Chapter 2
JOSH
First day at a new station, and I’ve already made a fool of myself in front of my squad mates.
Lieutenant Josh Collins, reporting for duty with confidence and zero intentions of throwing his body in front of falling objects like an unthinking human shield.
But as I spotted the woman, frozen in place as a wooden beam tore loose from the ceiling, I registered the path. It was heading straight for her face, and none of my guys were close enough.
So I did what any idiot with a hero complex would do: I lunged forward, shoving her aside with my body while raising my arm to deflect the beam.
It worked, technically. I saved the woman.
But a rusty nail sliced me open and made me look like the greenest rookie in the department.
At least I didn’t break a bone. Still, I should’ve used literally anything but my arm.
Now I’m parked in an ER, mentally drafting a stack of “Sorry, I’m an Idiot” cards to send to my former captain who vouched for me.
The door swings open, and I straighten. I expect a doctor, but a nurse comes in. She’s all efficiency in blue scrubs and honey-blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her gaze stays locked on the chart as she enters, and that focused intensity makes my pulse kick up a notch for no reason.
She closes the door and looks up. Our gazes meet, and the impact hits me harder than that beam did.
I register too much too fast about her beautiful eyes.
The color, hazel, leaning more on green than brown.
The shape, round, upturned. And her long lashes—natural, no makeup needed.
The unexpected awareness short-circuits whatever self-pep-talk I was in the middle of.
I’m about to smile when she flinches. A shadow flickers across her face, her expression scrunching into a grimace of pain before her features settle into professional neutrality.
The change is so subtle I might have imagined it, but no. Something about me triggered a reaction in her, but what?
“Good afternoon,” she says coolly as she sets down a suture kit. “I’m practicing Nurse Finnigan and I’ll be taking care of your arm today.”
“Hi, I’m Josh.”
I flash the smile I’ve used to wiggle out of trouble since middle school. But Nurse Finnigan nods imperviously and reaches for my arm, granting me maybe a tenth of the attention she gave my chart.
“Don’t I get a name?” I prod.
She scowls but still looks cute as she removes the temporary bandages and starts cleaning around the edges of the gash. “You get stitches and to keep your arm.”
I want to laugh, but her deadpan delivery makes me worry she might actually leave me one-armed if I do. “Not even a golden star? I dove in front of a falling beam to save a life. Pretty heroic, right?”
This gets me a brief, cutting glance. “Or pretty stupid. Did you forget your halligan? Or do they not cover ‘risk-benefit analysis’ in rookie orientation?”
I blink, surprised. Most civilians don’t know the technical names of our tools. “I’m not a rookie, I’m the new squad lieutenant at Station 27.”
At the words “lieutenant and station 27,” her hands freeze, and that shadow crosses her face again—deeper this time, unmistakable.
She recovers quickly, resuming her work without comment, but the air in the room has thickened. I want to know why almost as much as I want her to look at me again with anything other than professional disinterest.
I’m suddenly determined to find out as much as I can about her. “Family in the service?”
“I’m going to clean this with antiseptic now,” she replies, ignoring my question. “It’ll sting.”
“Don’t sound so cheerful about it.”
A tiny, almost imperceptible quirk touches the corner of her mouth before she proceeds.
She’s not kidding. The disinfectant burns, and I hiss through my teeth.
Nurse Finnigan grabs a syringe. “I’ll give you a local anesthetic before the stitches.”
I barely feel the pinch and study her while she prepares the suture kit.
I take in the slight furrow between her brows as she concentrates.
The way she tucks an escaped wisp of hair behind her ear with the back of her wrist to maintain sterility.
And how she snaps each instrument on her tray: annoyed, as if my scrutiny is rattling her and her patience for me fraying fast.
“Is this the part where you hold my hand and tell me I’ll be okay?” I ask, unable to help myself.
Her eyes flick up to mine, and I catch a flash of genuine amusement before she stamps it out. “No, this is the part where I stick a needle in you and hope you don’t cry.”
I press a hand to my chest in mock offense. “I haven’t cried since I mistook wasabi for guacamole at a party.”
Her lips twitch again.
“Tragic,” she deadpans, testing the numbed area with a small poke. “Feel that?”
“Only emotionally,” I reply. “If I pass out, please lie to my squad mates and say I was brave.”
“If you were unconscious, I could do my job in peace.”
Another jab. But with less bite. She’s warming up to me.
“Hey, unfair! What if I was being conversational because I’m afraid of needles?”
She remains unmoved. “Life’s not fair. Now hold still unless you want a scar shaped like the state of Texas.”
I mime zipping my lips, watching her as she works. Her hands move with precision, the needle dipping in and out of my skin in a neat, even pattern. I know she feels my gaze on her from the flush that creeps up her neck—almost definitely annoyance, but a guy can hope.
I should look away, but I can’t.
“Almost done,” she says after a while, making me wish the cut was deeper and needed more stitches. “The good news is, with proper care, this shouldn’t leave much of a scar.”
“And the bad news?”
“You’ll have to find a different way to impress women.”
I bark out a surprised laugh. “Ah, you admit my heroics were impressive!”
She gives me a look that could freeze lava. “You need a tetanus shot.”
“Will it hurt?”
“Sorry. We only offer popsicles to patients under ten.”
“What if I’m really, really brave?”
She ignores me again, finishes the last stitch, and snips the thread with a decisive click. “There. I’ll dress it now, then give you the shot.”
She applies an antibiotic ointment and covers the wound with gauze and tape. Even with the anesthetics and plastic gloves between us, my skin tingles every time she grazes it. And despite her clear desire to be rid of me, her touch is gentle.
She discards her gloves and washes her hands. “Lower your collar over your shoulder,” she says, holding another syringe.
I obediently offer my uninjured side, flexing slightly—not that I’m showing off or anything. If her eye roll is any sign, she’s not impressed.
The needle slides in with minimal discomfort, and I raise my eyebrows in surprise. “Didn’t feel a thing.”
Without comment, she disposes of the syringe and makes a note in my chart.
“Any chance I could get your first name…” At her glare, I quickly add, “For my thank-you card?”
“You’re free to go, Mr. Collins. Come back in eight days to remove the stitches.
” She brushes me off for the third time.
“Keep the wound clean and dry. Change the dressing daily. No swimming, no heavy lifting with that arm for at least a week. Cover it with plastic wrap when you shower. If you see redness, swelling, or pus, get it checked right away.”
She delivers these instructions already halfway to the exit with the rapid-fire efficiency of someone who’s said them a thousand times and concludes with a dry, “Goodbye.”
“Thank you,” I call after her, but she’s gone, disappearing past the door faster than a mouse escaping a closing trap.
I sit staring at the space she occupied, feeling oddly bereft. Then I shake it off, grab my gear, and head to the lobby where Martinez, Diaz, and Brett from my squad are waiting.
“All patched up, Lieutenant?” Martinez asks, standing as I approach.
“Good as new,” I confirm, showing off my bandaged arm. “Hey, do you know anything about the nurse who stitched me up? Finnigan?”
My mates exchange a stare I can’t decipher.
“Lily Finnigan?” Diaz asks, his expression serious.
“I didn’t get a first name,” I admit. “Blonde, hazel eyes, could intimidate a charging bull with a look?”
“That’s her.” Brett nods. “Lily Finnigan. Why do you ask about her?”
I give the worst impression of a nonchalant shrug. “No reason.”
My squad mates don’t seem to buy into my reply.
Diaz gives me a long stare, but eventually tells me, “She’s one of our own. Daniel Finnigan’s widow.”
The name rings a bell. He was the lieutenant before last, killed in a warehouse fire four years ago. The story came up during my onboarding, spoken with the reverent tone reserved for fallen brothers.
“They’ve got a little girl, too,” Diaz adds, lowering his voice.
Her reaction makes perfect sense now—the pain in her eyes when she looked at me, the way she tensed when I mentioned being a lieutenant at Station 27.
“I didn’t know,” I mumble.
“She’s good people,” Martinez says as we head toward the exit. “But she’s been through hell.”
I glance back at the ER doors, picturing her steady hands and guarded eyes, the grief she carries so carefully it’s almost invisible.
Respect, curiosity, and yes, attraction pulse in my belly.
“Come on, Lieutenant,” Diaz says, clapping me on my good shoulder. “The chief wants us back at the station for debriefing.”
Walking to the truck, I half-wish for a reason to see her again. A torn stitch or pus. I’d even brave an infection to catch another moment with Nurse Finnigan. It’s an unnatural thought for a firefighter—craving an injury—one I never had before.
Today has been a day of firsts, but, fingers crossed, not lasts.