Chapter 5
5
EMMA
T he antiseptic smell of the hospital finally fades as the automatic doors slide open, releasing me into the bright morning sunshine that instantly makes me squint.
After a night of poking, prodding, and oxygen checks every hour—seriously, do they think oxygen levels dramatically change while you’re unconscious?
—I’m finally free. Well, free might be a relative term.
I pause on the sidewalk, clutching my backpack to my chest like it contains the last remnants of my dignity.
Which, considering I’m still wearing yesterday’s smoke-infused summer dress and Chad’s jacket, the ultimate walk of shame outfit minus the fun part that usually precedes it, isn’t far off.
Where the hell am I supposed to go now?
Hotel if I can find a room.
The cop’s words echo in my head about not leaving town until our investigation is complete.
Right . Because apparently, I’ve graduated from Failed Omega Extraordinaire to Suspected Arsonist in the span of twenty-four hours.
Talk about career advancement.
I run through the events of last night for the millionth time, a mental checklist I’ve been obsessively ticking off.
Candles, extinguished before my shower.
Fireplace, never even lit it.
My emergency battery-operated reading lamp.
I definitely switched off and stowed in my bag.
I did everything right.
I always do everything right.
That’s part of my problem.
My phone buzzes with a text from Jess after I message her early this morning.
Still alive? Hospital update?
I quickly type back.
Discharged. Clean bill of health except for my pride and vacation plans.
The universe clearly has it out for me.
Though if there’s one silver lining to the entire fiasco, it’s that Chad’s backpack, filled with his precious designer clothes and that ridiculous cologne he practically bathed in, is now a pile of designer ash.
The thought pulls a somewhat vindictive smile from me.
“What’s with that mischievous smirk? You look like you just figured out the perfect plot twist for your next villain,” a male says, drawing my attention.
Startled, I glance, and there he is.
Atlas, leaning against a massive black pickup truck that’s parked super close to the hospital entrance.
The morning sun hits him in a way that should be illegal, casting golden highlights through his dark hair and accentuating the sharp angles of his face.
His uniform shirt is partially unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing tantalizing tanned skin and that mysterious wooden charm on its leather cord.
Great. Just what I need.
Alpha McHotterson, here to witness the continuation of my humiliation tour.
“Not murder,” I say automatically.
“Arson, apparently. Might as well perfect my technique since I’m already a suspect.”
One corner of his mouth quirks up.
“That’s not funny.”
“Yet you’re almost smiling,” I counter, shifting my backpack to my other arm.
The weight of it suddenly feels like it contains bricks rather than the few possessions that survived the fire.
“What are you doing here, anyway? Don’t you have fires to fight? Cats to rescue from trees? Calendar photoshoots to pose for?”
His eyebrow lifts at that last one, and I immediately want to melt into the pavement.
Why do I always default to sarcasm when I’m uncomfortable?
And why does he smell so impossibly good even from ten feet away?
Woodsmoke, maple, and toasted sugar sweetness that makes my stupid Omega brain sit up and take notice, completely ignoring the not interested in Alphas memo I’ve been trying to circulate.
“I came to check on you,” he says simply.
“You did?” The softness in my voice betrays me, and I immediately straighten my spine.
“I mean, that’s... unnecessary. I’m fine. All good. Ship-shape and Bristol fashion, as my grandmother would say.”
I can almost hear Gran’s words in my head, the way she’d use that phrase whenever I’d come downstairs for school with my uniform perfectly pressed.
She’d learned it from my grandfather, who spent years working on fishing vessels before settling down.
It was her highest form of approval—nothing was better than being ship-shape and Bristol fashion in Gran’s world.
The memory brings a pang of longing; she’d know exactly what to say right now to make this disaster seem manageable.
She’s been gone for three years, and I miss her terribly.
I try to step past him but realize I have absolutely no idea where I’m going.
I’m in a town where apparently every accommodation is booked.
I stop, pivot awkwardly, then stop again, resembling nothing so much as a malfunctioning wind-up toy.
“Where are you heading?” he asks, pushing off from his truck.
“That’s a little creepy,” I blurt out.
“Like, serial killer level of interest in my whereabouts.”
Instead of being offended, he actually laughs.
“I spoke with your real estate contact this morning.”
“You did what?” I stare at him.
“And a few other rental agencies in town,” he continues, as if invading my privacy is completely normal.
“I wanted to make sure you had options, considering you need to stay in town until the investigation is complete.”
My mouth falls open, stunned, unable to believe his thoughtfulness.
“I… you... why would you do that?”
“Because it’s tourist season, and the town is at capacity.” He crosses his arms over his chest, and I absolutely do not notice how it makes his biceps flex against the fabric of his shirt.
“And because the cabin you were staying in belongs to Martin Greene, who isn’t exactly known for his customer service skills.”
“So, you’re what? The town welcome committee?” I tease.
“Firefighter by night, fairy godfather by day?”
“Just trying to help.” He shrugs those ridiculous shoulders.
“Plus, you still smell like smoke.”
I self-consciously tug at Chad’s jacket.
“Not all of us can roll out of bed looking and smelling like we just stepped out of a cologne commercial,” I mutter.
His mouth twitches again.
“You think I look like a cologne model?”
“That is not what I said.” I push a strand of hair behind my ear, a nervous habit I’ve never been able to break.
“I’m just saying some of us had our possessions incinerated last night and haven’t had a chance to freshen up.”
“So, where are you going now?” he asks again, more gently this time.
“To see Martin Greene and figure out my options,” I say with far more confidence than I feel.
“I’m sure there’s been some mistake about me needing to stay in town. I mean, it’s obvious I didn’t start that fire.”
Atlas’s expression shifts slightly.
“The investigation is standard procedure. And trust me, you don’t want to deal with Martin right now.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s already telling everyone in town that his nightmare Omega tenant burned down his best rental cabin.”
My stomach drops through the pavement.
“He’s what?”
“I tried to set him straight, but he’s...” Atlas trails off.
“A misogynistic asshole?” I supply.
“I was going to say upset about the property damage , but your description works, too.”
I groan, pressing the heels of my palms against my eyes.
“This is unbelievable. I’ve been in this town for less than twenty-four hours, and I’m already the local pariah.”
“Let them talk,” he says, his voice deepening with a hint of that commanding Alpha tone.
“Anyone who matters will see exactly who you really are. The rest?” He shrugs those broad shoulders.
“They don’t deserve your concern.”
The way he’s looking at me creates a swarm of butterflies in my stomach that I have no business feeling.
It reminds me of how my characters look at each other in my books, as though they’re seeing something precious and rare, not how people look at me in real life.
“Let me give you a lift to Martin’s office,” he offers.
“At least then you’ll have backup when you talk to him.”
I narrow my eyes.
“And I should trust you, why exactly? ”
“I’ve saved you twice so far.” He holds up two fingers.
“That’s a pretty good track record.”
“Twice?”
“The fire. And the turbulence on the plane.” He grins, and it transforms his serious face into something so devastatingly attractive that I have to physically lock my knees to keep from swaying toward him.
“That doesn’t count,” I argue, even as my traitorous body remembers the feeling of his arm anchoring me during that terrifying drop.
“Three times if you count making sure you got medical attention,” he adds, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“Fine,” I sigh, pulling out my phone.
“But just so you know, I’m texting my friend your details right now, so she has a record of who I was last seen with if I disappear.”
“Smart,” he says approvingly, which is not the reaction I expected.
He actually steps closer and poses next to his truck.
“Make sure you get the license plate in the picture.”
I blink at him, then snap the photo, capturing him with the truck in the background.
“You’re very accommodating for a potential ax murderer.”
“I prefer fire, actually. More dramatic.” He winks and opens the passenger door for me.
As I climb up—this truck is ridiculous—I send the picture to Jess with a message.
If I go missing, this Alpha firefighter did it.
Name: Atlas Wood. Currently driving me to real estate office.
If no update in 1 hour, call authorities .
I settle into the passenger seat as Atlas walks around to the driver’s side.
The interior of the truck is surprisingly neat and smells like him, and I want to lean closer and inhale deeply.
Which would be extremely creepy and completely inappropriate.
As he starts the engine, my phone buzzes with Jess’s reply.
OMG WHO IS THAT?!!! Is he single?
If you don’t climb him like a tree, I will personally disown you.
I quickly angle my phone away as Atlas glances over, heat flooding my cheeks.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
“Just a funny meme,” I lie, shoving my phone into my backpack.
“So, um, how long have you lived in Whispering Grove?”
“Born and raised,” he says, pulling out of the hospital parking lot.
“Left for a few years, but came back when...” He hesitates briefly.
“When the position at the fire station opened up.”
There’s a story there, but I don’t press.
We all have our sore spots.
Atlas glances at my backpack, where the corner of my laptop is just visible.
“You managed to save the most important thing, I see.”
My hand instinctively touches the backpack.
“Yeah. Grabbed it in a panic before running out. Thank god for that automatic backup reflex. Five years of writing habits drilled into me after losing half a manuscript once to a power surge.”
“What are you working on now?” he asks, keeping his eyes on the road .
I hesitate, unused to genuine interest. “The fifth book in my series. I’m at that point where everything feels like it’s falling apart, and I question all my life choices.”
“That bad?”
“I need to kill off a character readers love, and I’ve been procrastinating for weeks.”
“The solo retreat should help,” he says with understanding.
“Hopefully. No distractions, just me and the inevitable fictional heartbreak I have to cause.” I sigh dramatically.
“Instead, I got an actual fire. The universe has a twisted sense of irony.”
“Maybe it’s research,” he suggests, a smile playing on his lips.
“Nothing like real-life experience for authenticity.”
“If I include a cabin fire in my book now, critics will call it too convenient or unrealistic ,” I say, making air quotes.
“Fiction has to make more sense than reality.”
“Is that why you write fantasy? More control over the rules?”
The question surprises me with its insight.
“Partly. Also because I grew up escaping into those worlds when real life got too...” I trail off, suddenly aware I’m revealing more than I intended.
“Too much?” he offers quietly.
Our gazes meet briefly, and I have the unsettling feeling he sees more than I want him to.
“Something like that,” I murmur, turning to look out the window .
We fall into a surprisingly comfortable silence for a few moments.
I catch myself inhaling deeply, trying to separate the lingering smoke smell from my clothes from his natural scent.
Then I realize what I’m doing and wrinkle my nose.
“God, I really do stink,” I mutter.
“It’s not that bad,” he says unconvincingly.
“You’re a terrible liar.” I laugh despite myself.
“I smell like I’ve been hanging out in a chimney.”
“We have facilities at the station,” he says casually.
“Showers, washing machines. You’re welcome to use them if you need to freshen up.”
“I’m good,” I say automatically, though the thought of clean clothes and washing away the smoke smell is incredibly tempting.
“I’m sure I’ll find a place soon. It can’t be that hard.”
“In Whispering Grove? During the summer festival season?” He raises an eyebrow.
“There’s a reason we had to convert the station’s old storage room into extra bunks. The population triples this time of year.”
“Great,” I sigh.
“So I’m homeless, suspected of arson, and smell like a campfire. This vacation is officially a disaster of epic proportions.”
“Could be worse,” he offers.
“How, exactly?”
“You could be trapped in a car with someone who doesn’t appreciate sarcasm.”
I burst out laughing.
He joins me, and the sound of his deep laugh does strange things to my insides.
For a brief moment, I forget about the disaster my life has become.
It feels good, too good, as though I’m connecting with him on a level I never reached with Chad, despite trying.
“Seriously, though,” I say, sobering.
“Do you think I could actually be blamed for the fire? Because I swear, I didn’t do anything to cause it.”
His expression turns serious.
“We’ll figure out what happened. Between my team and the police, we’ll find the cause.”
“How long will that take?”
“Hard to say. Town’s running at capacity, so both departments are stretched thin. Could be days or weeks.”
“Weeks?” I groan.
“What am I supposed to do in a town where everyone thinks I’m an arsonist and there’s nowhere to stay?”
“Not everyone thinks that.” His voice is soft but certain.
“And we’ll figure something out about a place for you to stay.”
“We?” I echo.
“Force of habit.” He shrugs.
“I’m used to looking out for people.”
“Is that an Alpha thing or a firefighter thing?”
“Just an Atlas thing,” he says simply, and I can’t believe this guy is real.
Something warm unfurls in my chest at his words, something dangerous that I need to squash immediately.
I’ve made the mistake of falling for Alpha charm before, and I’m not about to do it again, especially not with one who smells like everything I’ve ever wanted and looks like he stepped out of one of my novels.
We pull up to a small office building with Greene Properties on a weathered sign out front.
My stomach clenches with anxiety.
“Ready?” Atlas asks, turning off the engine.
“No, but let’s do this, anyway.” I take a deep breath and push open the door, nearly falling out of the truck in my haste to get out.
Atlas is there in an instant, steadying me with a hand on my elbow that sends electricity shooting up my arm.
“Careful,” he murmurs, his face close enough that I can see flecks of lighter blue in his dark eyes.
“I’m fine,” I say quickly, stepping back.
“Just... gravity and I have a complicated relationship.”
His lips quirk.
“I’ve noticed.”
We walk into the office side by side.
A bell jingles overhead, announcing our arrival.
Behind a cluttered desk sits a balding man with ruddy cheeks and a permanent scowl that deepens when he looks up and sees me.
“Hello, I’m Emma Collins. I’m looking for Mr. Greene,” I say, figuring I should come across civil.
“You,” he spits, jabbing a finger in my direction.
“You’ve got some nerve showing up here after what you did to my property!”
“Mr. Greene,” Atlas commands, his voice taking on an authoritative tone I haven’t heard before, but I like it more than I should.
“I believe there’s been a misunderstanding. ”
“No misunderstanding,” Martin Greene snaps.
“I rented my best cabin to her and her boyfriend, and twelve hours later, it’s a pile of ashes!”
I cringe.
“Ex, he’s my ex-boyfriend. And I didn’t start that fire,” I say, stepping forward.
“And I nearly died in it, in case you forgot that part.”
“Convenient story,” he sneers.
“Excuse me?” My voice rises an octave.
“You think I what? Deliberately set fire to your cabin while I was inside it? For what possible reason?”
“Insurance scam,” he suggests immediately.
“Looking for a payout.”
“On a rental cabin?” I laugh incredulously.
“That’s not how insurance works. And I’m a writer, not a con artist.”
“Same thing if you ask me,” he mutters.
“No one asked you,” I snap, my patience evaporating.
“Look, I understand you’re upset about your property?—”
“Upset?” He stands up, face flushing darker.
“That cabin brings in six thousand dollars a week during festival season! Do you have any idea how much money I’m losing while it’s being rebuilt?”
“Again, not my fault,” I say through gritted teeth.
“And I almost died. You know, just for perspective on what’s really important here.”
“All I know is I’ve got a cabin in ashes and probably from something you did!” He jabs his finger toward me again.
My blood runs cold. “What?”
Atlas places a hand on my shoulder.
“The investigation is still ongoing, Martin. No one is making any accusations yet.”
“I am,” Martin says to me.
“And I’ve told everyone in town to steer clear of renting to you. One business burned down is enough.”
“Are you kidding me?” I practically shriek.
“You’re blacklisting me based on what? A hunch? Your expert opinion as an amateur fire investigator?”
“Based on protecting my colleagues’ property,” he retorts.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have actual paying customers to help. Ones who don’t have a habit of leaving smoldering ruins in their wake.”
“This is ridiculous,” I sputter.
“I need a place to stay, and the police have told me not to leave town.”
“Not my problem.” He sits back down and pointedly opens a folder, ignoring me.
“It will be your problem when the investigation proves I had nothing to do with it,” I say, leaning forward on his desk.
“Because then I’ll be having a very interesting conversation with my lawyer about slander and defamation.”
It’s a complete bluff.
I don’t have a lawyer on retainer, and the most legal experience I have is researching contract law for my third book, but he doesn’t need to know that.
“Get out of my office,” he barks coldly.
“Gladly.” I spin around so fast, I nearly collide with Atlas’s chest. He steadies me again, his hands warm on my upper arms, and guides me out of the building .
The moment we’re outside, hot tears prick at the corners of my eyes.
I blink them back furiously, refusing to cry in front of Atlas.
Again.
“That absolute bastard,” I hiss, stalking toward his truck.
“Did you hear him? He’s sabotaged any chance I had of finding a place to stay!”
Atlas unlocks the truck but doesn’t immediately open the door.
“Sometimes what seems like the worst thing can turn out to be a blessing in disguise.”
“That’s your takeaway from this? Fortune cookie philosophy?”
“What I mean is,” he says patiently.
“Now you don’t have to waste time checking other rental places. We can move straight to finding you an alternative.”
“There is no alternative,” I say, throwing up my hands.
“You heard him—the town is full, and he’s told everyone I’m an arson risk!”
“Not everyone listens to Martin Greene,” Atlas says calmly.
“Come on, let’s get you back to the station. You can clean up, get some rest, then we’ll figure this out.”
Too exhausted and frustrated to argue, I climb back into his truck, slamming the door with more force than necessary.
Atlas slides in behind the wheel, seemingly unfazed by my outburst.
As we pull away from Greene Properties, my phone buzzes with a text from Jess.
Wait, back up. You ALMOST DIED last night in a FIRE, and this hunky firefighter SAVED YOU, and you’re sending me his info in case he MURDERS you?
Girl, take your blinders off and see what’s right in front of you.
The universe is finally giving you an alternative to Chad’s cheating ass.
I glance at Atlas from the corner of my eye.
The sunlight catches on his profile, highlighting the strong jaw and the focused intensity in his eyes as he drives.
His scent, even mixed with the lingering smoke on my clothes, calls to something primal in me, something I’ve read about in books but never truly experienced.
Is Jess right? Is the universe trying to tell me something?
Or am I about to make the same mistake again, falling for an Alpha who will eventually decide I’m too much, too independent, too something to be what he wants?
As if sensing my scrutiny, Atlas glances my way, an electric moment before he returns his attention to the road.
“What?” he asks.
I quickly glance away, mortified at being caught staring.
“Nothing. Just... thanks for the ride, I guess.”
My phone buzzes in my hand, and I glance down at Jess’s latest message.
Girl, he’s gorgeous, AND he saved your life?
This is literally the plot of your new book you need to write!
Give the guy a chance!
I hurriedly type back.
It ALWAYS starts this way—they rescue you, they’re charming, then they decide you’re too opinionated for an Omega, or your scent isn’t right, or whatever new excuse they’ll invent.
Three strikes, remember?
I’m done with Alphas.
The truth is, Atlas’s scent makes my entire body hum like a tuning fork that’s found its perfect pitch.
But that scent compatibility didn’t save me from Jason’s criticism or Chad’s betrayal.
If anything, it just makes the inevitable disappointment more painful when it comes.
No, I need to focus on finding temporary housing, clearing my name, and getting back to my manuscript.
That’s the only relationship I can trust right now.
The one between me and my words.
Besides, firefighters are probably the worst category of Alpha to fall for.
All that heroic energy and protective instinct?
Recipe for disaster for an independent Omega like me.
Been there, burned the t-shirt, bought the heartbreak.
“We’re almost at the station,” Atlas explains, interrupting my thoughts.
“You’ll feel better after a shower and some food.”
Despite all my mental warnings, a traitorous part of me already feels better just being near him.