Chapter 6 - Lily
Jimmy disappears to gather his things, and I'm left standing alone in the massive bay, feeling completely out of place. This yellow dress is too bright, too cheerful for someone who's lost everything. But it was the nurse's kindness—Diane, with her motherly smile—that made it impossible to refuse.
"You take this," she'd said, pressing the dress into my hands. "Yellow's not my color anyway, and honey, you look like you could use something pretty right now."
Pretty. I almost laugh at the thought. With my bandaged hands and the bruise on my cheek, I'm a mess. But at least I'm a living mess, which is more than I could say if Jimmy Sullivan hadn't pulled me from that fire.
I glance around the station, taking in the massive trucks, the gear hanging in precise rows, the scuffed floors that have seen countless emergency responses. This is his world, a world of danger and heroism that couldn't be further from my quiet existence among flowers.
My mind drifts back to the moment he appeared in the doorway earlier.
The sheer size of him had made me clench my thighs.
Broad shoulders stretching his uniform shirt to its limits, the fabric clinging to arms corded with muscle.
When he'd reached up to run a hand through his hair, his bicep had flexed in a way that made me swallow dry.
Those intense blue eyes seemed to see right through me, set in a face that's lived enough life to earn every line.
But I’m still me. The man offered me a place to stay out of kindness, not because he's interested in me.
Still, I can't help the warmth that spreads through me when I think about those scarred hands of his. How would they feel against my skin? Rough, probably, from years of fighting fires. Strong enough to carry me from a burning building without strain.
I shift uncomfortably, suddenly aware of the dampness between my thighs.
Fuck. I'm actually getting wet just thinking about him.
This is ridiculous. A man like Jimmy Sullivan—mature, established, heroic—wouldn't look twice at a younger woman like me, especially not with these curves that my mother always said made me look "unprofessional. "
Men like him probably date those tall, athletic types. Not short, curvy florists who can barely make eye contact during a conversation.
"Ready to go?"
I nearly jump out of my skin. Jimmy's back, changed into civilian clothes. Worn jeans and a simple black t-shirt that does absolutely nothing to hide the thick muscles underneath. God, he's even more imposing out of uniform, if that's possible.
His chest stretches the cotton, and the short sleeves reveal arms that clearly weren't built in a gym but from years of actual hard work. There's a small scar running along his right forearm, and I find myself wondering how he got it.
"Yes," I manage, my voice embarrassingly breathy. "Thank you again for this."
He shrugs, that casual movement making the muscles across his shoulders and back ripple visibly beneath the shirt. "Like I said, it's nothing."
Nothing to him, maybe. Everything to me.
He leads me outside to a truck that's nearly as imposing as he is. An older model pickup meticulously maintained. Of course he drives a truck. It suits him—practical, strong, reliable.
"Need help?" he asks as I hesitate at the passenger door, suddenly aware of how high the step up is and how short this borrowed dress is.
"I've got it," I say quickly, not wanting to seem completely helpless. I grab the handle and hoist myself up, the dress riding dangerously high on my thighs. I tug it down hastily, feeling my face burn.
Jimmy clears his throat and walks around to the driver's side, giving me a moment to adjust. The interior of the truck is surprisingly clean. No fast food wrappers or random clutter like I'd expect from a bachelor. Just like the man himself, the truck is orderly and unpretentious.
His scent fills the space—something clean like soap, mixed with a hint of smoke that seems permanently embedded in his skin. It's intoxicating in a way I'm not prepared for.
"Seatbelt," he reminds me, his voice low.
I fumble with it, the bandages on my hands making me clumsy. Before I can protest, he reaches across me, his arm brushing against my breasts as he pulls the belt and clicks it into place. The contact sends a jolt through me, and I have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound.
I catch a glimpse of his forearm up close. The defined muscles tensing beneath his skin as he secures the belt, a dusting of dark hair leading up to where it disappears under his sleeve.
"Th-Thanks," I say, voice trembling.
He nods and starts the truck, focusing on backing out of the parking space.
I use the moment to stare at him without him noticing—the strong jawline dusted with stubble, the slight crease between his eyebrows as he concentrates, the way his hair curls slightly at the nape of his neck.
He's handsome in that rugged, lived-in way that makes pretty boys look like plastic toys in comparison.
"My place is about fifteen minutes outside town," he says as we pull onto the main road. "It's nothing fancy, but it's quiet."
"I'm sure it's perfect," I reply, then wince at how eager that sounds. "I mean, anything is better than no place at all, right?"
His hands tighten on the steering wheel, and I notice for the first time how his knuckles are slightly swollen, like he's used them for more than just carrying equipment. I wonder what stories those hands could tell.
"You must think I'm pathetic," I say suddenly, the words escaping before I can stop them. "Losing everything because I was too stupid to get insurance right away."
He glances at me, those blue eyes sharp. "I don't think you're pathetic. I think you're someone who took a risk to follow her dream and got dealt a shit hand."
The bluntness of his assessment is oddly comforting.
"Still," I persist, needing him to understand, "most people my age aren't dumb enough to pour every penny they have into a business without proper protection."
"Most people your age don't have the balls to start their own business in the first place," he counters.
Balls. The crude word from his mouth makes me smile despite everything. "Not exactly how I'd put it, but thanks."
A hint of a smile touches his lips, and goddamn if it doesn't make my panties even damper. What is wrong with me? I've lost everything I own, and here I am getting turned on by a man who's only helping me out of pity.
We drive in silence for a while, leaving the small downtown area behind. The landscape opens up. More trees, fewer buildings, properties spaced further apart. It's beautiful in a wild, untamed way that makes me think of the man beside me.
"I should probably explain why I have no one to call," I say finally, staring out the window. The words come easier when I'm not looking at him. "My parents and I... we're not on speaking terms."
He doesn't say anything, but I can feel his attention on me.
"They had my life all planned out," I continue. "Ivy League school, medical degree, marriage to the son of my father's business partner. The perfect life, according to them."
I sneak a glance at him. His face remains impassive, but he's listening.
"I went along with it for years. Pre-med at Columbia, just like they wanted.
But I was miserable." I twist my hands in my lap, wincing when I accidentally press on one of the burns.
"The only thing that made me happy was working with flowers.
I had this part-time job at a florist near campus, and those were the only hours I felt like I could breathe. "
Jimmy nods slightly, encouraging me to continue.
"Senior year, I finally told them I wasn't going to medical school.
That I wanted to open a flower shop instead.
" I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "You'd think I'd told them I was becoming a drug dealer.
My mother actually said she'd rather see me homeless than throwing away my potential on something so. .. insignificant."
His jaw tightens, but he remains silent.
"My grandmother left me some money when she died. Not a lot, but enough to start a small business. My parents threatened to cut me off completely if I used it for the flower shop." I take a deep breath. "I did it anyway. They haven't spoken to me in two years."
"And now the shop is gone," he says quietly.
"Yeah." I swallow hard. "And I'd still rather be here, with nothing, than living the life they planned for me."
He glances at me, and there's something in his eyes I can't quite read. "That takes courage."
"Or stupidity," I mutter.
"Courage," he repeats firmly, his voice leaving no room for argument.
We turn onto a gravel road that winds through tall pines. After about half a mile, a house comes into view—a rustic cabin-style home with a wide porch and large windows. It's beautiful, in a masculine, understated way.
"This is you?" I ask, unable to keep the surprise from my voice.
"Built most of it myself," he says, and I detect a hint of pride in his tone.
He pulls up beside the house and cuts the engine. Before I can reach for the door handle, he's out and coming around to my side, opening the door for me. Such an old-fashioned gesture, but from him, it doesn't feel patronizing.
I step down, very aware of the shortness of this dress and how his eyes flicker briefly to my legs before returning to my face. That quick glance sends another rush of heat between my thighs. Fuck, I need to get myself under control.
As he leads the way to the front door, I can't help but notice the way his back tapers from broad shoulders to a narrow waist, the play of muscles visible even through his shirt.
This man isn't just in good shape. He's solid, built for function rather than appearance, which somehow makes it all the more appealing.
"Come on," he says, leading the way to the front door. "I'll show you around."
I follow him up the porch steps, taking in the peaceful setting. The house sits in a small clearing surrounded by pine trees, with no neighbors in sight. It's private in a way that should maybe concern me.
I'm literally in the middle of nowhere with a man I barely know, but somehow, I've never felt safer.
The inside of the house is a pleasant surprise. It's masculine without being sparse. Comfortable-looking furniture, hardwood floors, large windows that let in natural light. The main room is open concept, with a kitchen along one wall and a living area centered around a stone fireplace.
"It's beautiful," I say honestly.
"Kitchen's through there," he says, pointing. "Help yourself to anything. Bathroom is down the hall on the right. And this—" he moves toward a door on the left side of the house, "—will be your room."
He pushes open the door to reveal a simple but comfortable bedroom with a queen-sized bed, a dresser, and a small desk by the window. The walls are a soft blue, the bedding crisp and white.
"This is perfect," I say, stepping inside. "Really, Jimmy, I can't thank you enough."
He shrugs, looking almost embarrassed by my gratitude. "It's just a room."
But it's not just a room. It's safety when I have none, shelter when I've lost everything, kindness when I most need it. The emotion wells up suddenly, catching me off guard, and before I can stop it, I'm crying again.
"Shit, I'm sorry," I say, wiping furiously at my face. "I swear I'm not usually this weepy."
"It's fine," he says, looking distinctly uncomfortable with my tears. His hands flex at his sides, the muscles in his forearms tensing as if he's fighting the urge to reach out. "You've been through hell. You're allowed to cry."
I nod, trying to pull myself together. "I promise I won't stay long. Just until I figure things out."
He crosses his arms, leaning against the doorframe, and the movement makes his biceps bulge impressively, straining against the sleeves of his t-shirt. I wonder fleetingly if he has any idea what the sight does to me.
"Stay as long as you need," he says. "I'm not in any rush to kick you out."
Our eyes meet, and for a moment, I believe it. I believe this can go somewhere than just friendliness. Or maybe I'm imagining it, projecting my inappropriate attraction onto a man who's just being kind.
He looks away first. "I'll let you get settled. Bathroom's all yours if you want to clean up. Towels in the cabinet under the sink."
"Thank you," I say again, because what else can I say to this man who's giving me everything I need when I have nothing to offer in return?
He nods once and turns to leave but pauses at the door. "Lily?"
"Yes?"
"For what it's worth, I don't think you're stupid for standing up to your parents. I think you're brave as hell."
With that, he's gone, closing the door behind him, leaving me standing in the middle of a stranger's guest room wearing a borrowed yellow dress and damp panties, with nothing to my name except the lingering smell of smoke in my hair and the memory of his blue eyes when he called me brave.
I sit on the edge of the bed, running my fingers over the clean white comforter. For the first time since the fire, I allow myself to think beyond the immediate crisis. What comes next? How do I rebuild from absolutely nothing?
I don't know the answer. But somehow, in this house, with this gruff, kind man nearby, the question doesn't seem quite as terrifying as it did before.