Chapter Two Lila
Ithink this is the part of my cinematic biopic where the camera does a freeze-frame and the beautiful actress hired to play me comes in with a voiceover saying something like, “So, I bet you’re wondering how I got here.”
Because even though this isn’t even one of my more elaborate schemes—you don’t grow up in rural Pennsylvania with big-city dreams in your heart without learning a thing or two about intentionally strategizing your way through life—I’m starting to wonder how, exactly, I ended up in this particular situation.
It’s similar to the way I felt when I clawed my way to a full scholarship to NYU. Or when I won that highly competitive entrepreneurship grant that birthed Hartstrings PR in the first place.
Or how, despite my parents’ nasty divorce and their dour personalities, I’ve somehow maintained a pretty damn positive outlook on life.
If I want something, I make it happen.
And I wanted this client, so I guess I went and made it happen.
I step into the sparsely furnished space. It has a single window, linoleum tile floors, and concrete block walls. The nylon mattress on the XL twin bed frame reminds me of college in its stark practicality.
But I grew up in a trailer park and currently live in a dusty old walkup, so I’m not fazed by less-than-stellar living arrangements.
The firefighters of Station 47 are all busy being brave and strong, and Lou has already gone home to spend the evening with her lovely wife, so I drop my bag on the bed and set the battered Longchamp that serves as my briefcase onto the little desk.
There’s no time like the present. It’s time to get to work.
I kick off my shoes and tug my skirt down like it’s trying to crawl up my thighs on purpose.
Then, because I’m only human, I loosen the button at the waistband—just enough to breathe—telling myself it’s not “undressing,” it’s “surviving paperwork.”
Unfortunately, getting to work means that, five minutes later, I find my eyes blurring as I stare at a page titled MEDIA AND CONTENT LIABILITY AGREEMENT (FDNY—CITY OF NEW YORK—UNION LOCAL 221), which is written entirely in size-six font.
There are way too many uses of the phrases “heretofore” and “in perpetuity” in these documents, and even though I know legal jargon is totally important and all that, I just wish attorneys would learn to lighten up and draft these things with a little more charm.
I flip to the next page.
MEZZANINE OCCUPANCY MEMORANDUM, it declares itself.
The contract between Hartstrings PR and Station 47 has already been signed, but the union lady wanted me to review and sign all this extra paperwork before I got started.
I guess if I accidentally fling myself over the railing in the process of filming a TikTok, she doesn’t want to be liable.
But this place is crawling with first responders, so I’m not sure plunging to the concrete from twenty feet above would be that tragic.
I groan to myself and lean forward, resting my forehead on the desk.
It’s been a long day. After the pitch meeting, it took thirty minutes for all the contracts to be signed.
The captain, Noah, and Evan will be the three main stars of the content, so they also had to sign special release forms and agreements that Lou drafted up with the help of her cousin who works as a paralegal.
After that, we had to run back to the office, which is little more than a mildewy closet crammed with two desks we found on the side of the street, that we rent from a guy with an impossibly thick Russian accent.
We did a couple hours’ worth of preliminary content prep for the official start of the Save A Hero campaign, then met with the third-party crew to go over the schedule for the first few days of filming.
And then I had to go home to pack, which was a whole ordeal, because how do you really prepare to spend the next several nights in foreign territory while also maintaining a reasonably professional appearance?
A particularly strong wave of exhaustion washes over me and I let my eyes fall shut, thinking that I can just rest them for a few minutes before getting back to the stack of papers currently serving as my makeshift pillow.
I shift in the chair, suddenly too aware of my body — of how tight my skirt feels, of the memory of Hale’s gaze lingering just a second too long earlier.
Ridiculous.
Nothing happened.
And yet my skin still feels warm, like it’s waiting for something.
I let out a contented sigh as I let my mind drift. The distant sounds of the firehouse—plenty of chatter and some laughter alongside various thumps and thuds—fade into the background as I allow myself to wallow in the peaceful darkness behind my closed eyelids.
Before I know it, though, I’m slipping in a little too deep.
I’m back in the conference room from earlier.
Which is weird, because I’m pretty sure I was just absolutely zonked out on the wobbly table in my new accommodations.
Maybe I learned how to teleport. Or maybe there’s a rip in the time-space continuum, located right in the heart of Station 47.
It’s nighttime now, rather than late morning, and through the windows along the wall in front of me, I can see the rest of Midtown clambering all over itself like a mess of scattered, sparkling stones.
“Ms. Hart?”
I whirl around to find the living embodiment of “tall, dark, and handsome” lingering by the door.
“Captain Hargrove.”
He lets the door fall shut behind him with a soft click. “It’s Hale. I told you that earlier, remember?”
“Oh. Totally.” I fidget where I stand, unsure what to do about the fact that my heart is racing a mile a minute at the way the firehouse captain is prowling toward me. “In that case, please call me Lila, not Ms. Hart.”
“Okay, Lila.”
Is it dark in here? When did it get so dark in here?
He’s coming closer, dark eyes somehow gleaming through the shadows, looking at me like he’s never seen anything quite so enticing. Heat slithers down my spine.
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
His eyes flash with amusement, the closest he probably ever gets to a smile.
“Nothing.”
“It doesn’t look like nothing.”
“What does it look like, then?”
I swallow hard, my legs going wobbly as he comes to a halt mere inches from me. On some oddly polite instinct, I press back into the cool window behind me, but Hale only moves closer, caging me in with his strong arms.
Should I be shoving him away or something? Is this the part where I remember I have pride and morals, where I remember he’s my client and our relationship is meant to be purely professional?
Unfortunately, I think I’m drooling a little bit.
“Hm?” he prompts me, leaning in close so that the tip of his nose brushes against my temple. “What does it look like I’m doing, Lila?”
“Um.” I smell the heady scent of his cologne, woodsmoke and spice. Then, at last, I manage, “I was under the impression you didn’t like me very much.”
A soft breath of something akin to laughter ghosts along my cheek. “Why’s that?”
“You unfairly accused me of tardiness. And you wouldn’t even smile at me.”
“Do you want to know what I was really thinking when I first saw you today?” His voice is quiet. Ruined.
“Yes,” I breathe, and my answer sounds like it’s been waiting in my throat for weeks.
Hale’s mouth brushes my ear. “I was thinking you don’t belong in a place like this.”
His hand slides to my hip—firm, claiming—pinning me to the window like he’s bracing me against a storm.
“And then I thought,” he murmurs, “that I’d like to see you try to pretend you do.”
My skin prickles. My knees threaten to fold.
His gaze drops to my skirt slit like it’s a personal insult. “That little blue skirt,” he says, rougher now. “You wore it like you didn’t know what it would do to a man who’s been holding the line too long.”
Hale’s knuckles skim the inside of my thigh through the slit—just once—enough to make my breath snag.
“Tell me,” he whispers, “did you put on underwear for me… or did you come in here already dangerous?”
My head drops back against the glass. I don’t feel the pain, but I hear the quiet thump.
“Of course I was wearing underwear,” I respond somewhat breathlessly. “It was a business meeting, for fuck’s sake.”
He kisses my collarbone, letting out a low groan. “Is that so?”
And, sure enough, when I really think about it, I’m still wearing my favorite navy pencil skirt, even though I’m almost certain I changed into something more comfortable before returning to the firehouse this evening.
Also, when I press my thighs together, I discover that I am not, in fact, wearing even a single scrap of lace underneath the aforementioned skirt.
“Oh.” I blink in surprise, just as I see one of his hands slip from the windowpane and ghost along the slit in the fabric he was apparently so enamored with. “Well, that’s interesting.”
“How much do you like this skirt, Lila? Will you let me rip it off you?”
Not to put too fine of a point on it, but it’s a vintage J. Crew skirt—pure merino wool, by the way—that I found at the bottom of a half-price bin at a random Goodwill in Brooklyn. So, like, technically speaking, I definitely don’t want him to rip it.
Yet, somehow, I find myself leaning into him and whimpering a rather girlish, “Please, Captain…”
WAAAAHHHHH!
With a yelp, I throw myself backwards, nearly toppling out of the chair I’d been slumped in.
WAHHH! WAAAAHHHHH!
“What the hell?” I blink around blearily, trying to make sense of that horrible noise.
It takes me a full ten seconds to realize it’s an alarm, which is currently flashing white and red from a spot on the wall that I hadn’t noticed before.
An alarm.
Right.
Because I’m in a firehouse. Where I have a very important job to do. A job that has absolutely nothing to do with indulging filthy dreams about sexy captains named Hale Hargrove.
The problem is—
when I glance down at my lap, my skirt is hitched higher than I remember… and my body is still acting like Hale’s hand never left.