Chapter Four Lila
“Iswear to God, Lou. I was such a fucking freak about it. I was just saying anything that would distract him from how hard I was blushing up on that mezzanine.”
Lou quirks an eyebrow at me in the mirror. Gina, currently fussing with my hair, tuts her tongue.
“It couldn’t have been that bad,” she murmurs.
My best friend’s wife always gives me too much credit, though.
“I told him I was a swan in a past life,” I deadpan.
Lou cackles. “Girl, what?
Despite the fact that Gina has a length of my hair clamped into a curling iron, I drop my head into my hands. “I don’t know.”
“Well, don’t ruin your makeup over it,” Lou sighs. “And so what? You had a sexy dream about a sexy firefighter. One time, Gina had a naughty dream about her geriatric yoga instructor.”
“Hey, I told you that in confidence!”
“Okay, sure, yes, I had that dream, but then I also nearly wet my panties when I saw him the other morning wearing gray sweatpants… and his hair was still damp from the shower… ugh.”
“Wet your panties? Like you almost peed yourself?” Lou frowns at me.
Gina sighs. “Baby, she means her lady parts got a bit damp when she—”
“Oh, got it. Right. Ew.”
I stare at my own miserable reflection in the mirror. “I’m going to mess this up.”
Lou, at least, doesn’t seem too worried. “How? By having the hots for a hot guy? I’m gay, but I’m not blind. I don’t blame you.”
“But what if I get an actual crush on one of these guys and then things get weird and then—”
“And then what? You do your job, save the day, and then maybe get a gorgeous boyfriend out of it once the whole living-in-the-firehouse-but-no-fraternizing thing is over? Fuck, Lila, your life is so hard.”
Gina chuckles, finishing the last curl and grinning down at her completed work.
I groan quietly at Lou’s words, definitely feeling like it’s a lot more complicated than that, but at least Gina has done wonders with my hair this evening.
What is usually a mass of thick blonde hair that I have to tame with about five different products is now smoothed back in a half-up style with pretty waves.
She’s also done my makeup incredibly well—better than I ever could even on my best day.
Which is important, of course, because tonight is the FDNY Charity Gala, and my date is none other than Captain Hale Hargrove himself.
“Come on, gorgeous,” Gina sighs. “Let’s get you squeezed into this killer dress.”
***
Lou and I ride with Jake, our main camera guy, to the venue. Lou will be making her unofficial debut as a director this evening, since Jake’s usual filming partner got food poisoning. I’m just grateful that my best friend, and the other half of Hartstrings PR, will be here with me tonight.
“Stop fidgeting,” Lou whispers to me in the backseat as Jake navigates us toward a parking spot within reasonable distance of the glamorous Midtown hotel that hosts the gala every year. “You look amazing.”
“I look like I had to be oiled up to fit in this thing.”
“Oh, shut up. You’re just not used to your tits looking that good.”
I frown down at my boobs. They’re not exactly spilling out of the low neckline, because that would be an insane choice on my part given that this is a professional event, but there is definitely more cleavage on display than I’m used to.
Typically, I prefer to show off my legs, which are definitely my best asset.
But tonight, my legs are covered by the floor-length gown of scarlet satin that will hopefully count as a tax write-off when all of this is done with.
“Well, thank goodness for Rent the Runway,” I mutter.
“That’s the spirit. Now, come on, princess. Your knight in shining armor awaits.” Lou rolls her eyes at her own cheesiness. “Or whatever.”
Ten minutes later, we’ve parked, gathered the filming equipment, and made our way toward the entrance of the hotel.
And, just like he said he’d be, Hale is waiting for me at the foot of the grand marble steps.
He doesn’t see our trio at first, which means I have about forty-five seconds to puzzle over how psychotically unjust it is that he’s the type of man who looks incredible in sweats and a tux.
Because, hell, he looks too good. As in, the public is going to see tonight’s episode and immediately drop their panties for him. The ladies will start lining up down the block from Station 47 and the captain will have his pick of the litter.
Which is fine, obviously, because it’s not like I want him. It was just a dream. And he’s just a hot guy.
And his employer hired me to help him, not admire his ass in those trousers.
Hale turns his head a moment later, spotting us. He opens his mouth to say something, but I end up blurting, “We’re not late.”
For a moment, all he does is stare at me. His expression is hard to read. He looks simultaneously annoyed, confused, and underwhelmed.
“In fact,” I continue, “we’re seven minutes early.”
He raises a single eyebrow. “Hello to you, too, Lila.”
Behind me, I’m aware of Lou and Jake getting the camera going, but I feel a little lightheaded and breathless.
“Hi,” I say, somewhat stupidly. “You look nice.”
He shrugs, nodding his chin at my dress. “You look nicer.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
“In fact, you look absolutely beautiful.”
I blink at him. That was certainly a lot more complimentary than I was expecting. In fact, I thought he might tell me that my choice to wear red tonight was a little too on-the-nose in terms of theming.
A smile curves my lips. “Thank you.”
Lou taps my shoulder. “Alright, we’re rolling.”
I nod, then offer Hale a grin. “Remember how I said this will go.”
He looks at the camera like he’d rather gently shove Jake into oncoming traffic than very politely act as first responder.
“I remember,” he confirms.
“Great.” I position myself beside him, ensuring that the magnificent entrance to the hotel is perfectly framed behind us, and then speak directly to the camera.
“Hi, everyone! It’s Lila Hart! I’m here with Captain Hale Hargrove of Midtown’s Station 47, and I have the greatest honor of accompanying him to tonight’s FDNY Charity Gala.
Throughout the evening, we’re going to get to know all about him, his job, and what it’s like to be a real firefighter in New York City when the alarms aren’t going off. ”
Hale awkwardly clears his throat when I finish speaking. Lou nods encouragingly from behind the camera.
“Let’s head inside then, shall we?” he suggests, offering me his arm.
I beam up at him, and he manages a neutral expression that doesn’t look outright grumpy.
As it turns out, this sourpuss is a perfect gentleman. He leads me up the stairs, slowing his pace to ensure I don’t catch a stiletto heal on the hem of my gown, and then he sweeps me into the entrance with all the grace and poise of Fred Astaire.
Lou and Jake trail behind, careful not to disturb the natural flow or cause too much commotion.
“Can you smile?” I dare to ask as we head toward the ballroom. “At least pretend you’re happy to be here.”
“I’m not happy to be here, though,” he counters quietly. “This tie is choking me and these people are all a bunch of rich bastards.”
“Oh, poor baby. There are worse fates than wearing cuff links and having to sweet-talk people into emptying their wallets.”
He scoffs, but I swear when I glance up at him, the corners of his lips have twitched upward ever so slightly.
I’ve never been to a gala, but I have been to prom and I went to Lou’s sorority formal in college when her date bailed at the last minute.
Weirdly enough, this is a lot like that.
We make the rounds, shaking hands and pasting on polite smiles.
We endure the speeches about bravery and sacrifice and generosity.
In between these moments, when Jake and Lou are able to squeeze through the crowd and get close enough, I coax words out of Hale so that the public can see him as a capable, confident man who runs an exemplary fire station.
As agreed earlier, the questions I ask are simple.
Do you come to the gala every year?
Will you tell me about the year you were honored as the youngest captain in Station 47 history?
What made you want to serve the FDNY?
Did you always want to be a firefighter?
To my relief, he answers them all with patience and thoughtfulness, and I almost feel bad that I thought this part of the filming process would be like pulling teeth or herding cats.
I feel even worse that the more I listen to him talk about his life, the more intriguing I find him.
But I don’t really know much about him. I don’t know why he’s thirty-four and still single. I don’t know where his parents live or what they do, nor do I know if he has any siblings. I don’t know what his favorite color is or what his last meal would be.
Because those are questions you’d ask a real date.
And I’m not actually dating this hero. I’m just trying to save him.
The music swells around us, a live orchestra playing something sultry and slow, and I realize my hand is still lingering on Hale's arm from our last posed shot.
His skin is warm under the crisp fabric of his tuxedo shirt, and every time he shifts, I catch a whiff of his cologne—clean, masculine, like cedar and smoke. It's doing things to me, things I shouldn't be feeling in the middle of a crowded ballroom full of donors and dignitaries.
My agency's future is riding on this campaign, on keeping things professional, but god, the way his dark eyes flick down to my lips when I laugh at one of his rare, dry jokes... it's like he's undressing me right here.
I excuse myself abruptly, murmuring something about needing to freshen up, and weave through the throng of glittering gowns and black ties toward the restrooms.
My heart's pounding, not from the champagne—I've barely touched it—but from the ghost of his hand on my waist earlier, guiding me through the crowd with that firm, possessive grip. Captain Hargrove, stoic and serious, but tonight he's been looking at me like I'm the only fire he wants to put out.
The ladies' room is mercifully empty, all marble counters and soft lighting, with stalls that feel more like private suites. I slip into the farthest one, locking the door behind me with a click that echoes too loudly in my ears.
My dress—a slinky number that hugs my curves and dips low enough to show the freckles across my chest—rustles as I lean back against the cool tile wall.
I'm wired, buzzing from his attention, from the way he leaned in close to answer my questions, his voice low and gravelly, like a secret just for me.
What the hell is wrong with me? This isn't real.
But my body's not listening. My nipples are already hard against the thin fabric, aching from the friction of every step I've taken tonight.
I press my thighs together, feeling the heat building there, the slickness starting to pool between my legs.
It's impulsive, desperate—I shouldn't be doing this here, now, but if I don't release some of this tension, I'll combust right in front of the cameras.
I hike up the hem of my dress, the silk sliding up my thighs like a lover's caress. My fingers tremble as I reach under, pushing aside the lace thong that's already damp. God, I'm soaked, my pussy throbbing with need just from thinking about him.
I imagine Hale's big hands instead of mine—those callused palms that could span my waist, rough from years of gripping hoses and ladders. I circle my clit slowly at first, teasing the swollen nub, and a soft whimper escapes my lips before I bite it back.
Faster now, my breath coming in shallow pants. I dip two fingers lower, sliding them through my wet folds, coating them in my arousal before plunging them inside.
The stretch is good, but not enough—fuck, I want him, want to feel his thick cock filling me, stretching me wide. I curl my fingers, hitting that spot that makes my toes curl in my heels, and rub my clit harder with my thumb.
The stall spins a little, the world narrowing to the slick sounds of my fingers pumping in and out, the wet squelch echoing off the walls.
In my mind, it's Hale pinning me against this wall, his dark eyes locked on mine as he fucks me hard and deep. "You need this, don't you, Lila?" he'd growl, his voice like thunder, his hips slamming into mine.
I'd wrap my legs around him, digging my nails into his broad shoulders, begging for more. The fantasy pushes me higher, my free hand sliding up to pinch my nipple through the dress, twisting just hard enough to send a jolt straight to my core.
I'm close, so fucking close. My pussy clenches around my fingers, fluttering as I thrust faster, chasing that edge.
Heat coils tight in my belly, spreading out like wildfire. One more curl, one more firm stroke over my clit, and I shatter—my orgasm crashes over me in waves, my walls pulsing, hot slickness coating my hand.
I gasp sharply, inhaling through gritted teeth to stifle the moan that wants to rip free, my body shuddering against the wall.
As the aftershocks fade, I slump there, fingers still buried inside me, panting. What the hell am I doing? Masturbating in a bathroom stall like a horny teenager, all because of a man I barely know—a man who's my client, my project.
I pull my hand free, wiping it on a tissue with shaky movements, and straighten my dress. My cheeks are flushed in the mirror when I step out to wash up, but the tension's eased, at least for now.
I take one steadying breath like I didn’t just lose my damn mind in a Midtown bathroom.