The Handsome Firefighter (Whitetail Falls: Fire Station #6)

Chapter 1 – Logan

The cold hits like a slap when I push through the station's back door with December air that makes my lungs seize for half a second before remembering how to work.

I pat my jacket pocket. "Got 'em this time, Chief."

"Miracles never cease," he mutters, but I catch the ghost of a smile beneath his perpetual frown. Paul's version of affection.

Last night's snowfall has transformed our little corner into something almost unfairly beautiful. Morning light spills across Emberstone Avenue, the brick storefronts wear white caps, smoke drifting from chimneys in lazy corkscrews that disappear against the pale sky.

"Bean run?" Austin appears beside Paul, tucking in his uniform shirt with one hand, hair still damp from the shower. Two years on the job, and the kid still looks like he's playing dress-up sometimes. "Can you grab me—"

"Your usual peppermint monstrosity with extra whip?" I finish for him. "The one that's basically a dessert pretending to be coffee?"

"It's seasonal," he protests, grinning. "Limited time only."

I back away, boot heels crunching through fresh powder. "Text me if Bradley wants anything."

The morning quiet settles around me as I head down our plowed walkway. Five blocks of peace where I'm not Lieutenant Price with lives depending on my decisions. Where I'm just Logan, watching a town wake up, breath clouding in front of me like visible evidence I'm still here.

The peacefulness shatters when I spot a flash of red across the street, a coat so bright against winter's palette it might as well be shouting.

Something in me recognizes her before my brain catches up: the tilt of her head, the way she gestures with both hands when she talks, the sound of her laugh carrying in the cold air.

Chloe.

My steps halt. Seeing her still feels like putting weight on a bruise I didn't realize was there.

She looks good. Blond hair catching sunlight as she talks animatedly to a couple who are clearly tourists—matching jackets, bewildered smiles, the woman clutching a town map with mittened hands.

I should keep walking. Nod politely if she sees me. Act like a grown man instead of feeling this sudden tight-chested panic.

That's when she shifts, and morning light catches something on her left hand, something that definitely wasn't there before. Something that winks and gleams, unmistakable even from thirty feet away.

A diamond. A statement of a diamond.

My stomach drops like I've missed a step on a staircase.

Her eyes find mine across the street, widening with recognition. She lifts her hand in a hesitant wave. Says something to her companions, already making excuses to step away.

To come talk to me.

Every self-preservation instinct fires at once.

Without conscious decision, I'm moving—not running exactly, but walking with the determined stride of someone who's just remembered an urgent appointment across town.

I round the corner onto Maple, past Natalie flipping the sign at Moonlight and Manuscripts, past old Mr. Wilson meticulously clearing ice from the post office steps.

I'm nearly at The Enchanted Bean before my heartbeat begins to normalize. The golden glow from its windows feels like a sanctuary.

The door jingles softly as I push inside. Heat envelops me along with the layered scents of the cafe: fresh coffee, cinnamon, vanilla, the yeasty warmth of whatever's just come from the ovens.

I scan for Ellie, the usual morning barista, but instead spot another girl behind the counter.

She's arranging a tray of what look like gingerbread scones in the display case, a streak of flour dusting one cheek, wisps of honey-brown hair escaping her bun.

Her movements are quick but deliberate, a small furrow of concentration between her brows as she adjusts each pastry.

I've exchanged pleasantries with her dozens of times but realized, with a strange jolt, that I've never really looked at her until this moment.

"Morning," I say, approaching the counter.

Savannah—as her name tag helpfully supplies—startles, nearly dropping the metal tong she's holding. It clatters against the display case, and a scone teeters precariously before she steadies it with quick fingers.

"Lieutenant!" Her cheeks flush deeper than they already were from the kitchen heat. She takes a breath, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "Good morning. What can I get you?"

"Logan," I correct, finding myself smiling despite the knot still sitting beneath my ribs. "Just Logan is fine."

"Logan," she repeats softly, and something about the way my name sounds in her voice makes me stand a little straighter.

She waits expectantly, and I realize I haven't actually ordered anything. I'm just standing here, staring at her like an idiot.

"Are you alright?" she asks, tilting her head slightly. "You seem..." She doesn't finish, but her warm brown eyes are surprisingly perceptive.

"Ex-girlfriend," I admit, the words tumbling out before I can filter them. "Just saw her outside. With a ring on her finger."

Savannah's expression softens. "Oh."

"Yeah." I run a hand through my hair, feeling melting snowflakes dampen my fingers.

"And now she's probably heading this way, and I'm going to have to stand here while she shows me her ring and tells me how happy she is while half the town watches and thinks, 'Poor Logan, eternal bachelor of Whitetail Falls, left behind again. '"

I wince as soon as the words leave my mouth. "Sorry. That was a lot to dump on you at 7 in the morning."

Instead of backing away from my verbal avalanche, Savannah reaches for a mug, fills it with something that smells like chai and spices, and slides it across the counter.

"On the house," she says, her voice gentle but not pitying. "You look like you could use it."

The simple kindness hits me square in the chest. I wrap my hands around the warm ceramic, letting the heat seep into my cold fingers.

"Thank you," I murmur.

She nods, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Breakups are hard enough without engagement announcements."

"Especially in a town this size," I agree, taking a sip. The chai is perfect, sweet, spicy, warming me from the inside out.

A movement outside the window catches my eye—red coat, blonde hair. Chloe, definitely heading this way. My stomach clenches again, and without thinking, I set the mug down with too much force. Liquid sloshes over the rim.

"She's coming in here," I breathe, not meaning to say it aloud.

Savannah glances toward the window, then back at me. She grabs a cloth to wipe up my spilled chai, her movements unhurried despite my obvious panic. "Do you want to slip out the back?" she offers. "There's a service door through the kitchen."

The offer is tempting, but the thought of literally running from Chloe makes something in me resist. I'm a grown man. I shouldn't need an escape route from an ex-girlfriend.

And yet.

"Savannah," I say, my voice dropping lower, urgent. "I need a favor."

Her eyes find mine, curious and a little wary. "What?"

"Pretend to be my girlfriend." The words rush out, ridiculous even to my own ears. "I know it's crazy and we barely know each other and I should just be an adult about this, but—"

"Okay."

I blink. "What?"

"I said okay." Savannah's cheeks flush deeper, but her gaze holds steady. "I'll do it."

For a moment, I'm speechless. "You will? Why?"

She adjusts her sleeve, a small, nervous gesture that shouldn't be endearing but somehow is. "Because you look like you might actually pass out if I say no."

A surprised laugh escapes me, the tightness in my chest easing slightly. "That obvious, huh?"

"Like a flashing neon sign," she confirms, but her tone is warm, almost fond.

She unties her apron with quick fingers, revealing a soft cream sweater beneath that hugs curves I definitely shouldn't be noticing right now. "Marco!" she calls toward the back. "Covering front for fifteen!"

A muffled response comes from the kitchen, and then she's beside me, closer than I expected, smelling like vanilla and cinnamon. Heat radiates from her, and I'm suddenly aware of how much taller I am, how I could tuck her head under my chin if I pulled her close.

"Should we—" She gestures vaguely to the door, tucking another strand of hair behind her ear. "Go outside? Make it look like we're leaving together?"

"Yes," I nod, relief and something less definable making me light-headed. "Yes, that would be perfect."

We move toward the exit. As I push the door open, cold air rushes in, and I reach for her hand without thinking.