Chapter 2
SCOOP
W hat the fuck was I doing?
That was my overriding thought as I navigated my SUV up the road to the address the woman had recited on the phone. Yes, I probably should have fired up one of the trucks, but it was clear there was no fire. Just a very drunk woman.
I couldn’t, in good conscience, not check on her. But there was more to it than that. Something in her voice had intrigued me. Made me want to investigate. So here I was.
Lightning lit up the area just as I was trying to figure out which driveway went with which cabin. The addresses were on the buildings but not on the mailboxes, which made this a pain in the ass. I narrowed it down to a long gravel driveway that ended at a cozy cabin.
Lights glowed from the front window. Was that a good sign? Probably not. But it wasn’t a bad sign either. The red-and-white sedan in the driveway told me she was likely still inside. But whether she was okay remained to be seen.
I grabbed my first aid kit and headed toward the front door of the cabin, my heart racing, adrenaline pumping. It was always this way when I arrived at a scene. But normally, I wasn’t hearing five words repeating in my head like a damn prayer.
Please let her be okay. Please let her be okay. Please let her be okay.
I was definitely way too invested in what I’d find behind that door. I pounded on it with my fist. If she’d passed out—or worse—she probably wouldn’t hear it. But being loud was the only way I had to get through.
For good measure, I pressed the doorbell obnoxiously for several seconds. Next, I tried the handle. No luck. I wasn’t surprised. Of course, a woman in a cabin alone would lock the door.
I could kick down the door, but we didn’t like to damage property if we could avoid it. If the cabin had been on fire, sure, but property wasn’t in danger. Just maybe the woman inside.
I looked down and noted the keypad on the front door.
A rental cabin. That made sense. The woman had been trying to order pizza without realizing that the closest place that delivered was twenty minutes away.
Sure, they’d bring it up here, but I didn’t know that many people who even bothered.
This wasn’t the kind of place where you routinely had food brought to your door at all hours of the day and night.
And it was after eleven, so it definitely qualified as “all hours.”
I glanced at the street number next to the door. It was worth a try. I tapped in that number, then the star key, and waited.
Nothing happened. Then came the whir of a tiny motor and a click. My eyes widened. Success. I half expected confetti to fall from the porch covering above my head.
I put my hand on the door handle and turned it slowly, cautiously. I was essentially barging in on this woman, safe or not. She was probably perfectly fine, just tipsy.
But as soon as I peeked inside, I saw her on the couch, cell phone on her stomach. One leg was stretched out, with the other tucked beneath her. She had a smile on her face, but her eyes were closed.
Thunder rumbled again, reminding me to shut the door behind me. I did just that, keeping my eyes on her as I stepped inside.
The sound hadn’t done anything to wake her. Again, not a great sign. By the time I crossed the room to reach her, the words were running through my mind again.
Please let her be okay.
I crouched beside the couch, settling near her foot. Then I moved closer—toward her head—checking her pulse first.
It was pounding a little too fast, actually.
I glanced at the margarita glass on the table.
A fast pulse wasn’t out of the ordinary when alcohol was involved.
Vasodilation. That’s what it was called.
The heart pumped faster to maintain blood flow.
I’d be more concerned if her pulse was slow. Or, God forbid, thready.
The next step was to turn her on her side, just in case she got sick. I gently moved her hand and adjusted her position. But the moment my fingers brushed her bare shoulder, something shifted in me. It was subtle. A flicker. A jolt. But it was enough to freeze me in place.
Her skin was warm, smooth, impossibly soft. But it wasn’t just that. I’d done this before—dozens of times, probably more. But I’d never felt anything like this. Like my fingertips had touched something electric. Something fragile. Something important.
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to breathe.
She murmured something unintelligible, shifting slightly beneath my touch, and I realized I was hovering. Hesitating. Like some nervous kid who didn’t know where to put his hands.
Get it together, Scoop.
I moved carefully, sliding one hand beneath her shoulder to ease her onto her side. The other steadied her hip, keeping her from rolling too far. She was small. Not delicate exactly, but soft in a way that made me feel like I had no business touching her. And yet I couldn’t seem to stop.
As I adjusted her arm, her head lolled slightly on the cushion, face now angled toward mine. And that’s when it happened.
Her eyes opened. Bright. Blazing. Green. Not a muted moss or a soft sage—no, these were vivid, vivid green, the kind of color that didn’t exist in real life. Only in photos you assumed were filtered. Only in dreams.
And they were staring right at me.
“Whoa,” she whispered.
I swear to God, I almost fell backward into the damn coffee table. I caught myself just in time, planting my hand against the edge of the couch as I met her gaze.
“You’re awake.”
She blinked, her brows knitting. “You’re not pizza.”
I huffed a laugh. “No, I’m definitely not pizza.”
“You’re…” She squinted. “Fire guy.”
“Firefighter,” I corrected, realizing I probably shouldn’t have been smiling. “You called the fire station. Said your stomach was on fire.”
She groaned and threw an arm over her eyes. “That sounds like something drunk me would say.”
“You said your name was Camille.”
“I did?”
“You did.”
“Well…drunk me is very trusting.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “You’re not going to arrest me for pizza fraud, are you?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
That earned me a tiny smile. It did things to my chest I wasn’t proud of. Things I hadn’t felt in a long time.
“I’m sorry I worried you,” she said softly. “I’m fine. Just…I didn’t eat dinner, and then I made a really strong margarita, and I might have underestimated how that works.”
I nodded slowly. “You’re lucky. You passed out, and it could’ve been worse. A lot worse.”
Her expression shifted, lips pressing together. She nodded, then looked down at her body as though checking to make sure everything was still there.
“I wasn’t trying to be reckless,” she said. “I’m just here for a few days working on my grad school application. I thought I’d have this cozy little night to myself. Get some writing done and celebrate.”
“Celebrate?”
“Turning it in,” she said. “The personal statement part. I’ve been working on it for weeks, and I finally hit submit. It felt like a moment. So I made a drink. And then…” She gestured vaguely at the room. “This.”
I studied her for a beat. “Where were you applying?”
“Edenridge. For clinical psych.”
That surprised me. But also made perfect sense. She had that quiet, thoughtful energy. Even now, half-drunk on a couch with mascara slightly smudged under her eyes, she looked like someone who saw more than she said.
“And your plan was to stay here and work on that?”
She nodded. “I thought it would be quiet. No distractions. But I didn’t think through the food thing. I picked up stuff for breakfast tomorrow, but I forgot about dinner. Pizza’s always an option, so I thought I’d just order one up when I got hungry.”
“But instead you called the fire department.”
“Apparently.” She winced. “I really am sorry.”
“You’re not the first,” I said, and that was technically true. “But you might be the most entertaining.”
She smiled again, her eyes scanning my face. “Are you really a firefighter? You look like you belong in one of those calendars.”
“I am a firefighter,” I said, clearing my throat, “and no, I’ve never posed for a calendar.”
“Shame.” Her eyelids drooped slightly, but her smile didn’t fade. “That would’ve made one hell of a pizza delivery fantasy.”
Heat rose up the back of my neck. I stood quickly, more flustered than I wanted to admit.
“You should eat something,” I said. “Sober up a little more.”
“I know. I’m just…still a little floaty.”
“I can make something,” I offered, shocking myself.
She blinked. “Seriously?”
“I’m not a gourmet, but I can see what ingredients you have and fire something up.”
She bit her lip. “That sounds amazing.”
“Alright.” I started toward the kitchen, then paused. “You, uh…you good staying on your side like that?”
She nodded. “Recovery position. I know it from CPR class. You’re good.”
“Just making sure.”
I lingered for a second longer than necessary, then made myself step away. Her voice followed me into the kitchen.
“I didn’t drink growing up,” she said. “My parents were strict. Super religious. Alcohol was, like, the root of all evil.”
I turned, leaning against the counter. “So tonight was your first?”
“Pretty much. I had a sip of champagne once at a wedding, but this was the first time I made a real drink and tried to enjoy it.”
“How’d that go for you?”
She smirked. “I got rescued by a hot firefighter, so I’d say…mixed results.”
I chuckled under my breath and turned toward the fridge, finding bread, plus unexpired cheese and butter, in a neat little row. Everything I needed. But even as I opened the skillet and got to work, my mind wasn’t on the sandwich. It was on the woman in the other room.
Camille.
Camille with the bright green eyes, the soft skin, the voice that somehow got under my skin in the span of a two-minute emergency call.
She’d scared the hell out of me tonight, and now she was making me feel things I hadn’t let myself feel in a long damn time.
Maybe this wasn’t just a wellness check.
Maybe this was something else entirely.