Chapter One
Forty-five minutes until the ball dropped. Forty-five minutes until Rosie Starr could stop holding her breath and ring in the New Year.
Leave the ghosts behind, once and for all.
Prove to herself—and maybe her mother, boss of Starr Events—that she could create joy without inviting disaster.
Not today, Murphy’s Law.
The center court of Renegade’s Grand Mesa Mall pulsed with light and laughter, the massive Christmas tree at its heart ringed by the temporary ice rink she’d spent three weeks negotiating with the mall management.
String lights crisscrossed the soaring atrium overhead, tangled with silver and gold banners that caught the glow from a dozen food kiosks arranged in a careful semicircle.
The air smelled like cinnamon sugar, grilled meat, and fun.
Another epic Starr Event. Hopefully.
Rosie’s tablet buzzed. Vendor check-in—all green. Security positioned—all green. Crowd estimate climbing past three hundred.
Her heart did a little flip. Three hundred people trusting her to give them a perfect New Year’s Eve.
No pressure, easy peasy.
Yeah, someone tell that to her insides. But six years on the job and she still got this—that twinge in her gut that something, anything, could go wrong.
After all, the debacle six years ago always lingered on the edge of her brain, didn’t it?
She pressed her earpiece, checking the channel. “Sound check on the laser show?”
“We’re green across the board, Rosie.” Lindy Bowman, their laser tech, responded through the radio. “Ready when you are.”
“Great. Grab yourself a slider while you’re waiting.”
Laughter. “I’m good. I filled up on cotton candy.”
Rosie pressed hand to her stomach. She’d eat next year, after another event was in the books and she was home in her fuzzy pajamas.
She wove through clusters of families, couples holding hands, teenagers taking selfies in front of the tree.
The mall’s three levels of balconies overlooking center court were packed with spectators, faces pressed against the railings.
Above them all, the glass ceiling reflected the festival lights like stars trapped in ice.
Laughter. The sound of families enjoying a safe and family-friendly night—
A shriek cut through the music.
Rosie’s gaze snapped toward the rink. A middle-aged woman in a white puffer coat and a beanie windmilled her arms, skates sliding sideways, then went down hard. Rosie winced at the crack of her body hitting the ice.
Yeah, that would leave a bruise.
She was already moving, dodging a stroller, sidestepping a group of teenagers. Her boots hit the rubber matting at the rink’s edge and—
Right. No skates. She nearly followed the woman down on the ice.
The woman sat up, one hand pressed to her head, the other braced on the ice. An elderly man skated over, bent down. The woman waved him off.
“Ma’am?” Rosie called across the ice. “Are you okay? Do you need—”
“I’ve got her.”
Rosie turned. A paramedic—navy uniform, medical bag over his shoulder, radio clipped to his vest—stepped past her and onto the rink. No skates either, but he moved carefully, crouching low as he reached the woman.
Chase Neil. She’d requested him specifically for tonight’s medical coverage. He’d worked a Starr Events concert last summer and hadn’t blinked when a mosh pit sent five people to first aid. Rosie had counted it as a good night for injuries, really.
He knelt beside the woman, his voice too low for Rosie to hear, but his hands moved over her head, neck, and shoulders, easy, calm, checking. The woman nodded, said something. Chase smiled.
Rosie’s chest loosened. Okay. Okay, this was fine. Medical personnel on site, responding immediately. Nothing to see here, folks.
Chase helped the woman to her feet—she wobbled but stayed upright—and guided her off the ice. Rosie met them at the edge.
“Just got dizzy from spinning,” Chase said, his tone easy. “Right, Mrs. Gilstrap?”
The woman laughed, breathless. “I thought I was twenty-two again. Turns out I’m fifty-three and gravity’s a harsh truth teller.”
“You might want to sit down for a few minutes,” Rosie said. “Can I get you some water? The barbecue truck has bottles.”
“I’ll grab it in a bit. I want to get her blood pressure,” Chase said as he guided Mrs. Gilstrap to a nearby bench.
The woman sat down and looked up at Rosie. “This is such a lovely event. The skating rink is a nice touch.”
“Thank you. I saw one in Texas and thought it would be a fun way to celebrate.”
Chase had pulled out a cuff from his bag. He seemed to have everything under control.
She checked her tablet. 9:23 p.m. They were following the countdown in New York City, which meant all the kids could hang out for the new year.
Thirty-seven minutes to showtime.
Her earpiece crackled. “Rosie, we’ve got smoke at kiosk seven.”
Her stomach dropped. “What kind of smoke?”
“The bad kind.”
She looked up. Kiosk seven—the taco truck—had a plume of gray smoke pouring from its service window. Flames licked up the inside wall, small but growing. The vendor stumbled out of the truck, face pale, holding a fire extinguisher.
“Grease fire!” someone shouted.
The crowd around the kiosk scattered. Parents grabbed children. A teenager knocked over a chair.
“I’m sorry—” she said to Mrs. Gilstrap and took off running.
Rosie spotted one of the assigned cops from the Renegade PD at large, running through the chaos. “Clear this area! Get everyone back!”
She recognized her—Officer Ashlynn Walker. The woman spoke into her radio, her other hand already directing people away from the kiosk.
Rosie scanned the perimeter. Fire extinguisher—there. Mounted on a pillar fifteen feet away.
She sprinted for it, yanked it off the wall, and ran back. The flames had doubled in size, hungry and bright against the metal interior. Heat rolled off the truck in waves. The vendor was already deploying his fire extinguisher.
“Everyone back!” She pulled the pin, aimed the nozzle. The extinguisher kicked in her hands, white foam spraying across the flames.
Someone appeared at her elbow. “I got this.” The woman had grabbed a second extinguisher from somewhere and joined the fight.
Samantha Williams, one of their local firefighters. Rosie had met her at a community safety meeting last month. Samantha’s boyfriend—tall, clean-cut, law enforcement written all over him even in jeans and a jacket—helped Ashlynn push the crowd back.
The flames died under the foam, sputtering and hissing. Smoke billowed, then thinned. The fire extinguisher sputtered empty.
Rosie lowered it, her arms shaking.
“That’s out.” Samantha checked the truck’s interior, her movements quick and thorough. “Grease caught on the fryer. Looks like the temp control malfunctioned.”
The vendor set down the spent canister, his face shiny with sweat. “I’m so sorry. I checked everything this morning, I swear—”
“It’s okay.” Rosie’s voice came out steadier than she felt. “These things happen. The important thing is everyone’s safe.”
Ashlynn finished her radio call and turned to Rosie. “Fire department’s on their way to do an official check, but it’s contained. You want me to shut down the other food trucks as a precaution?”
“No.” Rosie glanced at her tablet—9:29 p.m.—and made the call. “Just this one. The others have different setups. Let’s keep the crowd fed and happy.”
Ashlynn nodded and moved off, speaking into her radio again.
The crowd had thinned with the extinguishing of the fire. Music still played and it seemed the festivities had continued.
Please let this be her one and only disaster of the night.
A woman with a German shepherd on a leash appeared at the edge of the scene. “Hey, TJ,” Rosie said. “You and Nova off duty?”
Her K9 sat, wagged his tail. He wasn’t wearing his vest, so maybe. TJ, too, in a sweatshirt and jeans. “Need any help?”
“We’re good,” Samantha said to TJ. “But thanks.” She turned to Rosie. “I’ll stick around until the guys get here. Go do your job.”
“Thanks.” Rosie checked her tablet one more time—all systems green except kiosk seven, now marked offline. She could work with this. The night was still salvageable.
More than salvageable. She’d handled a literal fire and kept the event running.
See? Mom was going to be so proud. Maybe she’d even take a breath and let herself heal after her knee surgery instead of video-calling from the sofa.
“Rosie!”
Rosie looked up to see her sister Emily cutting through the crowd, little Joshy on her hip, her expression caught between concern and amusement.
She wore a glittery gold shirt and black jeans, her dark hair piled up in a messy bun, not looking at all like a mother of three.
Probably, her husband Carter was on the ice with the other two kids.
“Did you just put out a fire?” Emily reached her, eyebrows raised. “Because I’m pretty sure I just watched you put out an actual fire.”
“Grease fire. Small one.” Rosie waved it off. “All handled.”
“Of course it is.” Emily shook her head, but her smile was warm. “You’ve got this place running like a military operation. Mom’s watching the livestream from home, by the way. Dad says she’s sitting on the couch with her knee elevated, giving him a play-by-play of everything you’re doing right.”
Warmth spread through Rosie’s chest. “Really?”
“Really.” Emily squeezed her arm. “You’ve really done it, Rosie. This is incredible.”
And maybe Mom had sent the cavalry, because of course her older brother Justin appeared behind Emily, his daughter Ava cradled against his shoulder. The six-year-old’s head drooped, her party dress wrinkled, one small hand clutching a stuffed bunny.
“I’m fine,” she said, intercepting his question.
Maybe he wasn’t though. Justin appeared worn in his flannel shirt, jeans, and work boots. But then again, he seemed perpetually tired after the death of his wife three years ago. She didn’t blame him for the grim smile. “Yeah,” he said. “I think we’re heading out.”
Rosie’s aunt instincts fired looking at Ava, the gray wells under her eyes. “Is she okay?”