Code Red (Side Hustle #2)

Chapter 1 Rylie

RYLIE

Iwas so freaking fired.

No matter how many times I tried to shove that thought into the dusty storage closet of my mind, it kept wiggling back out. Like a guilt-gremlin with opinions.

Focus, I told myself. Every problem had a solution. A teacher of mine used to say that. Probably the same one who cried during parent-teacher conferences, but still. Wisdom was wisdom.

A lost cat on my first solo day running the clinic?

Yeah. That qualified as a capital-P Problem.

“Here, kitty kitty,” I called as I emerged from the woods with twigs in my hair and probably at least one spider along for the ride. I scanned the land around our sad little trailer-clinic.

No sign of Snowball. No sign of anything except the new, obnoxiously gigantic fire hall that made our clinic look like a kid’s science-fair project. A losing one.

Fire hall. Firefighters.

Firefighters rescued cats, didn’t they?

Okay, usually from trees. With ladders. And muscles. But Snowball could totally be in one of the many trees behind me. Or sitting in a bush laughing at me. Hard to say—cats were hard to read.

Still. Firefighters rescued cats. Cats climbed trees. The math checked out.

For the first time in a solid ten minutes, I unclenched every muscle in my body as I marched toward salvation—a.k.a.

the fire hall. There was a back door, but knowing my luck, it was alarmed and I’d end up on the evening news as Local Woman Accused of Breaking Into Fire Station in Apparent Cat-Related Panic.

So, front door it was.

I walked straight through the open garage bay…then stopped short. The garage was empty. My hopes deflated like a balloon someone let go of at a birthday party. Did that mean the firefighters were gone, truck and all?

I pushed deeper into the station anyway, because what else was I going to do? Give up? Tell Dr. Hanson I'd lost Mrs. Porter’s diabetic cat on Day One of flying solo?

"Hello?" I called out, my voice echoing off the polished concrete floors. "Is anyone here?"

Silence.

Then—wait. Was that…singing?

I froze, tilting my head like my roommate’s spaniel did when she heard the treat bag. Definitely singing. Coming from somewhere in the back.

Following the sound felt only slightly stalkery. But desperate times, desperate measures, and all that.

The voice got louder as I moved down the hallway. Deep. Confident. Enthusiastic in a way that suggested the singer thought he was alone.

I rounded the corner into what had to be the station kitchen and—

Oh.

Oh.

A man stood at the stove, his back to me, wearing nothing but black boxer briefs and apparently zero self-consciousness. He was singing into a spatula like it was a microphone at Madison Square Garden, his hips doing a little shimmy that should've required a permit.

Something sizzled in the pan in front of him. Bacon, maybe? The smell was incredible, which felt wildly inappropriate given that I was currently ogling a half-naked stranger’s…everything.

Broad shoulders. Defined back. The kind of arms that suggested he could probably bench-press me without breaking a sweat. And those boxers left absolutely nothing about his—

Focus, Rylie.

I cleared my throat.

He spun around so fast, the spatula went flying, clattering across the counter. His eyes—Jesus, they were blue—went wide as dinner plates.

We stared at each other. Him, half-naked, barefoot, frozen mid-song with his mouth still open. Me, covered in dirt, possibly still hosting that spider, and definitely having a full-body blush that started at my scalp and was working its way down.

"I—" I started.

"How did you—" he said at the same time.

We both stopped.

He grabbed a kitchen towel and held it in front of himself like a pathetic shield. Which was almost funny, because the towel was maybe twelve inches wide and he was…bigger.

"The garage was open," I blurted. "And I heard singing. I need help. With a cat."

His eyebrows drew together. "A cat."

"Yes. She's missing. Well, escaped. From the clinic. Next door." I gestured vaguely behind me, very carefully keeping my eyes on his face. His very handsome, currently very irritated face. "You're a firefighter, right? You rescue cats?"

"Volunteer firefighter," he corrected. "My day job's construction. But yeah—we rescue cats. From trees. Chimneys. Places cats get stuck and can't get down from on their own."

"Right, yes, that's—she could be in a tree. There are lots of trees. She's probably in a tree."

He stared at me for a long moment, and I watched something shift in his expression. Annoyance giving way to resignation. "You're from the vet clinic."

"Yes. I'm Rylie. The veterinary technician. Well, the only vet tech right now because Dr. Hanson is at a conference and—" I was babbling. I forced myself to stop. "Please. I really need help."

He sighed, long and heavy, then glanced back at the stove where his bacon—definitely bacon—was starting to smoke. He moved the pan aside and turned the knob to shut things off.

"Give me two minutes," he said, already moving toward what I assumed was his quarters. "And stay here. Don't touch anything."

He disappeared through a doorway, still clutching that useless towel, and I stood there in the middle of the kitchen trying very hard not to think about what I'd just seen. Or how my entire body was still buzzing from it.

This was fine. Everything was fine. I just needed to find Snowball, get back to the clinic, and never, ever think about Firefighter Boxer Briefs ever again.

Through the doorway, I heard drawers opening, fabric rustling, and his voice—no longer singing—muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “…cats. Of course, it's a damn cat."

Two minutes later, he emerged fully dressed in navy cargo pants and a fitted department sweatshirt that somehow made him look even better than the boxers had. Which seemed unfair.

"Let's get this straight," he said, not looking at me. "Firefighters don't actually rescue cats as often as people think. Most cats that climb trees can climb back down. They just don't want to. They're waiting for someone to bring them food."

"Snowball has diabetes," I said quietly. "She needs her insulin. And her owner—Mrs. Porter—that cat is everything to her. If something happens to Snowball…”

Something in his expression softened. Just a fraction.

"Where did you last see her?" he asked.

"The exam room. She bolted when I opened her carrier. I've been searching for an hour."

He grabbed a radio from the counter, clipped it to his belt, then moved toward the door. "Show me."

I followed him out of the station, very aware of the six-plus-feet of muscled competence striding ahead of me, and tried to remember how to form coherent sentences.

This was going to be a long afternoon.