“It’s a thing with the fire chief.”
“A date?” My mouth betrayed me. “Never mind. It’s none of my?—”
“Fire safety content,” Adrian interrupted quickly. “My manager hooked me up with a side gig while I’m here. It’s another sponsorship.”
A rush of relief swept through me. “Not a date?”
“No, just… they want the two of us on camera together, but it doesn’t have to look like a date or anything. The pay’s good, so I can cover your rate. And, uh… I appreciate the help.” He paused. “Actually, fuck it. I don’t need the help for this one, Maddox. Honestly, I just want to see you again. There. I said it. Feel free to back out. I wouldn’t blame you.”
Something in my chest took flight at his admission. “I’m not backing out. I…” I closed my eyes and blew out a breath. “I want to see you again, too.”
The beat of silence on the other end made me squirm. But when his warm, easy voice came back on the line, it was worth the wait.
“You know, if you ever want to see me, Sullivan, all you have to do is ask. I guarantee the answer will be yes.”
Thankfully, no one was around to see the stupid grin on my face. “I’ll pick you up at six thirty. And maybe if you’re lucky… I’ll pack a toothbrush.”
I ended the call to the sound of his laughter. I could tell he didn’t believe me, that he was just humoring me. But I couldn’t deny how good it had felt waking up next to his solid presence after my nightmare.
Obviously, I was scared shitless. But Maya was right. Adrian Hayes deserved to be loved. And part of me wanted him to feel less alone.
To know that at least one person out there was beginning to care for him very much.
Maybe a little too much.
#FireSafetyMyAss #ToothbrushPacking #DieHardDeprived #ScaredShitless
17
#WANTSMORE
ADRIAN
The SERA HolidayBonfire was exactly the kind of picture-perfect winter event that would make my followers weep with envy. Golden firelight danced against snow-laden pine boughs, rustic log benches were arranged in perfect Instagram-worthy circles, and the scent of woodsmoke and pine hung in the crisp evening air like nature’s own aromatherapy.
I reveled in wearing my own coat this time—a thrift shop favorite in navy wool with subtle copper threading that would photograph beautifully against the flames—and pulled out my phone to capture some establishing shots. The marshmallow roasting stations looked like something out of a holiday movie, complete with vintage-style wire baskets and glass jars of graham crackers that caught the firelight like amber.
“Flame-proof content for a flame-proof evening,” I murmured to myself. Vic had been thrilled about this fire safety sponsorship—apparently, there was huge money to be made in creating educational content that didn’t feel educational. And after seeingFire Chief Judd Kincaid’s rugged headshot on the Legacy Fire Department website, I’d understood why.
The man was built like a lumberjack who moonlighted as a male model. All broad shoulders and serious jaw, with the kind of competent authority that made people want to follow his instructions. Even the fire safety ones.
But as I panned my phone across the gathering crowd, looking for the best lighting, my chest tightened with a familiar anxiety.
Maddox wasn’t here yet.
He’d asked me to grab a ride out here with someone else when a family portrait session had gone long. Now, I was second-guessing his explanation, wondering if he’d show up at all or if this afternoon’s easy phone conversation had been another one of his emotional false starts.
Before I could spiral, the fire chief met my eyes with a quirked eyebrow. I nodded and began recording.
“Alright, folks!” His deep voice cut through the chatter. “Gather round for your mandatory fun safety briefing!”
Judd stepped up onto a makeshift platform—actually just a wide slice of tree stump—and the crowd naturally gravitated toward him. He was even more impressive in person, all six-foot-something of him wrapped in official-looking navy gear that somehow made fire safety seem sexy.
“Rule number one,” he announced, his voice carrying easily across the clearing. “Don’t wave flaming marshmallows in your friends’ faces unless you want to meet me again—at the ER.”
A ripple of laughter went through the crowd. I refocused on my phone screen, caught off guard by how naturally charming he was. There was something disarming about his gruff earnestness, the way he managed to make fire safety feel like friendly advice from your favorite uncle rather than a lecture.
“Rule number two: if your marshmallow catches fire, don’t panic. Blow it out gently. Don’t wave it around like you’re conducting the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.” He demonstrated with a skewer, his expression deadpan. “This isn’t the Fourth of July.”
