Chapter 2
CONNER
I'd seen Kameron dozens of times since I relocated to Wildwood Valley to work on the town’s first paid fire crew.
She was always moving, always busy, always had that clipboard clutched to her chest like a shield.
I'd noticed she was beautiful the way you notice the sky is blue—just a fact of life, nothing that required further examination.
But I'd never seen her like that. Hair falling out of her ponytail. Shoulders slumped. Eyes closed. For about three seconds, she'd looked…soft. Human. Like a woman instead of a manager.
And something in my chest had just stopped working.
I sat at the bar now, staring at the bottles lined up against the mirror, not really seeing any of them.
The rescue truck had come and gone. Mason was back at the firehouse, probably moping about being separated from Gabby for the night.
The rest of the crew was scattered across town, handling whatever the captain needed handled.
And I was here. Because I'd volunteered before anyone else could open their mouth.
The guys were going to give me so much shit for this.
I could already hear Hux's voice in my head, throwing my own words back at me. All those times I’d needled Mason about Gabby.
All those jokes about our new fire captain getting domesticated.
And now here I was, sitting in an empty bar, waiting for a woman I'd barely spoken two words to, feeling like I'd been hit by a truck.
The swinging door to the kitchen creaked open, and I straightened on the barstool before I could stop myself.
Kameron walked out, clipboard nowhere in sight. She'd fixed her ponytail at some point—it was neat again, pulled back tight—but there were shadows under her eyes that hadn't been there earlier.
She stopped when she saw me still sitting there, like she'd expected me to have disappeared. "Everyone's settled in back," she said. "Gabby's already half asleep. Elsa and Allegra are set up too."
"Good." I nodded and tried to think of something clever to say. I came up empty. "That's good."
Smooth. Real smooth.
She walked behind the bar, putting that solid wooden barrier between us, and started wiping down the counter. It already looked clean to me, but what did I know?
"You should get some sleep too," I said. "I've got the front. That's the whole point of me being here."
"I'm fine."
"You've been running this place all day. Probably on your feet since, what, six in the morning?"
She looked up at me, and there was something guarded in her expression. Wary. Like she was waiting for a punchline.
"Nine," she said. "But I'm used to long days."
"Nine until now." I glanced at the clock behind the bar. Almost eleven. "Fourteen hours on your feet. And you're still going."
Nothing. Not even a flicker of a smile. She just went back to wiping the already-clean bar.
I was bombing. Completely bombing. This was not a sensation I was used to. I was the guy with the quick comeback, the easy joke, the charm that smoothed over any awkward moment. But right now, sitting across from this woman, every word out of my mouth felt wrong.
"Seriously," I tried again. "Go rest. I'll wake you if anyone shows up."
"I'm not leaving you alone out here."
"Why not? I'm a trained professional. I can handle sitting in an empty bar."
She stopped wiping. Set the rag down. Looked at me with those dark eyes that seemed to see right through every line of bullshit I'd ever spoken.
"Because it’s my place,” she said. “If someone comes through that door needing help, I’m the one who should be here."
There was something in her voice that made me pause. Not anger, exactly. More like…exhaustion. The kind that went deeper than just a long day.
"Okay," I said. "Fair enough."
She blinked, like she'd been expecting me to argue. When I didn't, something in her posture shifted. Just slightly. The tiniest release of tension in her shoulders.
"Coffee?" she asked.
"Sure."
She turned to the pot behind her, and I watched her move. Efficient. Graceful, even when she was clearly running on fumes. She poured two cups without asking how I took mine, then slid one across the bar toward me.
Black. She'd remembered from all those times I'd ordered at the counter with the rest of the crew. Or maybe she just assumed. Either way, she was right.
"Thanks." I wrapped my hands around the mug, grateful for something to do with them. "So. Looks like we're stuck together for a while."
"Looks like it."
She leaned against the back counter, cradling her own mug, and the silence stretched between us. Not quite comfortable, but not hostile either. Just two people who didn't know what to say to each other.
I should make a joke. That's what I did. That's who I was. Conner, the funny one. The guy who never took anything seriously. The one who always had something to say.
But looking at her now—really looking, not just glancing as she rushed past—I didn't want to be that guy.
I wanted to know why she was so determined to handle everything herself.
Why she'd looked so tired when she thought no one was watching.
Why she kept that clipboard close like it was the only thing holding her together.
"You've been managing this place since it opened, right?" I asked.
She nodded. "About eight months now."
"You like it?"
The question seemed to catch her off guard. She took a sip of coffee, considering. "I'm good at it."
"That's not what I asked."
Her eyes met mine over the rim of her mug. Something flickered there. Surprise, maybe. Like she wasn't used to people paying attention to the words she actually said.
"It's complicated," she finally answered. "I like the work. I like making sure everything runs smoothly, that people are taken care of. But sometimes…” She trailed off, shaking her head. "Never mind."
"Sometimes what?"
She set her mug down on the counter behind her and crossed her arms over her chest. That guarded look was back.
"You don't actually want to hear about my job frustrations," she said. "You're just making conversation because we're stuck here."
"Maybe I'm making conversation because I want to know the answer."
"Right." She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. The customer service smile. I'd seen her give it to a dozen guys who tried to flirt with her. "And I'm sure you ask all the women you meet about their complicated feelings regarding their career choices."
There it was. The wall. She thought I was running some kind of game on her, and honestly, could I blame her? She'd probably had every guy in this town try some version of it.
The problem was, I didn't know how to convince her I wasn't. Because up until about an hour ago, I probably would have been.
"Look," I said. "I know I've got a reputation for not taking things seriously. The guys give me shit about it constantly. But I'm actually asking."
She studied me for a long moment. I held her gaze, trying to look sincere without looking like I was trying to look sincere. It was harder than it should have been.
"Sometimes," she said, "I feel like people don't actually see me. They see the manager. The woman with the clipboard. The one who's always got everything under control." She paused. "Or they see the way I look and decide that's all there is."
"That must get exhausting."
"You have no idea."
The words came out quieter than I expected. More honest. And I realized, sitting there in that empty bar with the snow piling up outside, that I wanted to know everything about this woman. Not just the surface stuff. The real stuff. The things she didn't tell anyone.
That was a terrifying realization.
"For what it's worth," I said, "I don't think I've ever seen you without that clipboard before tonight. So this is kind of a new experience for me too."
She looked down at her empty hands, like she'd just remembered the clipboard wasn't there. A small, genuine smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
"It's in the kitchen," she said. "I can go get it if it makes you more comfortable."
"I think I'll survive."
This time, when our eyes met, something felt different. Lighter. Like maybe, just maybe, a tiny crack had formed in that wall she kept around herself.
It wasn't much. But it was a start.