Chapter 5
ELENA
When I get to the cafeteria for lunch duty, a navy blue shirt draws my eye like a magnet.
Weston Monroe is standing near the other set of doors, an easy smile on his face, and that damned fire department shirt stretched across his strong, broad shoulders like it's clinging for dear life.
Not here, not at work, I tell myself.
I remember Weston most of all from things Tyler talked about.
He was the team’s medic, fondly called Patch.
From the stories Tyler was able to share, I got the idea that Weston was the most light-hearted of the team, not that it’s a word you can really apply to a Navy SEAL.
He was the one who lifted the group’s mood, despite the tough things he must have dealt with during missions.
What’s he doing here?
If there’d been an emergency, I’d have been notified, and there are no safety programs scheduled, but he’s standing there like his presence is normal, as if he’s here every day for lunch duty. When he meets my eyes, he tips his head in greeting, still smiling.
A disloyal zing of electricity traces across my skin as I take in the man’s tall frame, his thick dark hair and even thicker biceps, and the way he commands the space around him even while standing at ease.
“Hi, Mom.” T.J. gives me a quick wave as he files past in line with his class.
As I’m waving back, a teacher approaches to let me know she needs class coverage this afternoon during an IEP meeting. While I’m making a note, two kids in the line behind T.J.’s class start pushing each other, and I step in to break it up.
My gaze unintentionally returns to Weston after all the activity.
He’s casually scanning the room and waving to kids who say hello to him.
They either recognize him from fire safety week, or they’re just excited to have a fireman at the school.
To the shyer kids, his size and uniform may seem imposing; to others, he’s a rock star.
I make my way over to him, noting that T.J.’s at his usual table, next to his friend David, where the two are having an animated conversation.
As a cluster of sixth-grade boys passes by the firefighter, I approach from his other side and nearly take him by surprise. Not an easy thing to do to someone with his training. “Mr. Monroe?”
His brows lift, and his warm brown eyes sparkle with warmth. “Principal Ramirez.”
He clasps his hands behind his back, and I ignore the way it makes his chest look like he’s wearing a sculpted superhero costume.
“What brings you to the school today?” I ask. “No one cleared your visit with the office.”
“Just helping out. Part of the department’s community outreach.” He waves at another young fan at a nearby table. “Your cafeteria aides have this room on lock, by the way.”
“I haven’t seen any of you here for lunch duty before.”
“It’s time we rectify that, then.” He gives me a charming smile that definitely does not make my insides flutter.
“I suppose you talked to Buck?”
Weston nods. “Saw him this morning when my shift ended.”
“So you’re not on duty right now?”
Caught out, his grin only gets more charming. “Not officially,” he says, “and unofficially, I came by to apologize for not introducing myself when I first saw you in Moon Ridge. None of us knew what the right approach was.”
I nod once, accepting the apology. “How did all three of you end up here?”
He tilts his head back and slightly to the side, and the muscles in his neck stretch and flex. “Buck was here and said there was work. Seemed like the best option at the time.”
The answer is vague, but not in a way that makes me suspicious. Only curious. Similar to how I felt after I got over the shock of my meeting with Buck last night, I feel safe around Weston, even though I’m not comfortable with the way my body responds to the men.
“How are you liking life in a small town?” he asks.
I lower my voice so no one can overhear. “I was liking it quite a bit until the incident at the administrative building.”
“Got it,” he says. “You prefer less arson, more potlucks and bake sales.”
His joke takes me by surprise, and a little laugh bursts out of me. Even though he’s making light and seems easygoing, he never stops scanning the space.
“Have you seen anything out of the ordinary since the incident?” he asks.
“No.”
“Good. You’ve got our numbers. Don’t be a stranger, Elena.”
Something about the way he says my name—my first name, not my title—leaves me unable to move or even breathe for a second. When I do, I write off my reaction as a symptom of stress.
I pull myself together and give him a professional smile. “Thanks for coming by, Mr. Monroe. Hope you enjoy the rest of your day off.”
Later, as I’m returning to my office after the second lunch group is through, my phone pings with a text from Buck. “Tomorrow morning, I’m installing security at your place. Cameras, sensors, door contacts. You’ll get a schedule window when I have it. Keep your doors locked tonight.”
He’s telling instead of asking, and it irks me, even if I appreciate his intent.
In the early evening, when T.J. and I walk out to the parking lot, firefighter #3 is there waiting for us, a few spots away from my SUV.
Calder Black gives us a curt wave but doesn’t say a word, then proceeds to follow us all the way home.
He stays in his truck, engine idling, until we’re both inside the house, then he drives off.
Apparently, my emotional walls are about to be tested by three men who protect first and ask permission later.
In the middle of the night, I wake from a bizarre dream where I’m chewing soft plastic. I’m taking more and more of it into my mouth but can’t swallow any of it. A horrible taste coats my tongue, and it’s when I gag that I finally wake up from the nightmare.
But the bad taste doesn’t stay in the dream, and now my nose wrinkles from a bad smell.
As I surface from my sleepy haze, my mind makes excuses for the acrid odor, but a soft popping sound from somewhere in the house snaps my eyes open.
As I’m blinking in the dark, the shrill shriek of the smoke alarm slices through my skull and turns my blood to ice.
Wide awake, I sit up fast, coughing from air that tastes like it’s full of chemicals. My eyes sting, and my heart pounds violently.
T.J.
I grab my phone as I hurry out of bed. The floor is cool, but the air is warmer than it should be.
When I open my bedroom door, the hallway is hazy.
There’s an orange glow coming from the living room, and when I step out, the open doorway to the den on the opposite side of the house is bright with flickering light, crackling and snapping.
The alarm in the hall comes alive, overlapping with the first one, making it hard to think. For a split second, I consider solutions like water, the fire extinguisher, and blankets, but as smoke billows out of the den and spills into the living room, my priority becomes clear.
In T.J.’s room, I flip on the light and focus on the shape of my child under the blanket. “T.J., wake up!”
He blinks as he answers me in a voice thick with sleep.
“Buddy, up. Now. There’s a fire. We’re leaving.” I keep my voice low and calm. “Let’s go.”
My eyes are watering, and my fingers are clumsy with adrenaline as I reach for T.J. He grabs his stuffed frog, and I lead him up and out of his room, picking up his hoodie on the way out.
The den is too close to the front door for that to be a safe exit. With my hand clamped around T.J.’s wrist, I tell him to stay low. Heads ducked, we quickly head toward the back of the house, through the kitchen, into the small mudroom, then finally, out the back door.
I suck in deep lungfuls of the cold night air and cough out smoke as I lead my son away from the house. He’s trembling beside me, his feet only in socks, and his eyes huge in the dark.
It’s not until we’re at the back of the small yard, as far from the fire as we can get, that I pull my phone from my pocket with shaking hands and dial 9-1-1.