Chapter 11
Firelight And Confessions
~HAZEL~
The Firelight Fundraiser: where small-town charity meets large-scale humiliation opportunities.
The firehouse glows against the October evening like something out of a Hallmark movie, if Hallmark movies included sexual tension thick enough to choke on and the perpetual threat of social media documentation.
Strings of Edison bulbs crisscross the station yard, casting everything in warm amber light that makes even the concrete look romantic.
Paper lanterns bob in the breeze like drunken fireflies, and someone's set up hay bales in what I can only assume is an attempt at "rustic charm" but mostly looks like a fire hazard.
Ironic, given the location.
I haul my pastry boxes from the car, arms already aching because I definitely made too much but anxiety baking is my love language and the entire town will be here judging my contributions to charity.
My booth—a generous term for a folding table with delusions of grandeur—sits near the firehouse entrance, strategically positioned so everyone has to pass my baked goods to get anywhere. It's prime real estate for sales and maximum exposure to potential humiliation.
Perfect. Just perfect.
The October air nips at my exposed skin where my sweater has ridden up from carrying boxes.
I've made an effort tonight—actually brushed my hair, put on the good jeans that make my ass look like I do squats (I don't), and a burgundy sweater that brings out the gold in my hazel eyes.
Not that I'm trying to impress anyone. Definitely not three specific Alphas who may or may not be attempting to court me in the most chaotic way possible.
You're such a liar, Hazel. You spent twenty minutes on mascara alone.
I arrange my display with the kind of obsessive precision usually reserved for bomb disposal.
Pumpkin cookies in perfect rows, their orange icing gleaming under the lights.
Spice cakes stacked in architectural defiance of gravity.
Apple turnovers that look like autumn wrapped in pastry.
Everything screams "I'm a competent adult who definitely hasn't been having anxiety dreams about dating three men at once. "
"Well, well, well. Look what the October wind blew in."
I turn to find three firefighters approaching my booth, and not the ones I was maybe hoping for. These are the younger crew—Jenkins, Martinez, and Tom-something-or-other—all swagger and station-branded t-shirts stretched across gym-built muscles.
"Evening, boys," I say, channeling customer service cheerfulness. "Here to support charity?"
"Here to support you," Jenkins says with a grin that probably works on college girls but makes me want to laugh. He leans on my table, biceps flexing in a way that's definitely intentional. "These cookies aren't the only sweet thing at this booth."
Did he really just—oh my god, he did.
"That's... certainly a line," I manage.
"Got better ones," Martinez chimes in, shouldering Jenkins aside. "Like how I'd wait in line all night for a chance with you."
Tom-whatever nods enthusiastically. "The whole department would. You're like... the town's hottest commodity right now."
Commodity. Charming. Really makes a girl feel special.
"I'm flattered," I lie, hands busy rearranging cookies that don't need rearranging. "But I'm just here to sell pastries for charity."
"Come on," Jenkins presses, leaning closer. His cologne assaults my nostrils—something aggressively masculine that probably has a name like "DANGER SPORT" or "ALPHA MUSK EXPLOSION." "You can't tell me you're not interested in a firefighter. We're very... capable."
He flexes again. Martinez flexes in response. Tom flexes because peer pressure is real.
It's like a muscle spasm convention.
"I'm sure you're all very capable of... fighting fires," I say carefully.
"We're capable of a lot more than that," Martinez says with what I think is supposed to be a sexy eyebrow waggle but looks more like he's having a stroke.
"I bet we could show you—"
"JENKINS."
The voice cuts through the evening like a blade. All three firefighters straighten instantly, and I don't need to turn to know who's behind me. The cedar smoke and bourbon vanilla announce him before his shadow falls across my table.
Rowan Cambridge stands there in full lieutenant mode, arms crossed, amber eyes burning with something that makes the younger firefighters step back.
"Don't you have drills to run?" His voice is deceptively calm, the kind of calm that precedes natural disasters.
"We were just—" Jenkins starts.
"You were just heading to the training yard. All of you. Full gear. Speed drills." His eyes narrow. "Unless you'd prefer to explain to the chief why you're harassing vendors instead of preparing for the demonstration?"
They scatter like startled pigeons, muttering apologies and yes-sirs as they flee toward the station.
Rowan watches them go, jaw tight, before turning to me. The anger in his eyes softens to something warmer, more concerned.
"You okay?"
"I had it handled," I say, though my hands are shaking slightly as I adjust my display again.
"I know you did." He steps closer, and his scent wraps around me like a protective barrier. "But they should know better. I'll have a word with—"
"Don't." I touch his arm without thinking, then jerk my hand back when I realize what I've done. "They're just young and stupid. No harm done."
He studies me for a moment, and I'm very aware that we're standing close enough that anyone watching—which is everyone, always, in this town—will draw conclusions.
"They're not wrong, though," he says quietly.
"About what?"
"You look..." He pauses, eyes traveling from my face down to my boots and back up slowly enough that my skin heats everywhere his gaze touches. "Beautiful. More than beautiful. Luminous."
Luminous. Who says luminous? Rowan Cambridge, apparently, when he's looking at you like you're something precious he's not allowed to touch.
"I—thank you," I manage, face burning.
A whistle cuts through the moment. "Yo, Cambridge! Drills start in five!"
He sighs, stepping back. "I have to—"
"Go," I say quickly. "Do your firefighter things. Save the town from incompetent speed drills."
His mouth quirks in that almost-smile that does dangerous things to my insides. "Watch if you want. Might be entertaining."
He heads toward the training yard, and I absolutely don't watch his ass in those uniform pants.
Liar.
The drills begin in the station yard, the space transformed into a training ground by the strategic positioning of fire engines whose headlights create dramatic pools of illumination. It's unnecessarily theatrical, like someone decided emergency preparedness needed mood lighting.
I try to focus on my booth, greeting customers and making change, but my eyes keep drifting to the yard where the firefighters are running through their paces. Rowan leads by example, demonstrating proper hose deployment with an efficiency that shouldn't be attractive but somehow is.
Since when is professional competence sexy? Since always, apparently, when it comes with those shoulders.
The October night has turned cool, but the firefighters are sweating within minutes. And then—because the universe hates me or loves me, I can't decide—Rowan strips off his shirt.
Holy mother of—
The headlights illuminate him like he's on stage, which he might as well be given how every person with ovaries in a fifty-foot radius has stopped what they're doing to stare.
His torso is... architectural. That's the only word for it.
Muscles carved by years of actual work, not gym vanity.
Scars here and there that tell stories of saves and close calls.
A dusting of dark hair that trails down past his navel to—
Stop looking. Stop looking right now.
I can't stop looking.
He moves through the drills with liquid grace, every motion purposeful.
When he demonstrates ladder carries, his back muscles shift and bunch in ways that make my mouth go dry.
Sweat glistens on his skin, highlighting every ridge and valley, and his scent carries on the night air—cedar and vanilla mixed with clean sweat and something uniquely him that makes my omega hindbrain whimper.
"Ma'am? Ma'am, your change?"
I blink, realizing I've been holding a twenty-dollar bill for god knows how long while staring at Rowan like he's a particularly attractive car accident.
"Sorry! Sorry, I was just—"
"Watching the show?" The elderly Beta woman grins knowingly. "Can't say I blame you. If I was forty years younger..."
If she was forty years younger, she'd still have to get in line behind the apparently endless queue of people who want Rowan Cambridge.
I make her change with fumbling fingers, very aware that my face is probably the color of my burgundy sweater. My hands won't stop shaking, and I'm fidgeting with my apron strings like they hold the secrets to the universe.
Do something. Anything. Stop standing here like a horny teenager at her first firefighter calendar shoot.
Lemonade. I'll make lemonade. That's helpful and productive and requires me to focus on something other than the way Rowan's uniform pants sit low on his hips when he's not wearing his shirt.
I gather supplies from my booth and head to the station kitchen, grateful for the excuse to move, to do something with my hands that isn't reaching toward him. The kitchen is mercifully empty, everyone either outside watching the drills or manning their own fundraiser stations.
I find lemons, sugar, and a massive pitcher that's probably seen a thousand station dinners.
The familiar routine of cooking—even something as simple as lemonade—calms my racing pulse.
Squeeze, measure, stir. Add just enough sugar to balance the tart.
A pinch of salt because that's the secret nobody knows.
Fresh mint from the herb garden someone maintains behind the station.