EMT Declan (Brothers Paradise #4)

Chapter 1

One

Tarryn

The smoke wakes me.

At first, I think it’s part of a dream, thick and acrid, curling into my lungs like a warning. But then I cough, hard, and my eyes snap open.

It’s real.

I sit up, disoriented, heart thudding in my chest as the room swims. The scent hits stronger now—burning wood, melting plastic, something sharper beneath it all. My throat scratches with every breath.

“Elise!” I shout, stumbling toward the door of my bedroom. “Elise, wake up!”

Her door swings open at the same time mine does. Her eyes are wide, hair a mess, voice tight with panic. “Tarryn? There’s smoke. There’s a fire!”

“It’s downstairs. We have to go. Now.”

I grab my phone off the nightstand and nothing else—no wallet, no charger, not even the knit blanket at the end of my bed. Elise already has her coat halfway on as we both race for the front door. My lungs burn. The stairs are thick with haze, and the smoke alarm… Where is the fire alarm?

“Elise, the fire alarm— Why didn’t it go off?”

“I don’t know. Just move!”

We burst out into the cold night air, coughing and shivering on the gravel drive, the cottage glowing an unnatural orange behind us. Through the windows, I can see flames licking up the back wall of the living room. It’s spreading fast.

I fumble with my phone and dial 9-1-1. My hands shake as I give them the address. “It’s the guest cottage at Paradise Hill Vineyard. There’s a fire. It’s inside the house. We’re out, but it’s bad. Please hurry.”

The dispatcher promises they’re on their way. I hang up and immediately call my parents. “It’s the cottage,” I rasp. “There’s a fire. We’re okay. But you need to come.”

They live just up the hill. Not even a full minute passes before I hear the crunch of tires on gravel. Headlights sweep the driveway. My dad’s truck skids to a stop, followed by my mom’s car, hazard lights flashing.

They run toward us.

My mom wraps me in a blanket she must’ve grabbed on her way out the door. “Oh my God, baby. Are you hurt? What happened?”

“I don’t know. We were sleeping and…there was smoke. It just—” I can’t even finish the sentence.

My dad’s already barking questions. “Was something left on? The stove? A candle?”

I shake my head. “No. Nothing.”

Mitch Anderson, Elise’s father and the Master Vintner truck sprays dust as he drives in.

He pulls Elise into his arms. “Are you okay? What happened?”

Elise buries her head into his shoulder. “We’re fine. We don’t know anything.”

The fire is visible now through the windows, wild and unforgiving. Elise stands beside me, coughing quietly, her arms wrapped around herself. We watch helplessly as the flames race along the ceiling beams like they’re chasing something.

Sirens scream in the distance. Red lights pulse in time with the panic in my chest.

The first firetruck swings into the drive, followed closely by the ambulance. A crew jumps out and rushes to unspool hoses. Firefighters shout commands, racing toward the blaze.

Then I see him.

Tall. Broad. Stepping out of the passenger side of the ambulance like he belongs here.

Declan Conner.

I blink, stunned. My heart lurches.

What the hell is he doing here? He moved to Vancouver. He broke my heart, left without warning, and never looked back. Almost two years gone. And now, he’s here, just casually walking back into my life while my home burns?

Before I can process anything more, he spots me.

He stops cold, oxygen tank slung over one shoulder, and for a heartbeat, we just stare. The past, the pain, the what-the-hell-is-happening of it all—it clogs my throat more than the smoke.

Then he's moving.

“Tarryn,” he says, urgent but calm, kneeling beside me. “Are you okay? Are you breathing all right?”

I nod stiffly, but he doesn’t take my word for it.

He fits the oxygen mask gently over my face, his fingers brushing my cheek, warm despite the night air. The contact sends a shiver down my spine. His eyes lock onto mine, concerned and something else, something that makes my stomach twist.

God help me, I forgot how blue his eyes are.

I forgot how easily he could look right through me.

“Breathe normally,” he says softly, keeping the mask steady. “Just let it flow.”

Elise sits beside me on the tailgate of my dad’s truck, still shivering.

Declan glances over. “Anyone having chest pain? Trouble breathing? Dizziness?”

We both shake our heads, but he still runs through the protocol. No shortcuts.

He steps closer to Elise first. “I’m going to check your vitals, okay?”

She nods.

He clips the pulse oximeter onto her finger and watches the numbers, then takes her wrist and counts. “You’ve got a little smoke inhalation, but your oxygen levels are holding. You cold?”

She gives a tight laugh. “Freezing.”

He turns and waves to one of the other EMTs, who quickly brings over an extra blanket and foil wrap. “Here,” he says, wrapping it around her shoulders. “You need to keep warm. Shock can creep in quietly.”

Then he moves back to me.

His hands are confident, practiced, as he gently takes my wrist and checks my pulse. “You’re fast,” he murmurs. “Adrenaline.”

“Gee, you think?” I mutter behind the mask.

The corner of his mouth twitches.

He crouches, one hand steadying my knee, the other lifting the sleeve of my coat to feel along my forearm. “Any burns?”

I shake my head.

“Smoke exposure?”

“I woke up coughing,” I say. “But the smoke wasn’t thick upstairs. I didn’t pass out or anything.”

He nods, already moving on to the next check. He unzips the top of my coat just enough to inspect my neck and collarbone. His touch is clinical, impersonal. But my body doesn’t seem to get the message. It reacts anyway.

“Lift your foot,” he says gently.

I do, and he tugs my boot off, checking for burns or blisters on my bare skin. My toes are already turning pink from the cold.

“God, you didn’t even grab socks.”

“Didn’t exactly have time to pack.”

He exhales through his nose. “Of course not.” He signals to another EMT who brings over a warming pack, which he tucks under my blanket and guides toward my lap.

“You’re going to be okay,” he says, eyes catching mine again. “You both got out fast. That matters.”

I hate how steady he sounds. How gentle. Like he didn’t leave me in pieces the last time we stood this close.

My parents hover nearby, my mom wringing her hands, my dad staring grimly at the cottage as flames spit from the windows.

Beckett and Sadie have arrived now. Ryker and Ginny, too. They’re talking to the fire chief, assessing, asking questions, already moving into damage control mode. The family reflex.

But I can’t move. Not yet.

Because Declan Conner is back in Paradise.

And somehow, the first hands to touch me after the flames…are his. And for one brief, stupid moment, I let myself forget what he did.

Then I remember.

“You’re back,” I say, voice muffled by the mask. “You’re really back.”

His jaw tightens. “Yeah.”

Before I can ask more, Beckett and Sadie walk over to me, followed by Ryker and Ginny. I don’t know who called them, but suddenly, we’re surrounded. Familiar voices, rapid-fire questions, worried eyes scanning the flames.

Beckett talks to the fire chief. Ryker stands watch, his jaw clenched, always scanning the perimeter like he’s expecting this to be something more.

Sadie rushes to my side and wraps an arm around my shoulder just as Ginny mirrors her, looping an arm through Elise’s. Their warmth is instant and grounding.

“My God, are you okay?” Sadie asks, brushing my hair back and tucking it behind my ear like I’m one of her kids.

Elise nods slowly. “We got out just in time.”

“Your dad called,” Ginny adds, pulling the foil blanket tighter around Elise’s shoulders. “Said there was a fire. We came right over.”

Sadie leans in close, eyes searching mine. “Tell me everything. What happened? Was it electrical? Did you leave something on the stove top? Did you leave a candle burning?”

Once. Just once I left a candle burning when I was thirteen and it started a fire that we didn’t even call the firehouse over. Dad doused it with a glass of water.

“I—I don’t know,” I say. “We were sleeping. I woke up coughing. The smoke was already in the hall upstairs.”

Elise adds, “We didn’t see flames until we ran out the front door. But it spread fast.”

Beckett glances over from his conversation with the fire chief, his attention catching on our words. Ryker steps closer, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Did the fire alarm wake you?” Beckett asks.

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “That’s the weird part. It never went off.”

My dad, who’s been pacing just behind us, stops mid-step. “That’s impossible. I have those alarms checked and the batteries swapped every six months.”

“I’m telling you,” I say. “Nothing. Not a beep.”

“What woke you up?” Mom asks.

“I don’t know.” I look over at Elise, and she’s shaking her head. “Something woke us up at the same time, and we just dashed out.”

Elise looks at me, then them. “The fire alarm wasn’t even chirping. Just nothing.”

A beat of silence falls over us, the only sound the pop and crackle of burning wood and the hiss of water as the fire crew hoses down what’s left of the back half of the cottage.

My father’s expression darkens. “The cottage was up to code. I had it inspected last spring. Our insurance requires it.”

Sadie exchanges a glance with Beckett. “You think something was tampered with?”

Beckett doesn’t answer. He just shifts his weight, eyes narrowing on the cottage like it might confess something.

Ryker turns toward the vineyard. “If the wind had shifted, it could’ve jumped into Block Fifty-Eight.”

We all turn to look at the dark slope behind the cottage. Row after row of dormant vines stand like ghostly sentinels in the moonlight.

“That’s a strong block,” Beckett says tightly. “Some of our best merlot grapes.”

My stomach sinks. “I didn’t even think—”

“Don’t,” Ginny cuts in quickly, giving Elise’s arm a squeeze. “This isn’t your fault.”

“But if the fire started downstairs…” Elise begins, her voice trailing off.

“We’ll figure it out,” Beckett says. “They’ll investigate.”

“Block Fifty-Eight’s safe for now,” Ryker adds, but the set of his jaw says he’s not convinced we’re in the clear.

Declan reappears at my side, his gaze sweeping the group before resting on me. “Fire’s under control. It didn’t breach the property line.”

“And the cause?” Beckett asks, voice cool.

Declan shakes his head. “Too early to say. Chief’s already called in the fire marshal. He’s the investigator for the region.”

My dad mutters something under his breath and stalks away toward the fire chief.

Elise and I just sit there, huddled together, dazed, shivering under our blankets. Our home is still smoldering, the air thick with ruin. And despite the crowd around us, I feel exposed. Raw. Like everything I’ve built outside of the family walls is going up in flames.

And standing at the center of it all is Declan, steady, silent, watching me like he’s seeing something I haven’t said yet.

Like maybe he still knows how to read me.

I look toward the vineyard, terrified the flames will jump the fence. The vines are dormant for winter but dry. It wouldn’t take much. If we lose even a few acres…

Ryker’s already there, flashlight in hand, talking with one of the firefighters and surveying the slope like he’s preparing for war.

I clench the blanket tighter.

Then I look back at the cottage.

Or what’s left of it.

The roof’s half gone. The back wall is caved in. We see the flicker of flames as smoke pours through every broken window like the house itself is exhaling one final, choking breath. It’s almost entirely gone.

My throat tightens. All the little things—my handmade mugs, the stack of sketchbooks I’ve filled over the years, my grandmother’s quilt on the reading chair, the silly gingerbread house Elise bought me because we needed something in the cottage that looked like Christmas—all of it, burned.

Ash now. Gone in minutes.

I swallow hard, but the ache won’t leave. My chest feels hollow. Like someone took the one space that was fully mine and carved it out without warning.

“I didn’t grab my laptop,” Elise says suddenly, her voice small. “It was charging on the kitchen counter.”

I close my eyes. My own computer was on the desk, right by the window. I remember seeing it as we ran out. I didn’t even hesitate.

“It’s okay,” I whisper, but I don’t believe it. “At least we hadn’t bought any Christmas gifts yet.”

Beckett hears us and steps over, still in full big-brother mode. “It’s not a big deal,” he says, calm but firm. “Everything’s backed up to the cloud, right?”

I nod slowly.

“Good. Then I’ll make sure you both have replacements by tomorrow. Don’t worry about it.”

I nod again, but it doesn’t soothe the sting. It’s not about the files. It’s the feeling, like the life I’d built outside the family safety net just got scorched down to the studs.

All I can do now is sit there, wrapped in a scratchy blanket that smells like smoke and fear, and try not to fall apart.

Declan fades into the background, eclipsed by the smoke and devastation still rising from what used to be my home.

This isn’t about him. It’s about everything I’ve lost. The smell of burning wood.

The blackened outline of a life I was still building.

The sickening realization that safety is a myth, and even the walls you create for yourself can be reduced to ash.

Answers can wait.

What matters now is why the alarms stayed silent.

How the fire took hold so quickly.

And whether someone, somewhere, struck the first spark.

And I want to know who, if anyone, lit the match.