8. Wyatt
WYATT
Somehow, I always knew I would open up to Isabelle in the end.
If it were anybody else asking about my past, I’d tell them to piss off and mind their own business.
But not her. Hell, I could never deny her anything.
But it’s still hard, talking about what happened, and I take a few moments to order my thoughts, casting my mind back twenty-two years.
Then I clear my throat and start to talk.
“People think being a firefighter means running into burning buildings every day,” I say, my eyes fixed on the lake.
“But it’s not like that. Cherry Hollow’s a small town with a small fire station.
Most of our calls were for medical emergencies or car accidents.
When we were called in to tackle an actual fire, it was usually something small—cooking fires, chimney fires, easy to put out. ”
In my peripheral vision, I see Isabelle nod, hanging onto my every word.
“It happened about two months before Holden found you. Middle of the night, I was called in to help tackle a fire at a house on the edge of town. I lived just across the street from the station in those days, so I raced over, got suited up with the rest of the crew. Your dad wasn’t there—he was out sick that week.
Anyway…the fire had completely taken over by the time we got to the house.
It was a big old mansion, full of clutter. Went up like a damn tinderbox.”
Instinctively, I touch my arm, running my fingers over the puckered scar tissue.
“I was tasked with leading the search and rescue. It was a family home—parents, five kids, all still inside the building. We went inside in teams of three and started trying to find the occupants.”
When most people picture fire, they think of orange flames, bright and vivid.
All I think of is black. Stepping into a burning building means wading blindly through charcoal-colored smoke, feeling your way along.
The only light comes from your helmet, and it’s not enough to cut through the darkness.
“The house was like a damn warren,” I continue.
“So many rooms, doors, hallways. We tried to check them all, but with visibility so low, it was impossible to know if we’d covered everywhere.
We found the parents in their bedroom and carried them to safety.
Found four of the kids and got them out too.
But the youngest was still inside.” My throat tightens at the memory, the panic as each room turned up empty.
“The building was collapsing in places. You could hear it creaking and groaning. We had Ralph yelling at us to pull back and get out of there. Said it was too dangerous to keep searching. My crewmates left, but I just couldn’t.
I knew I must have fucked up. Missed a room somewhere. So I kept going, ignoring my radio.”
Isabelle sucks in a breath beside me, but I can’t bring myself to look at her. In my mind, I’m back in that house, hearing Ralph shout at me frantically through the crackling radio.
“My air tank was running low,” I say. “Got harder to breathe. I’d been in the house too long, and my gear was struggling with the heat.
It’s not designed to protect you for long periods of time.
A piece of burning debris knocked me to the ground.
Pinned my arm down. Burned it. Took me a while to get it free, and that’s when I finally got out of there. ”
I can still taste the pain. The fierce, searing agony that swallowed my arm. The roar of the fire mingling with my screams. My stomach clenches at the memory, but then I feel Isabelle take my hand, her skin soft against mine. Her touch grounds me.
You’re not in that house anymore.
You’re here with Isabelle, sitting by the lake.
“I went to the same hospital the family was taken to. Not everyone made it. The dad and one of the daughters had inhaled too much smoke—never woke up. They found the little boy in his bedroom. Turns out I missed a whole damn corridor of rooms, and his was one of them.”
I struggle to keep the self-loathing out of my voice, and Isabelle’s grip on my hand tightens.
“You can’t blame yourself, Wyatt.” Her voice is thick with emotion. “You’re a hero. You got six people out of that building.”
It should have been seven…
“I sure didn’t feel like a hero,” I tell her.
“Ralph was furious with me for disobeying orders. What happened was hard on all of us—the whole crew. But I took it harder than the rest. A little boy died because of my mistake. It tore me up. Couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat.
I was so damn ashamed. Couldn’t face seeing the crew, not even Holden.
I had to take time off for my burns to recover, and I just…
never went back. Quit the department and moved up to the mountains. ”
“But surely people tried to reach out?” Isabelle asks. “They must have known you were going through a tough time.”
I nod. “The whole crew wanted to help—especially your dad. But I wouldn’t let them.”
I remember a couple of weeks after the fire, Holden came to my cabin in the mountains.
I don’t know how he found the address, but he nearly hammered the door down he was knocking so hard, threatening to tear it off its hinges if I didn’t come out.
He wasn’t kidding—he tried his best, but the door held.
He came back nearly every day, banging on my door, yelling at me to open it.
After he found Isabelle, he finally gave up, and by the time I realized I’d fucked up our friendship for good, he’d moved.
“Truth is, I was a coward,” I say. “I felt ashamed of how much I was struggling with what happened. Felt like less of a man for being unable to move on. Instead of looking my problems in the face and getting the help I needed, I turned to drink instead. Became an alcoholic.”
The years after I started drinking are vague, like I’m viewing them from the end of a long tunnel. Weeks blended together. Then months.
“Ralph did a lot for me during that time. He’d come over, bring me food, make sure I was still alive.
Beg me to get help. It took a long time for me to go through with it, but I finally went to rehab.
Got sober. Relapsed a few times along the way, but I haven’t touched a drop in eight years. Never will again.”
“Eight years! That’s amazing.” Isabelle beams at me, her eyes red-rimmed. “You were so brave to get help. I can’t imagine how hard it must have been.”
It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
Growing up, my dad taught me that men have to keep things inside.
He was an alcoholic too, turning to drink to cope with my mom’s death.
He thought asking for help was a sign of weakness, so he encouraged me to shut up and deal with my problems alone.
That attitude was instilled in me from childhood, and it was so damn hard to shake it.
But I know better now. I know that being too proud to accept help isn’t some kind of achievement.
It comes from a place of insecurity. Ego.
If I hadn’t bitten the bullet and reached out when I did, I’d be dead by now.
Ralph would have found me sprawled out on the floor surrounded by empty bottles.
“I owe it all to Ralph,” I say truthfully. “Best man I’ve ever known.”
My throat is dry from talking so much. I feel like I’ve been rambling for hours, but Isabelle doesn’t seem to mind. Her eyes are full of warmth as she looks at me, her hand still on top of mine.
“He must have cared about you a lot to leave you half his cabin.”
I nod. “He cared about Holden, too. Think that’s why he left the cabin to both of us. He was sad we weren’t in contact anymore, and I think he wanted a reason to bring us together again.”
“That makes sense.” Isabelle sighs softly. “Thank you for telling me all this, Wyatt. You’ve been through so much…I know it can’t have been easy to talk about it.”
She’s right—it wasn’t. But now that it’s all out there, I feel like a weight has been lifted. It feels so natural, opening up to Isabelle, telling her everything. She’s so damn sweet. So non-judgmental.
“Don’t need to thank me,” I tell her. “I should be thanking you for listening.”
The sky above is pinkening, turning vivid and colorful as the sun sets, and we both stare at it in silence for a while, lost in our thoughts. Eventually, I take a deep breath and force myself back to the present, reaching for the Buttercup Bakery box beside the now-empty plate of sliders.
“Want some dessert?” I ask, looking at Isabelle. “Could use something sweet after all that.”
“Sure, dessert sounds good.”
I open the box to reveal a flaky cherry pie, fresh from the bakery this morning. I cut a slice for Isabelle and hand it over before taking a piece for myself. She takes a bite, letting out a hum of appreciation. “This is delicious.”
I nod in agreement. “Cherry Hollow’s famous for these pies. They were your dad’s favorite dessert growing up. Always wanted cherry pie instead of birthday cake.”
Isabelle looks surprised. “I never knew he had a sweet tooth.”
“Only for pie.”
She laughs, but it quickly dies in her throat, her expression turning thoughtful. “Did my dad know how much you were struggling? After we moved to Denver, I mean?”
“No. I told Ralph to keep it to himself. Your dad had enough on his plate.”
Isabelle bites her lip, considering me. “Do you think maybe the two of you could make up one day? Become friends again?”
She says it so innocently, like it could really be that simple, and I set down my cherry pie, looking at her.
She blinks at me expectantly, batting her thick lashes as she waits for an answer.
There’s a smudge of cherry sauce under her bottom lip, and before I can stop myself, I reach out to wipe it away.
She shivers a little beneath my touch, and the world seems to narrow down to a single point—her lips. Plump and sweet.
“I don’t think that’s gonna happen, Pixie,” I say hoarsely.
“Why not?” Her voice is barely a whisper. “I’m sure if you explained everything to my dad, he’d understand…”
We’re sitting closer than before. I hadn’t even noticed we’d been leaning in, but now Isabelle’s face is inches from mine, her peachy scent making my heart thud.
I can feel her breath on my bottom lip—count the freckles on her nose.
My self-control is unraveling. I can feel the inevitability of this moment deep in my bones, and I raise a hand to Isabelle’s soft cheek, moving closer.
This was written in the stars from the minute I saw her—it was only a matter of time, and now all my walls are down, the barriers between us burned to the ground.
“Maybe your dad could forgive me for the past,” I tell her. “But he’d never forgive me for what I’m about to do.”
Then, with a groan of anticipation, I close the gap between us, crushing my mouth to hers.
Her lips are so damn soft, and her breath quickens as I slide my hands through her hair, pulling her closer.
She tastes like cherry pie, warm and sweet.
Intoxicating. I can’t get enough. I tilt my head, deepening our kiss, hungry for her.
My cock jolts inside my boxers as Isabelle moans against my mouth, her arms circling my neck.
I’m aching for her, raw desire pulsing through my veins, pushing every other thought from my head.
I don’t give a fuck if she’s off limits.
She’s mine now.
My tongue pushes between her plump lips, invading her hot little mouth as she trembles against me.
I push her back against the grass, my hands roaming her curves as I ease on top of her, still probing her silky mouth.
She brushes her tongue against mine, her movements tentative…
but there’s nothing tentative about the way she’s clinging to my back, her fingers curling against my flannel shirt.
That’s it, princess.
Hold onto me.
Instinctively, I bear down, pressing my hard bulge against the junction of her thighs.
Her whole body jolts, and I swallow her gasp of surprise, teeth clashing as I kiss her harder, deeper.
Nothing can stop me now. Isabelle is mine, and I’m going to claim her gorgeous curves…
fill her with my cock…make her scream my name.
She’s about to find out just how crazy she makes me.