Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
WYATT
The call comes in just as we’re sitting down to eat, because of course it does.
Ignoring my growling stomach, I jump to my feet and jog out toward the garage with my crew following behind me, and I climb into the driver’s seat.
The engine is clean and shiny, thanks to the firefighters giving it a quick wash after the small fire we responded to before sunup this morning.
“I hand-dried the entire engine,” John Smith, a.k.a.
McGruff, grumbles. He showed up at the station once wearing a khaki raincoat, and our old, now-retired captain asked him who the hell did he think he was, McGruff the Crime Dog?
And the nickname just stuck, even though the majority of the younger firefighters had no idea who McGruff even was.
Besides, McGruff was a lot more interesting a name compared to John Smith. His parents, who both seem like nice people, must secretly hate him to give him such a bland-ass name.
Once we’re fully loaded and ready to go, I pull out of the station driveway and make my way down the windy road that curves along the lake, lights flashing but no siren on.
Can’t really speed, considering the road is full of parked cars along both sides and people are constantly crossing the street to get to the lake.
I love my hometown, but during the summer, it becomes a tourist-filled nightmare.
“Did you hear the address?” Suzanne Wight whistles low, shaking her head as she shrugs into her yellow turnout jacket. “One of those swanky houses on the hill.”
“They’re all pretty swanky, Suz.” I flash her a quick smile, keeping my gaze on the road. “But yeah. I don’t even know who owns that house.”
There are a bunch of big houses on the lake that are barely used by their owners. Most of them get rented out to vacationers, but not the particular address we’re going to. That house mostly stands empty throughout the year, which is a damn shame because it has one of the best views of the water.
Within three minutes, I’m pulling onto the steep driveway, grateful the gate is already open. At least whoever’s there had the foresight to think of that. The engine windows are rolled down, and I can smell the scent of smoke, though when we pull up in front of the house, I don’t see any.
Hopefully that’s a good sign.
I turn off the motor, my crew already on the ground and grabbing the hose when the front door swings open and out runs a blonde woman who’s clad only in a pale-pink silk robe.
It’s short, hits her about mid-thigh, and the fabric molds to her body, showcasing every curve she’s got. And she’s got a lot of them.
McGruff stands there with his jaw hanging open, his eyes practically bugging out of his head. The woman spots him and makes her way toward him, her distress obvious.
“Please, come inside! The fire started in the upstairs bathroom.” She grabs hold of the front of his Nomex turnout jacket and gives him a tug, just before she turns like she’s going to run back into the house.
The hell? Is she crazy? People do wild things in moments of crisis. I’ve seen it happen time and again in this job over the years.
“Ma’am.” I climb out of the cab of the engine, my sharp voice making her stop in her tracks and turn to face me.
Her eyes are wide and full of fear, and this close, I can see that she’s got one of those sheet-mask things on her face, making her look like a .
. . ghoul. I can’t tell if she’s attractive or not, but that’s not important at the moment.
“You can’t go back inside. We’ve got it from here. ”
“Oh.” Her face falls a little, and she glances over her shoulder before facing me once more. Her dark-blonde hair is slicked back and looks greasy. “Oh my God. I need to go save my Birkin!”
Before any of us can stop her, she’s dashed back inside the burning house.
“Jesus,” I mutter as I break out into a full jog, following her. The bottom floor is untouched, but it’s slowly filling with smoke, and I don’t spot her lithe figure anywhere. “Where are you?”
A muffled yelp sounds from the second floor, and I run up the stairs, grateful to hear my crew entering the house.
The smoke is thicker up here, and I’m pissed at myself for not slipping on the breathing apparatus when I jumped out of the engine.
At least I have a helmet on, while this woman is running around the second level trying to save her Birkin—I have no idea what the hell she’s talking about—in just a robe.
I run down the hall where the smoke is the thickest, entering a massive bedroom to find the woman exiting a walk-in closet, a giant purse clutched in her hands. She lifts the bag above her head and waves it like she just won a prize.
“Found it!”
I go to her, and without asking, I pick her up and throw her over my shoulder, clamping my arm around her legs so she doesn’t flail out of my grip.
She’s squealing. Yelling. Calling me names as I leave the bedroom, run down the stairs, and exit the house, relieved to see my crew on the ground with the hose, aiming it at an open window where smoke is billowing out.
I don’t let the woman go until we’re at the engine, and I carefully deposit her on her feet, shocked when I see a flash of bare thighs, thanks to her robe riding up from the way I hauled her outside.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” she asks, indignant.
“I’m the guy who just saved your life.” I jab a thumb at my chest. “Why did you run back into a burning building?”
“I had to save my bag.” She holds it up, and I stare at the purse, trying to figure out why it’s so valuable to her, but I come up empty. “It’s made out of crocodile.”
I blink at her. “So?”
“It’s worth”—her voice drops—“over a hundred thousand dollars.”
“That’s insane,” is my automatic response. I don’t even think I believe her.
“It’s true! My mother gave it to me. She’s had it for ages.” She pets the bag like it’s a living thing, and I suppose, once upon a time, it was. “I’m glad I saved it.”
“That was a risky move, ma’am.” Why am I conversing with her again?
She brushes her hands down the front of her robe like she’s trying to put herself back together. “You had your hand on my . . . backside.”
I frown. “I did?”
She nods, her nose in the air. “Rather inappropriate, don’t you think?”
“Sorry.” I don’t sound sorry at all. “Just trying to do my job.”
Sometimes I feel like a dick when I talk to people. The general public has no clue what it takes to fight a fire, any type of fire. A lot of the time, they’re trying to do something dumb, like run back into the burning building.
Like this woman, who I can see is beautiful because, at some point, the face mask slipped off, revealing her heart-shaped face with lush lips and big blue eyes that are currently blazing with irritation.
Does she not realize how close she was to doing serious damage to herself?
I heard her coughing when I had her slung over my shoulder, and she does it now, a delicate sound she tries to contain with her fist pressed against her mouth.
“You okay?” I bend a little, peering at her, and she turns to the side, using one hand to tuck her robe closer to her chest while she coughs into the other one. She has nothing on under that robe—I could tell for sure when I had her in my arms. Over my shoulder.
She nods, dropping her hand and parting her lips, only to fall into another coughing fit, this one sounding worse. “I-I need a medic.”
“Come on.” I press my hand to the small of her back, leading her to the other side of the engine and throwing open the back door. “Let me help you up—”
“I can do it myself.” She bats my hand away, climbing up into the engine, and I swear to God, I catch a glimpse of the underside of her perfectly round ass cheeks.
Averting my head, I catch sight of another engine showing up, this one from the station on the other side of the lake, and my radio crackles to life, an operator asking for an updated status on the fire.
I give the update, watching the woman sitting in the back of my engine, her face smudged with remnants of smoke and ash. Within seconds the second engine crew is set up, blasting the house with water, and the fire is put out.
“From what we could tell, the fire was only contained to the primary bedroom and bathroom,” Suz tells me as she makes her way toward the engine.
The homeowner pops her head out from behind the still-open door. “Will it be okay for me to go back in there?”
Suz and I share a look but say nothing. Fire may do incredible damage, but smoke is even worse. It permeates rooms and settles onto everything in its path. And then there’s the potential water damage that we just caused from putting the fire out. I can guarantee the house is a mess.
“Definitely no—” I start, but Suz cuts me off, stepping in front of me and making nice with the woman.
“You’re probably going to have to find somewhere else to stay for a few nights.” Suz’s voice is gentle, as is her approach. Unlike mine.
“More like indefinitely,” I add, earning a hard glance from my coworker.
She shakes her head once, and I gladly leave the consoling up to her.
The last thing I want to deal with is a frantic, ditzy homeowner who is probably responsible for the fire and thinks she can just resume her stay in her gorgeous vacation home despite the damage she caused it.
My crew starts the mop-up process while I radio in that the fire is contained and they can cancel the third engine that was coming to assist. I make my way over to my crew to check on them and realize Suz has joined them.
“Why aren’t you with the homeowner?” I ask her.
“She received a call, and I could hear a man yelling at her, so I thought it best I give her some privacy.” Suz makes a vaguely distressed face.
“Pissed-off husband?” I quickly glance over my shoulder to see the woman pacing back and forth in front of my engine, her phone glued to the side of her face, her other hand gesturing in the air.