Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Beau
The station smells like burnt coffee, old leather, and aftershave. It’s a mess of half-played poker, last night’s shift’s leftovers, and the kind of banter that makes everything feel easy. Familiar.
It’s not like Sandtown, Idaho, where I grew up. Where every interaction came with strings and expectations.
Here in Fox Hollow, there’s room to breathe. To be. To let your guard down without it coming back around with a bite.
“Full house,” Jamila says, slapping her cards down with a grin like she’s already won. She probably has. She always wins.
“Damn it,” I mutter, tossing my cards down and leaning back in my chair. “You cheat.”
“Don’t hate the player, Rhodes,” she says, shuffling her deck with one hand like a magician. “Hate the game.”
We’re halfway through another hand when the tone drops—a shrill, unmistakable pulse that clears the table faster than anything.
“Structure fire,” the dispatcher crackles through the intercom. “Smoke reported at 121 Maple Hollow Drive.”
“Maple Hollow?” I grab my gear, heartbeat picking up. “That’s the old café?”
“Uh-huh,” Jamila says, sliding in beside me, helmet in her lap. “Grandma Aldridge. Best sour cherry pie I’ve ever had.”
“Thought that place shut down after the old woman passed,” someone mutters as we pile into the truck.
“She died?”
“A few years back. No one’s touched the place since.”
The engine growls to life, and we shoot out of the station. I brace against the doorframe, eyes on the road ahead, muscle memory already sorting through what I’ll need first—hose pressure, entry point, ventilation.
I can see the plume of smoke rising before we hit the main street.
Jamila’s quiet, checking her straps. I glance over, taking in her profile—the strong line of her jaw, the dark braid tucked beneath her helmet.
We’ve hooked up before. Friends with benefits kind of thing. Easy. No complications. Then she started sleeping with Captain Daniels, and we just… stopped. Didn’t bother me.
She looks happier. Settled.
“It sucked when the place closed. That place held too many good memories,” she says.
“Yeah?” I ask her.
She smirks. “Yeah. You know, I had my first kiss there?”
“You did?”
She lets out a little giggle. “Uh-huh. Jeremiah Fisher, fifth grade. Too bad he transferred the very next year.”
“I remember him. He was the kid with the unusually blue eyes?”
“That’s him. I think he was the best kiss I ever had.”
I can’t help but laugh. “I feel like I should be offended by that statement. Also, don’t let Captain D hear you.”
“Ah, he’s used to my antics.”
The truck lurches to a stop in front of the café, and the place is a mess of smoke and shattered calm. Old brickwork blackened by the flames licking around the back kitchen windows. Jamila pulls her helmet on.
“It’s a surprise this place is even standing,” she mutters as we jump out. “How the hell is it open?”
I don’t answer. My eyes catch movement near the front door.
There’s a woman—barefoot on the gravel, cradling a large orange cat like it’s the last thing tethering her to the earth. She’s in a worn blue sweater and jeans, smoke-streaked and blinking fast, like she’s not really seeing any of us.
Her hair is this wild, copper-red mass knotted into a messy bun, pieces falling loose like she lost the battle somewhere around sunrise. Freckles cover her pale skin like powdered cinnamon dusted across porcelain.
She’s soft curves and sharp angles and dazed defiance, and something about her expression punches something deep in my chest.
“Ma’am,” I call out, moving closer. “Are you okay? Anyone else inside?”
She shakes her head fast, clutches the cat tighter. “Just me and Pancake.”
The cat lets out a gravelly meow, ears flattened, tail twitching like it wants to be anywhere else.
“We need to get you away from the building,” I say gently. “Come on.”
She doesn’t argue, which tells me a lot. She’s in shock. Running on fumes.
I guide her away from the thickest part of the smoke. Jamila and the others rush past us, breaking into the kitchen side. We work like clockwork—hoses flaring, fans positioned, smoke pushed outward.
I catch the woman watching it all like she’s dreaming.
“You’re lucky,” I say as I kneel to check her over. “It could’ve been worse.”
“I just…” she starts, then falters. “I was trying to make coffee. And muffins. And then the back shorted. Something sparked.”
Her voice is raspy. Scratchy. Like she’s been breathing in smoke for longer than she realizes.
“You’re okay now,” I say, eyes sweeping over her for any sign of injury. “What’s your name?”
“Wren. Wren Aldridge.”
Aldridge. That explains the café. And the bone-deep look of heartbreak in her eyes.
“We’ve got you, Wren,” I tell her. “Paramedics are almost here.”
Right on cue, the ambulance pulls up. The back doors fling open, and Levi jogs out, EMT bag slung over one shoulder.
He’s one of my closest friends. Good guy. Steady. The kind you’d want in your corner.
He clocks Wren and whistles low. “Looks like you’ve had a hell of a morning.”
“I’m fine,” she says too fast.
Levi raises a brow. “You inhaled smoke. That’s not nothing. We’re taking you in for a check just to be safe.”
“I can’t—Pancake—”
“She means the cat,” I say quickly.
Wren nods, clutching the big orange fluffball tighter. He doesn’t even try to struggle. Just rests his chin on her shoulder like he’s seen too much.
“I’ll take care of him,” I offer before I even think it through. “We’ll keep him safe at the station.”
Wren blinks at me, really looking at me for the first time. Her eyes are moss green. Rich, deep, full of the kind of exhaustion that isn’t just from smoke.
Her sweater smells faintly of something sweet—amber and sugared peach, with just a hint of warm clove. It hits hard. Unnervingly hard.
“Are you sure?” she asks, uncertain.
“Yeah,” I say, clearing my throat. “We’ve got a decent setup. He’ll be alright.”
She hesitates, then nods slowly. Levi coaxes her toward the ambulance. She’s swaying a little, legs unsteady, but he helps her.
The door shuts behind her, and just like that, she’s gone—carried off by Levi and the med crew, probably still coughing smoke and confusion into the sterile air of that ambulance.
I’m left standing in the shell of her grandmother’s café, heart thudding like I’ve just run through a burning house, even though the worst of the fire’s already out.
Pancake’s still in my arms, his fur singed slightly on one side but otherwise intact. The little guy’s glaring up at me like it’s my fault this happened. Or maybe he’s just had a rough night. I get it.
I crouch down and whisper, “You did good, buddy. She’s safe. You both are.”
He lets out a grumpy meow and butts his head against my chest, tail twitching. He smells like her.
I don’t even like cats. But this one? I hold onto him.
Behind me, footsteps crunch over broken glass and blackened tiles. Roxy appears, fire coat peeled open, helmet tucked under one arm, eyes sharp despite the ash smudging her cheekbone.
“You good?” she asks, not unkindly. There’s something behind her tone, though—something knowing.
I nod. Too fast. “Yeah.”
She squints at me like she doesn’t buy it. “You zoned out there for a second. Thought I’d lost you to the smoke too.”
I adjust my grip on the cat. “I’m fine. … not every day someone opens the Aldridge Café after years of dust and silence.”
“Not every day someone that hot does it,” Roxy adds casually. “Jesus, did you see those eyes? Like moss during a thunderstorm. And that hair—”
“I noticed,” I say before she can keep going.
She tilts her head, amused. “Uh-huh.”
Roxy is part of our crew and the only openly gay firefighter on the team. She’s also one of the most reliable team members.
I glance back toward the scorched remains of the kitchen. “Place is totaled.”
“Not as bad as it could’ve been,” Jamila says. “We got here just in time.”
But it feels bad, like more than smoke and flame were lost here. Like someone tried to bring something old and beautiful back to life, and the universe just spat it out.
“Her grandma was a legend,” Roxy says, almost to herself. “Maple pecan scones, cardamom buns. My mom used to drag me here every Friday after school. I hated it. Too girly, too sweet. But now? I’d sell a lung to taste one of those scones again.”
“She’s trying,” I murmur, mostly to myself. “Wren. That’s her name.”
Roxy raises a brow. “You asked?”
“No. She said it. When she was trying to keep it together.”
“Hmm.” She pulls her gloves off slowly. “You should take a shower. You reek of burnt sugar and adrenaline.”
I nod again, distracted. My fingers stroke down Pancake’s back, and the cat makes a noise somewhere between a purr and a warning.
The engine crew starts wrapping up hoses and packing gear. The guys are laughing over something someone said, trying to shake off the tension.
I can’t stop picturing the way Wren looked at the mess—like her heart had cracked wide open and she wasn’t sure which piece to pick up first.
And I can’t stop thinking about the way she looked at me.
Not like a hero. Not even like a stranger. Like she wasn’t expecting anyone to help, and when I did, it undid something tight and private in her chest.
I exhale and glance down at Pancake. “Looks like you’re bunking with me for the night.”
The cat makes no argument. Just flicks his tail like he’s used to being inconvenient.
As I walk out into the cooler night air, past the Harvest Festival posters flapping gently against the power poles and the singed scent of memory still rising from the cracked pavement, I realize something really unsettling:
I want to see her again.
Not just check in. Not just return her cat.
I want to know why she came back. Why now. Why alone.
And why the hell does the scent of her still cling to my skin like I’ve carried her with me?
Roxy watches me from beside the rig. “You sure you’re okay?”
“No,” I say honestly.
She smiles faintly. “That’s a first.”
I shrug. “Something about her…”
“Yeah.” Jamila swings up into the cab. “Something.”
I linger for a moment longer, Pancake tucked under one arm.
And I can’t stop thinking—
What the hell was that?