Chapter 7
RYLIE
The Wildwood Ridge Roadhouse officially smelled more like fried onions than paint.
I pushed through the door after a long shift at the clinic—two surgeries, one emergency rabbit, and Mrs. Porter bringing Snowball in for a follow-up that turned into a twenty-minute conversation about her granddaughter's college plans.
My feet hurt and I desperately needed a shower, but Devon had texted an hour ago saying the guys from the station were grabbing dinner, and I should join them.
As if I could say no to that.
I spotted them immediately—a table full of broad shoulders and flannel in the back corner.
Devon sat at the head, Mason to his right, and the rest of the guys spread around in various states of burger consumption.
These were the firefighters Devon had been training for the past few weeks—the new salaried crew Mayor Pearce had brought in from across the area.
Devon had somehow become their unofficial den mother until the permanent fire captain showed up next month.
Devon saw me the second I walked in. His whole face changed—softened in a way I was still getting used to. Like I was the best thing he'd seen all day.
One week. We'd been doing this for a full week, and I still wasn't over the way he looked at me.
"Hey, sweetheart." He stood as I approached, pulling out the chair next to him. "How was your day?"
"Long." I sank into the seat with a grateful sigh. "But good. Really good, actually."
"Yeah?" He settled back down, his hand immediately finding my knee under the table. Just resting there, warm and solid. Claiming.
"Dr. Hanson got the approval." I couldn't keep the grin off my face. "Permits went through. We're breaking ground on the permanent clinic next month."
Devon's hand tightened on my knee. "Next to the station?"
"Right next door." I looked up at him, unable to contain my excitement. "I'll be working thirty feet from you. Well—when you're over here and not at a job site."
"Guess I'll have to find more reasons to swing by the station," he said, grinning.
The table erupted.
"The clinic’s being built?" Conner raised his beer. "That's fantastic."
"Congrats, Rylie," Hux added, grinning. "That's huge."
Mason leaned back in his chair, shaking his head with mock disbelief. "Man, Devon. You really went and got yourself domesticated, didn't you?"
"Shut up," Devon muttered, but there was no heat in it.
"No, seriously." Mason gestured between us with a fry. "One week ago, this man was eating cold pizza alone in the station kitchen. Now he's got a girlfriend moving in next door. Cupid took him out like a sniper."
"More like a sledgehammer," Conner added, laughing.
Devon flipped them both off, but his hand stayed on my knee, thumb drawing lazy circles that made it hard to focus on anything else.
Gabby appeared at my elbow, pad in hand and that ever-present smile on her face. "Hey, Rylie. Congrats on the clinic news. What can I get you?"
"Sweet white wine, please. Whatever you have that's cold and celebratory."
"Coming right up." She turned to the table. "You guys need anything else?"
"We're good," Mason said, but his eyes tracked her as she walked away.
I noticed. And judging by the way Conner elbowed him, he'd noticed too.
"Subtle," Conner muttered.
"What?" Mason grabbed another fry, trying and failing to look innocent.
"You've been watching her all night."
"I have not."
"You asked her name three times last week."
"I have a bad memory."
"You remember every play from the 2015 Super Bowl."
Mason opened his mouth, closed it, then shrugged. "She's pretty. So what?"
I bit back a smile, glancing around the roadhouse.
Gabby wasn't the only attractive woman working tonight.
There was a brunette behind the bar mixing drinks with practiced efficiency, another server—younger, maybe early twenties—clearing tables with nervous energy, and someone I hadn't seen before setting up the small stage in the corner.
Devon caught me looking. "What's that smile for?"
"Nothing." I leaned into him, lowering my voice. "Just thinking that your crew might not be single for long. Not with this place right down the street."
His eyes crinkled at the corners. "Yeah?"
"Mm-hmm." I nodded toward Mason, who was very obviously watching Gabby return with my wine. "Case in point."
Devon followed my gaze and huffed a quiet laugh. "Poor bastard doesn't stand a chance."
"Against Gabby? Or against himself?"
"Both."
Gabby set my wine down with a wink. "Enjoy. And seriously, congrats on the clinic."
"Thanks, Gabby."
She headed to another table, and Mason's eyes followed her the whole way.
Conner raised his beer. "Alright, alright. Enough about Mason's tragic love life. We're here to celebrate. To Rylie and the new clinic."
"To Rylie," the table echoed, glasses lifting.
"To good friends," Hux added.
"Great food," Conner chimed in.
"And great beer," Mason finished, taking a long pull from his bottle.
I lifted my wine glass, warmth spreading through my chest that had nothing to do with the alcohol. Devon's hand squeezed my knee, and when I looked over, he was watching me with that expression again—the one that said I was his and he wasn't letting go.
Three days, and my whole life had changed.
I clinked my glass against his beer bottle and took a sip, already wondering what the next three days would bring.