s murals, the boardwalk refurbishing, the new shops.
Driftwood looks alive again. But I’ll be honest—I didn’t expect the side effects.
More people, more problems. Before I take this to the town hall, I want a plan. ”
I nod slowly. “You’re right. If you want to stay ahead of it, a sheriff’s a good move. Gives the town structure, presence.”
Jake exhales, relief crossing his face. “Glad you think so. I value your opinion, Gabe. People trust you. When you back something, they listen.”
The words hit something inside me I don’t like to acknowledge. I’ve spent years burying myself in this job, carrying it like penance. Hearing someone call it trust feels heavy. I just nod again. “Then do it. Before things get worse.”
“Good.” He scribbles a note. “We’ll put together a proposal. Keep it quiet until I’m ready to call the meeting.”
The rest of the talk winds down, logistics, paperwork, timelines. My head’s already out the door before it’s officially over.
I shake his hand, step out into the sharp morning air, and head down Main Street. The smell of fresh bread and coffee pulls me toward Cora’s. I grab a bag with a breakfast sandwich and coffee, exchanging quick greetings with the staff before heading back toward the station.
I’m halfway across the square when I stop dead.
She’s there. Sadie. Balanced on a ladder right outside the firehouse, hair falling loose around her face, one hand steadying herself as the other moves across the brick with a stick of chalk. My chest seizes at the sight of her, sunlight catching the faint streaks of pink in her hair.
And just like that, the memory slams into me again—the way she tasted when my mouth was between her thighs, the way she clutched at my hair, gasping my name.
I force the thoughts down, hard, and clear my throat. “Hey.”
She looks down. Her eyes brighten when she sees me, her smile wide and easy. “Hey.”
I step closer, tilting my head back to see the faint outlines she’s been sketching. “What are you doing?”
“Tracing some ideas.” She gestures with the chalk, the faint lines taking shape across the wall. “I want this one to be different. I was thinking… a compass, maybe. Something that ties people to the idea of direction, home, safety. Anchors matter here.”
Her words settle something in me. “That sounds amazing.”
She glances down, eyes shining. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say firmly. “Exactly what this place needs.”
Her smile softens. “Thanks.”
I shift the bag in my hand. “I was about to have breakfast. Maybe you can join me.”
Her eyes flicker, a hint of surprise before she nods. “Sure. Just give me a second.”
She tucks the chalk into her pocket, wipes her hands against her skirt, and climbs down. The ladder creaks but holds steady. When she reaches the ground, she brushes her palms against each other, looking at me with a spark I don’t let myself examine too closely.
“Ready?” I ask.
“Ready.”
We walk side by side into the fire station, the familiar smell of smoke and soap wrapping around me. She looks around as though seeing it with new eyes, her gaze tracing the framed photos on the wall, the awards in their dusty cases, the scuffed tile beneath our feet.
I watch her take it all in, the way she tilts her head slightly, studying, cataloging, already weaving her art into it.
My stomach tightens, because I know the truth. The station has always been mine—my pride, my burden. And now, somehow, she belongs in it too.
We walk straight through the bay, past the ladder truck and the lockers, to my office in the back. I push the door open and let her in first. The room isn’t much—four walls, a desk scarred with years of paperwork and late-night reports, a couple of chairs.
She glances around curiously, like she’s stepping into a place she’s not sure she belongs. I drop the bag and coffee on the table, then cross to the shutters. The morning sun is too sharp, too exposing. I pull them down, softening the light until the room feels smaller, more private.
When I turn back, she’s still standing near the desk, her hand brushing over the edge as if memorizing the grain of the wood.
I clear my throat. “How are you? With everything. Your ex.”
Her shoulders tense for a second, but then she shrugs lightly. “This is different. From Memphis.”
“How so?”
She lowers herself into one of the chairs, her gaze distant.
“Back there, the firehouse always felt like a cage. Rules everywhere. Doors locked. Uniforms stiff. And the men… they made sure you never forgot who had power. Every corner I turned, I felt watched. Measured. Here? It doesn’t feel like that.
It feels like…” She pauses, searching for the word.
“Community. Like this place belongs to the town, not just the men inside it.”
Something pulls at my mouth, and I realize I’m smiling.
“Actually, it was my father who implemented a lot of those changes. Before him, Driftwood’s station wasn’t much different. Closed off. Guarded. He wanted it to be open. Wanted kids to see firefighters as people, not uniforms.”
Her eyes widen. “I didn’t know your father was a firefighter.”
“He was.” My voice softens without my permission.
“One of the best. When I was a kid, I got stuck in a house fire. Me, Boone, Sawyer. I was eight, maybe nine. The smoke got to me fast. I don’t remember much except heat and panic.
But then there he was—my dad. Carrying me out like I weighed nothing.
I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, but I remember the feeling of his coat against my face.
Safe. That was the moment I knew. I wanted this job. To be him.”
She smiles, small and genuine. “That explains it. Why you love this place so much. Why it’s not just a job to you.”
I nod, unbuttoning my coat out of habit, ready to drape it over the chair. But her voice stops me.
“Keep it on.”
I look at her. She’s leaning forward slightly, eyes on my chest, her fingers reaching out. She traces the edge of my badge, slow, reverent. Her touch burns even through the fabric.
“Hey,” I murmur, the word catching in my throat.
She glances up, smiling faintly. “Hey.”
I don’t think. I lean in. Our mouths meet, tentative for a second, then hungrier, tongues brushing. She whimpers, the sound vibrating against my lips, and I deepen the kiss, letting myself drown in it.
When we pull apart, both of us are breathing unevenly. I search her face. “You okay today?”
Her cheeks flush. “I didn’t know fingering could get me that sore.”
A laugh rumbles out of me, low and rough. “Wait until it’s cocks, sweetheart.” I wink at her, and the pink on her cheeks deepens until it spreads to her throat.
I tug her gently toward me, settling into the chair and pulling her into my lap. She fits there too easily, her back against my chest, her thighs warm over mine.
She reaches for the bag, pulling out the pastries I grabbed at Cora’s. “What did you get?”
“Croissants. Muffins. Nothing fancy.”
She tears off a piece of croissant and pops it into her mouth, then holds another piece up to me. I bite it from her fingers, the buttery flakes melting on my tongue.
Her laugh is soft. “I didn’t peg you for a sweet tooth.”
“I’m not, usually,” I admit, licking the corner of my mouth. “But sometimes.”
Her eyes glint as she studies me. “I like this. You not avoiding me.”
I swallow, my hand resting low on her hip. “You know why I was avoiding you, right?”
“Why?” she whispers.
“Because I needed to behave.” My fingers slide to the button of her jeans, flicking it open slowly. Her breath hitches.
“And now?” she asks, her voice fragile, hopeful.
“Now I don’t have to, sweetheart.”