16. Brooks
Brooks
“He drove away anyway,
which honestly should’ve earned him some kind of medal.”
— Lauren
I’m standing in the church boiler room, the copper pipes vibrating against the concrete wall as the sump pump lets out a low, mechanical groan. The water level in the pit is holding at four inches, which means the float valve is doing its job, but my brain isn’t processing the telemetry.
My brain is stuck on a loop, processing the visual of Emmy sitting at a folding table in a church basement, holding a crochet hook like a weapon and talking about men in leather kilts.
And why the hell did she look so good doing it?
She was wearing a thick sweater that looked like it belonged to a lumberjack, but somehow, on her, it just made her shoulders look small and her gold curls bounce every time she laughed.
Her mouth was that dark berry color again, and when she leaned forward—when she looked right at me with those wide, dark eyes and said the word ravished—my entire chest tightened up so fast I nearly dropped my pipe wrench.
I take a deep breath of the damp, oil-scented boiler room air, shaking my head to clear the grit from my eyes.
Six years, I remind myself, as I wipe down the wrench with a rag. She is twenty-five. She’s six years younger than you, Lawson. She’s a millionaire from Manhattan who thinks agriculture is a hobby. You have a mortgage, a kindergartener, and a uniform. Stop looking at her like that.
I check my watch. 7:45 PM.
The rain is hitting the small, ground-level basement window in sheets, the wind howling through the window frames. The ridge road is going to be a mess of mud and fallen branches by midnight.
I need to get back to the station, swap into my dry blues, and start the weather logs.
I pack my gear into the canvas bag, hoist it over my shoulder, and push the utility room door open, fully prepared to make a tactical, non-verbal exit through the side stairwell.
The “Stitch and Bitch” vanguard is waiting for me.
Bernice is standing at the bottom of the stairs, her arms crossed over her embroidered loon pocket, her wooden knitting needles tucked behind her ear like a carpenter’s pencil.
Dotty and Hazel are flanking her, looking like a pair of high-ranking border guards.
Emmy is still at the table, packing her cream-colored yarn into a canvas bag, completely unaware of the ambush.
Or pretending to be unaware.
Hard to tell with her.
“Sump pump is clear,” I say, keeping my voice level as I try to shoulder past them. “Levels are holding. I’ve gotta get back to the truck.”
“Not so fast, Chief,” Bernice says, her nasal valley accent cutting through the hum of the furnace. She reaches out and plants a heavy palm against my rain-slicked shoulder, stopping me dead. “You see what’s happening outside?”
“Yeah. It’s a thunderstorm, Bernice. That’s why I’m working.”
“The creek road is entirely flooded by the old culvert,” Dotty chimes in, pointing a tortoiseshell arm of her glasses toward the exit. “Arthur’s driveway is a mudslide waiting to happen. That little new car of hers will get stuck before she clears the church parking lot.”
I blink, looking over their heads at Emmy.
She’s finally realized what’s happening, her mouth doing that little O-shape as she looks between the grandmas and me.
“You’re driving her home,” Bernice dictates, her tone leaving exactly zero room for debate. “You don’t want the city girl to drown in the hollow on Remembrance week, do you?”
“I can drive, Bernice,” Emmy calls out, stepping toward the stairs. “I have a very robust understanding of hydroplaning dynamics. I watched a public service announcement once.”
“Shut up, Ember,” Bernice says without looking back.
She cuts her eyes back to me, her gaze drilling straight into my forehead. “Take her home, Brooks. It’s on your way to the ridge check anyway. Don’t be a stubborn bastard like Tommy was.”
Mentioning Tommy is cheating, and Bernice knows it.
I let out a long, defeated breath, shifting the heavy canvas bag on my shoulder. “Fine. Get your coat, city girl. The truck’s idling.”
The walk from the basement door to the passenger side of the utility truck is a three-second sprint through a literal wall of water.
I throw the door open for her, and she lunges into the cab, her boots skidding on the rubber floor mat as she tumbles into the high bucket seat.
I slam the door, sprint around the hood through the blinding downpour, and haul myself into the driver’s seat, pulling the heavy door shut against the gale.
The cab is loud with the sound of the rain drum-rolling against the reinforced aluminum roof.
“Jesus,” Emmy gasps, shaking her head like a wet retriever. She sends a small, silver spray of water across my dashboard, her gold curls flying wild around her face. “That isn’t a storm. That’s a biblical event. I think I just saw Kevin trying to build an ark by the tool shed.”
I grab a clean, dry shop rag from the center console and shove it into her hands, my hands gripping the steering wheel a little too tight. “I told you to stay home, Emmy. The valley doesn’t do summer storms halfway.”
“Oh, please, Chief,” she says, wiping the water from her forehead. “Bernice issued a formal summons. You don’t say no to a woman who wears a loon on her chest. It’s a matter of survival. Besides, I know you were secretly praying for an excuse to rescue me again. It’s your favorite hobby.”
I shift the truck into drive, the heavy-duty transmission letting out a low clunk as I pull out of the church lot. The windshield wipers are on max speed, slapping back and forth in a frantic rhythm, the heavy headlights cutting through the gray wall of water in two long, yellow beams.
“So,” I say. “Penelope Wild?”
Emmy lets out a low, musical laugh, leaning her head back against the vinyl headrest. She looks over at me, her eyes flashing with pure, unadulterated mischief in the green glow of the dashboard lights.
“Are you familiar with her oeuvre, Chief? Did Lauren leave a copy of The Viking’s Captive Heart behind? I can get you an autographed copy. It has a lot of very detailed information about structural integrity. Mostly of bodices.”
“I don’t read paperbacks with long-haired guys on the cover,” I say, my voice dropping into a flat, steady register. “But Hazel looked like she was about to faint into her taco dip.”
“My parents write under that name, Brooks. It’s a highly lucrative corporate partnership,” Emmy says smoothly, shifting her legs in the seat.
“They understand the exact narrative architecture required to make a serious, brooding man lose his mind. Frankly, I think they’d find you a very compelling subject study.
The Solitary Chief. A man of few words, tight trousers, and too many municipal regulations.
They’d probably call it The Captain’s Cold Command. ”
A sudden, sharp heat hits my chest.
I cut my eyes sideways at her for a split second, taking in the curve of her throat, the damp fabric of her sweater clinging to her shoulder, and the way she’s looking at me—like she knows exactly what she’s doing to my pulse rate.
“You’re pushing your luck, city girl,” I mutter, turning the truck down the narrow, unpaved lane that leads to the Gilded Goat. The tires sink into the deep mud, the truck swaying slightly as the four-wheel drive locks in, the heavy suspension absorbing the potholes.
“Oh, am I?” She slides an inch closer across the bench seat, her shoulder almost brushing mine. “I’m just observing how protective you are, hot neighbor. What’s the matter, Brooks? Does the kilt conversation make you nervous, or is it just the word ravished?”
Fucking hell.
My grip on the steering wheel tightens until my knuckles turn white.
“I’m protective because it’s my job to make sure the body count doesn’t go up on my shift,” I say, my voice coming out rougher and harder than I intended. “Your driveway is washed out. Look at that.”
I hit the spotlight on the side mirror, throwing a blinding, white beam across her front yard.
The driveway has turned into a shallow, brown river, the water carrying bits of gravel and old cedar bark down toward the barn.
I nose the massive truck right up to her front porch steps, the bumper practically touching the rotted wood.
“Well,” Emmy says, the playful, teasing energy dropping away as she looks at the dark porch. She turns back to me, her eyes suddenly very serious in the dim cab light. “Thank you for the transportation, Brooks. And for… not letting me drown in the church parking lot.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, keeping my eyes fixed on the windshield, determined not to look at her lips again. “Go inside. Lock the door. If the power goes out, the generator by the tool shed has a full tank of diesel. Just flip the throw-switch on the wall.”
“Yes, Chief,” she says softly.
She unbuckles her seatbelt, but instead of opening the door, she shifts her weight across the bench seat.
Before I can register the movement, she bridges the gap between us completely.
She catches my jaw with her hand, her fingers warm and surprisingly firm against my stubble.
I freeze, my breath catching in my throat as she tilts my face toward hers.
“Thank you for being so protective, hot neighbor,” she whispers.
And then she presses her lips directly to mine.
Her mouth is soft, parting slightly as she tastes the salt on my skin, her thumb tracing the line of my jaw with a slow, agonizing pressure.
Her lipstick smears against my mouth, hot and slick, and for a terrifying second, my brain completely short-circuits.
My left hand leaves the steering wheel, my fingers locking onto her hip, pulling her an inch closer into the console.
She lets out a soft, shaky breath against my lips, her grip tightening on my jaw, giving me one last, wicked little slide of her mouth before she pulls back just out of reach.
Her chest is heaving, her eyes wide and dark in the green dashboard light, her lipstick slightly smudged at the corner of her mouth. A slow, triumphant smirk breaks through her breathless expression.
“Goodnight, Brooks,” she whispers, her voice a low, raspy vibration.
The passenger door flies open before I can even find my voice, the cold wind and rain rushing into the cab for a split second before she tumbles out onto the porch steps.
I don’t move.
I just sit here, my knuckles locked white around the steering wheel, gripping the leather hard enough to make it creak beneath my hands. Through the blurred, water-streaked windshield, I watch the dark outline of her porch.
One second.
Two.
Three.
Every single instinct I possess—the raw part of my brain that usually stays locked down behind a badge and a schedule—is violently pulling in the exact same direction.
Go after her.
The urge hits so hard it feels physical, a phantom shove against my ribs.
Get out of the truck. March across that muddy yard. Shove that heavy front door open.
Watch her turn around.
Watch that smart mouth curve into a slow, knowing smile because she’d know exactly why I came back, exactly how badly she broke my concentration.
My jaw aches from how hard I’m clenching it.
The diesel engine idles steady beneath me, a heavy, familiar vibration through the frame, and right now, that mechanical hum is the only damn thing keeping me anchored to reality.
Because if I let myself imagine it for even another second—her standing in that dim hallway, those wide, dark eyes looking up at me, the fading taste of that berry lipstick still burning on my tongue—I am in serious, irreversible trouble.
I yank one hand off the wheel and drag it down my face, hard.
My skin feels hot, wired.
I’ve fought complex structure fires that made more logical sense than this woman.
I’ve spent the last five years building a life that runs on strict discipline, predictable routines, and absolute responsibility.
I don’t do impulsive.
I don’t do reckless.
Then Ember kisses me once, and suddenly every good decision I’ve made in the last decade is hanging by a single, fragile thread.
A dangerous thread that keeps whispering all the things I’m supposed to be remembering right now: She’s your neighbor. She’s younger. You’re supposed to have common sense.
I stare back out at the dark farmhouse. A single porch light flickers once behind the curtain of rain.
And for one entirely reckless second, I picture her on the other side of that door.
Probably leaning her back against the wood, catching her breath. Probably smiling to herself in the dark, knowing exactly what she just did to me, completely aware that she just tore my peace of mind to shreds.
The thought nearly breaks my resolve right then and there.
A humorless laugh escapes my chest, sounding entirely too loud in the quiet truck. “You’re trouble, Emmy.”
The porch stays dark. The rain keeps drumming against the roof of the cab. And somehow, putting the truck in reverse and not going after her becomes the hardest thing I’ve had to do all week.