2. Ari
TWO
ARI
It started with a dog.
I was halfway to Mason’s Supermarket, headphones in, grocery list half-forgotten in my back pocket, when I heard the frantic shout behind me.
“Hey! Wait! Please—I need help!”
I spun around to see one of the Grady kids—Jamie, I was pretty sure—charging down the cracked sidewalk, sneakers untied, hair a mess, cheeks blotchy like he’d been crying. His little chest was heaving like he’d sprinted the whole way.
This was Briar Creek. You knew people, even if you didn’t really know them. Especially if they were a Grady.
Before I could ask what was going on, Jamie pointed behind him, practically bouncing on his toes. "My cat... he's under there... Max chased him..."
Max, as it turned out, was a wiry mutt with too-big ears and fur a weird in-between brown, like the water when you rinse your paintbrush after using every color on the palette. He stood frozen a few yards away, tail tucked, trembling so hard I could see it from here.
I tugged out my earbuds, tucking them into my pocket as I slowed to a stop. “Hey. Slow down. You remember me, right? I’m Ari—our moms are friends.”
Jamie blinked up at me, sniffling hard. “Yeah… I remember.”
“Good. So what’s going on?” I crouched down to his level, voice soft.
He swiped at his eyes, breath hitching, pointing at Max. “He chased my cat Whiskers under the shed, and I tried to call him, but he’s stuck—or scared—or both—and Mom’s at work and Kyle’s supposed to be watching me, but he’s a jerk and I?—”
“Okay,” I cut in gently. “We’re gonna figure it out.”
I shoved my sleeves up past my elbows—because apparently I was now the kind of guy who did spontaneous rescue missions in a hoodie.
Which was how I found myself on my stomach in the dirt behind the old Grady house, halfway under a leaning toolshed that smelled like mildew, trying to coax a shaking cat out of a crawlspace, while Jamie hovered nearby biting his thumbnail.
“This is going great,” I muttered to myself, shoulder jammed against splintered wood. “I’m absolutely crushing it. Hero of the year material.”
I tried to wriggle, but the hem of my hoodie caught on something sharp. I tugged once—nothing. Twice—still stuck.
The cat yowled, sharp and high-pitched, before ducking deeper into the dark space. The whole shed creaked ominously above me.
“Come on, Whiskers. Don’t make me have to call someone with actual upper body strength.”
That was when Jamie, still hovering, finally confessed: “Um... I already did.”
I paused. “What?”
“I called the firehouse. My brother Kyle said they rescue cats and stuff.”
Of course he did.
I opened my mouth to tell him that this wasn’t exactly an emergency. But then—I heard boots. Crunching over dead leaves. Heavy. Purposeful.
A shadow shifted across the gap of light under the shed.
"This where the rescue’s needed?" came a deep, rough-edged voice I hadn’t heard in years but could still pick out of a crowd—blindfolded, in a thunderstorm.
My heart stuttered. “Hey, stranger,” I called out, playing it cool. “Miss me?”
Silence. Then the unmistakable sound of a grown man sighing through his entire soul.
“Figures.”
Slowly—carefully—I twisted around as much as I could and peered up toward the voice.
There he was.
Reid Morgan.
Older. Broader. Still wearing that permanent scowl like it had been custom-fit.
His bunker pants rode low on his hips, suspenders hanging loose over a black T-shirt stretched tight across his chest. And his arms—God help me—his arms looked like they could bench-press the entire shed with me clinging under it.
And just behind him stood two other firefighters—Griff and Marco. They were fighting off matching grins.
“Of all the people,” Reid muttered, folding his arms.
I smiled sweetly up at him from the dirt. “How’s it going?”
Griff coughed, definitely covering a laugh. Marco elbowed him, stage whispering, “Didn’t know we were rescuing kittens and brats today.”
“Shut it,” Reid growled at them without looking away from me.
Heat rushed up my neck. “What can I say? Always happy to provide local entertainment.”
Reid squatted down, boots planted wide, thighs straining against the fabric of his bunker pants, the muscles there flexing like they knew exactly the kind of trouble they were causing me. “What exactly is your plan here?”
“Charm the cat out,” I said. “Maybe promise him a better life. Joint custody. Trips to the beach.”
He didn’t smile. But his eyes flickered, sharp and assessing. “You’re stuck, aren’t you?”
I tugged at my hoodie a third time—nothing. Fourth—still nothing.
“...Define stuck.” I gave a weak laugh, pretending like this wasn’t rapidly turning into my new Most Embarrassing Moment. “Okay, okay,” I muttered. “I’m mildly stuck. Gently imprisoned. Totally dignified.”
“You always were a handful,” he muttered.
Another creak echoed overhead, louder this time. Reid’s sigh came first, then the sound of him coming closer.
He didn’t reach for me. Instead, he angled lower, careful, eyes narrowing as he scanned the spot where my hoodie had snagged. Two fingers hooked the hem, gave a testing tug. The fabric held tight against a jagged bit of rusted metal.
“Don’t move,” he said, and pulled a pocketknife from his belt. “Gonna free you.”
“You cutting my hoodie?” I asked, scandalized.
“Would you rather I leave you here ‘til spring?”
“Depends. You planning to come visit?”
His jaw ticked. “Still a brat.”
“Still hot,” I shot back, voice going a little breathless when his hand brushed my side.
With a quick, precise motion, he sawed through the caught fabric. “There,” he muttered.
I started to wiggle backward, but before I could get far, strong hands wrapped around my ankles.
“Hold still.”
Reid gave one firm pull—effortless, confident, like dragging brats out of trouble was a weekly task—and I slid out from under the shed with a soft oof.
Dirt streaked my arms. A cobweb clung to my cheek. Max, traitor that he was, had disappeared entirely.
I pushed to my knees, then looked up—right into those eyes.
The size of him. The heat of his skin. My heart might’ve done an actual somersault.
And because I’m me—and because I hadn’t learned restraint in years—I said, voice honey-sweet, “Guess I owe you one, Daddy.”
The word just slipped out.
I didn’t plan it. Didn’t even think it through. But once it was out there, hanging between us, it felt... right. Like calling him anything else would’ve been a lie.
And it got a reaction.
A fraction of a smile—more like a twitch at the corner of his mouth—and one quick exhale through his nose. He didn’t comment, or take the bait, but I was definitely not imagining the way his gaze lingered for an extra beat on my mouth before he looked away.
Griff snorted. “Guess some things are just built for drama.”
Cool. Love that for me. He could’ve been talking about Whiskers but let’s be real—I’d been back in town for five minutes and was already halfway to becoming local folklore again.
Then, from beneath the leaning toolshed, a sleek cat with glossy black fur and jade-green eyes bolted out, skittering across the dirt like it was late for an important meeting. “Whiskers!” the kid called breathlessly, relief flooding his voice as he scooped the cat into his arms, holding her tight.
“See?” I said, brushing dirt off my hands, trying to sound casual, although my voice caught a little. “Successful rescue.”
Daddy’s voice dropped low, rough. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
“Neither have you,” I shot back, lifting my chin with more bravado than I felt. “Still the town’s resident grumpy hero.”
For a flicker of a moment, something complicated passed through his eyes—so quick I could’ve missed it. Then he nodded to his crew. “We’re good here. Back to base.”
As they turned away, Marco called over his shoulder, “See you around, Trouble.”
“Can’t wait,” I shot back, flashing him a grin.
But my gaze stayed fixed on Daddy’s broad back as he strode toward the fire engine—powerful, effortless, every step pulling at something inside me.
He hesitated just before rounding the corner, like he wanted to look back but stopped himself.
God help me—I wanted more. More trouble. More him.
Maybe I was trouble.
The engine’s rumble faded into the distance, leaving me standing there, heart racing, one thought echoing louder than anything else:
This is gonna be fun.