Chapter Fifteen
CAREER DAY CURVEBALL
Cole
The bracket’s blown up.
What started as a stupid joke between me, Trey, and Brennan has officially taken over the whole damn firehouse.
There’s a new poster—clean lines, fresh markers, and about seven more names betting on how far I’m gonna get with Andi.
Trey even added a bonus round: if I get a second date, they’re all chipping in for steaks.
Bunch of idiots with nothing better to do.
I stare at it and run a hand through my hair. There’s something about seeing her name up there—bold, underlined, next to mine—that doesn’t sit right. Not in a bad way, just... I don’t know. This isn’t some stupid game to me.
“Dude,” Brennan says, dropping into the chair beside me, “you’ve got them all watching now. It’s like the playoffs.”
Trey laughs from across the room, waving his phone. “They’re taking side bets. Marissa from ER put money on you crashing and burning by level four.”
“Good to know,” I mutter.
Brennan elbows me. “You’re not chickening out, are you?”
“No.” I shake my head. “I’m just—this was supposed to be fun.”
“It is fun.” He grins. “You just don’t like that you’re catching feelings.”
I shoot him a look, but he’s not wrong.
Andi was supposed to be a challenge, a little spark in an otherwise predictable routine.
But it’s more than that now. The more time I spend with her—the real her, not just the one who glares and throws out one-liners—the more I want to know.
Like why she looks tired sometimes, not just physically, but soul-deep.
Or why her dog, Beef, trusted me when he clearly doesn’t trust anyone else.
She’s complicated, with sharp edges and soft spots, and I can’t stop thinking about her.
Trey tosses a stress ball at my head. “You’re up, lover boy.”
I blink. “Up?”
“Did you forget? Career day. Your mom roped you in, remember?”
Shit.
I glance at the clock. I’ve got twenty minutes to get over to the high school.
“Right. Thanks.”
Brennan’s already laughing. “Bet you a donut he makes the kids cry.”
“Bet you two he doesn’t even know what to say.”
I flip them both off as I grab my gear. “I’ll be back before you can miss me.”
The high school’s only ten minutes from the station, but the parking lot’s a nightmare.
Kids everywhere, teachers directing traffic like it’s a war zone.
I finally squeeze into a spot, adjust my shirt, and head inside.
The place hasn’t changed since I was here—same hallways, same crappy lockers, same smell of teenage body spray and anxiety.
I spot my mom near the front office, and she’s in full teacher mode, clipboard in hand, directing volunteers where to go.
“Hey, Ma.”
She turns, brightening. “You made it! I was starting to wonder.”
I kiss her cheek. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
“Classroom 3B,” she says, waving toward the hallway. “You’re up after the medical technician. She’s already in there.”
I nod, about to head that way—when she adds, way too casually, “Oh, and Cole? Eyes on the students, not the pretty guest speaker.”
I pause mid-step. “What?”
She smirks and waves me off. “You’ll see.”
I narrow my eyes, but she’s already gone, herding some latecomer toward another room.
I head down the hall, rounding the corner—and there she is.
Andi.
Standing at the front of the classroom, totally composed, totally not noticing me. She’s talking about her job like it’s no big deal, like she’s not the most captivating person in the entire room.
Her lavender hair’s pulled back in a neat, low bun, but a few pieces have escaped around her face.
She looks gorgeous. Sharp. Confident. These kids don’t scare her.
She’s fielding questions like she’s done this a hundred times, even the dumb ones about zombies and whether bodies can sit up on their own.
She’s got them laughing, even as she deadpans about rigor mortis and cause of death investigations.
She’s good at this.
Really good.
And I’m frozen in the doorway, watching her like an idiot.
“Cole Hartley?” a teacher calls from behind me, breaking the spell. “You’re next.”
Right. Focus.
I shake it off, step inside, and nod politely. Andi’s still mid-answer, but her eyes flick to mine—just for a second—and something shifts. She doesn’t react. Doesn’t smile. But I swear there’s a flicker of something.
I slide into the back while she wraps up. The teacher thanks her, the kids clap, and then it’s my turn.
I step up front, clearing my throat. “Alright, be honest—who’s here just to get out of class?”
A dozen hands shoot up.
“Yeah, I don’t blame you,” I say, grinning. “But since you’re stuck with me for the next ten minutes, I’ll make it worth your while.”
I launch into the usual—fire safety, cool calls I can actually talk about, how I got started. I toss in a joke about saving cats from trees and the time Brennan locked himself out of the rig during a donut run. The kids eat it up.
But I’m not at my best. Not really.
Because every time I glance left, I see her. Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching me. She’s trying to look bored, I know she is—but I catch the corners of her mouth twitching when I talk about some of our more ridiculous calls.
I wrap up, the class clapping again as the teacher steps forward.
“Let’s thank Mr. Hartley and Ms. Callahan for visiting us today!”
They all cheer, and I back away, grabbing my jacket.
“Hey,” she says, suddenly at my side. Her voice is low, unreadable.
I turn. “Hey.”
“You stalking me now?” she asks, one eyebrow raised.
I grin. “I could ask you the same thing.”
“I was invited.”
“So was I.”
We stand there for a beat, the classroom clearing out around us.
“You were good,” she says, almost reluctantly.
“You weren’t so bad yourself.”
Another beat.
Then I nod toward the door. “Coffee?”
She doesn’t answer.
Yet.
“I should get back to the hospital.”
I nod. And I should get back to the station, but ten minutes never hurt anyone. “There’s a Starbucks on the way. I’ll make it worth your while…” I grin.
I fully expect her to shoot me down.
“Okay,” she relents.
Damn. Okay then.
The coffee shop’s crowded, but not too loud—just enough noise to keep things easy, casual. I hold the door for her as we step inside; the smell of roasted coffee beans hits instantly.
I hold the door, smirking. “I’ll try not to make this the worst ten minutes of your day.”
She chuckles but rolls her eyes.
We hit the counter, and I glance at her. “So, what’ll it be? Let me guess—black coffee, no room, no soul?”
She shrugs. “Why mess with perfection?”
I turn to the barista. “One heartless brew, and a vanilla latte for me.”
She scoffs. “Vanilla? Really?”
I shoot her a grin. “What, no respect for the classics?”
The barista laughs as I hand over the cash, and Andi shakes her head. “You’re impossible.”
“Yet here you are.”
After we get our drinks, we find a high-top table near the window with barstools that wobble just enough to keep you on edge.
She slides into one, tucking her hair behind her ear, and my pulse kicks up.
Not because she’s glaring at me, but because she’s not.
And she looks exceptionally hot today in her skirt and blouse combo.
“So,” I start, resting my elbow on the table. “Any plans after your shift, or just the usual—avoid human interaction at all costs?”
She sips her coffee, and something about the way she leans in, half-daring, half-curious, makes me forget every line I’d practiced in my head.
“Maybe I’m rethinking my stance on people,” she says, deadpan.
“Big day,” I murmur, smiling into my cup. “So, besides your obvious distaste for human interaction, what’s your thing?”
She raises a brow. “My thing?”
“Yeah. What makes you... you?”
She pauses, like she’s not used to being asked. “I don’t know. I like quiet. Dogs. Not this.” She gestures between us.
“Not flirting with a very charming firefighter-paramedic?”
“Exactly.”
I grin. “Noted. But you didn’t leave yet.”
“I’m weighing my options.” She takes a sip, and I swear she’s hiding a smile. “I guess one of my things is that I’m allergic to bullshit. I’d rather save myself the hassle.”
“Lucky for you, I’m pure charm.”
She lifts an eyebrow. “That so?”
I nod, dead serious. “It’s exhausting, honestly. Carrying all this charisma.”
She finally laughs—really laughs—and it hits me right in the chest.
“You’re relentless,” she groans.
“You like it.”
“Don’t push it.”
We sip in silence for a beat, but it’s not tense. Just... easy.
Her gaze sharpens, but she doesn’t pull back.
“Why?” she asks, voice lower. “Why me?”
I lean back, rolling the cup between my hands. “Because you don’t fall for the easy stuff. You make people work for it.”
“And you like working for it?”
“I like working for you.”
That gets her. She shifts, uncomfortable but not in a bad way.
I change the subject before she bolts. “Alright, what’s something I don’t know about you?”
She pauses, considering. “I hate mornings.”
“Same.”
“And I bake when I’m mad.”
I grin. “Interesting. What kind of baking?”
“Pies are my favorite. Peach. Apple. Whatever.”
“Good to know for if I ever piss you off.”
“You mean when?” she teases.
I laugh. “Fair.”
We finish our drinks, talking about nothing and everything—stupid bets at the firehouse, the way people always assume Beef is part wolf. Time slips by faster than I want it to.
Eventually, she checks her phone, sighing. “I really do have to get back.”
I nod, grabbing our cups. “I’ll walk you out.”
Outside, it’s warm, but she doesn’t rush to her car. We linger by the curb, neither of us quite ready to call it.
“Thanks for the coffee,” she says, pulling her keys from her pocket.
“Thanks for not running.”
She smirks. “Yet.”
I take a step back, hands in my pockets. “See you around, Callahan.”
She opens her car door but pauses. “Cole?”
“Yeah?”
She tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “You’re not what I expected.”
“Good or bad?”
She slips inside, shutting the door. Doesn’t answer.
But the smile on her face?
I’ll take it.