Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 33213 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33213 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
When kindergarten teacher Briar Tate accidentally sets off the school fire alarm, she doesn’t expect a six-foot-four, grumpy fire captain to storm into her life and rearrange every one of her defenses.
Saxon Cole is disciplined, controlled, and done letting anyone depend on him—until one terrified scream during a hotel fire shatters every boundary he’s built.
Forced into a fake engagement, tangled in small-town gossip, and pulled together by a little girl who trusts him with her whole heart, Briar and Saxon discover that some sparks aren’t meant to be denied.
In Devil’s Peak, some sparks are meant to ignite.
The Devil’s Peak Fire & Rescue series delivers grumpy firefighters, sunshine heroines, fake fiancés, single parents, small-town meddling, and molten-hot slow burns that ignite into unforgettable, heart-stopping romance
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Chapter One
Briar
The fire alarm shrieks through Devil’s Peak Elementary like the building itself is having a panic attack.
Which, honestly, same.
Twenty-two five-year-olds stare at me with various degrees of horror, excitement, and pure chaos—paper construction-crown projects slipping sideways on their heads while Junie clings to my leg like a terrified koala.
“This is fine,” I lie out loud, cheerful and bright and absolutely panicking on the inside. “It’s just a practice! Remember our line? Quiet feet, quiet hands—”
A stack of glue sticks falls off the table. A kid starts crying. Someone else starts laughing because the crying kid sounds like a baby goat, and then two of them bleat back at him because apparently that’s contagious.
Perfect.
Exactly how I pictured my first day as a kindergarten teacher.
I try to redirect everyone toward the door. “Okay, friends! Outdoors! Single-file li—”
And then I see the switch I pulled wrong. The one right next to the actual drill indicator. The one labeled: Alarm System — Full Activation.
My stomach sinks.
Oh no.
Oh no no no.
The sound gets louder. Boots pound somewhere in the distance—heavy, urgent, nothing like the mild-mannered drills we practiced yesterday.
And then the hallway shakes.
Or maybe that’s just me.
“Friends,” I squeak, “let’s go now.”
I herd the tiny group toward the exit, muttering prayers and curses under my breath as we stumble into the sunlight. The kids wobble into a crooked semi-circle, their crowns glittering in the breeze like I’ve led some sort of very short, poorly-organized parade.
Then something massive moves behind me.
No—someone.
I turn—and I freeze.
A firefighter with the name Captain Saxon Cole and Devil’s Peak Fire & Rescue emblazoned on his jacket stalks toward me like an entire natural disaster dressed in turnout gear. Six-foot-something of controlled fury, helmet low, gloves on, jaw set as if he intends to personally fight the building with his bare damn hands.
Holy—
His eyes lock onto me.
And I swear the earth tilts.
“Ma’am,” he barks, deep and sharp enough to vibrate through my bones, “is everyone accounted for?”
“Uh—yes.”
Words. Words would be helpful.
I gesture at my tiny crooked line of bedazzled royalty. “My class is right here. All present. No smoke. No fire. Just…volume.”
Saxon doesn’t look amused.
He does, however, look furious.
His gaze sweeps the area like he’s expecting flames to burst from behind the playground slide at any moment.
Then he turns back to me.
And starts stalking closer.
Oh God. He’s close now.
Broad shoulders filling my entire field of vision.
Brow tight.
Jaw ticking.
Chest rising and falling like he sprinted the length of the building.
“Did you pull the alarm?” he demands.
Technically no. Technically yes. Technically I’m an idiot.
“It was a mistake,” I rush out. “New switches, new classroom, new…everything.”
His voice drops, low and lethal.
“Kindergarten fire drills don’t activate the entire goddamn station, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart.
My brain short-circuits.
I’m ninety percent mortified, ten percent offended, and one hundred percent aware of how his voice sounds like gravel and smoke and something I should not be reacting to.
“I said it was a mistake,” I snap, irrationally defensive.
His brow lifts. He actually looks like he might combust. “A mistake that pulled three engines, an ambulance, and half my crew off shift. Care to explain that?”
“I hit the wrong switch.”
His eyes narrow.
“Which wrong switch?”
“The…red one.”
“Which red one?”
I throw my hands up. “Why are there thirty identical stupid switches in a row? That’s the real emergency here.”
He steps in closer—so close I feel heat radiating off him.
I swallow. Hard.
He leans down just enough his voice barely carries to anyone but me.
“The real emergency is you nearly triggering a building-wide evacuation.”
“And the real solution,” I whisper back before my brain intervenes, “is labeling your damn switches better.”
His head jerks back a fraction.
Oh no.
Oh no.
I think I just sassed the grumpiest man in Devil’s Peak.
The corner of his mouth twitches. Not a smile. Something darker. Something that punches straight through my stomach.
Before he can respond, one of his firefighters jogs up. “Cap! Building’s clear. False alarm.”
Saxon doesn’t look away from me as he answers.
“Copy that.”
His stare pins me.
My pulse flutters.
This man could melt me on the spot and he hasn’t even touched me.
He mutters something under his breath, then straightens.
“Where’s your supply closet?”
“…why?”
“Because we’re having a conversation.”
He steps past me and points. “Show me.”
My heart stumbles. “My kids—”
“The counselor’s right there,” he says without looking. “She’ll keep an eye on them.”
I blink.
Look at the counselor.
She shrugs like better you than me.
Saxon’s hand lands on the small of my back—not pushing, just guiding.
Firm. Hot. Completely in control.
I tense.
His fingers flex.
“Move,” he growls.
I move.
He walks behind me, close enough I swear I feel his breath ghost over my hair. The hallway feels too narrow. His presence presses in, commanding, unyielding, impossible to ignore.
My supply closet door looms up ahead.
This is a bad idea.
This is a terrible, terrible—
He opens it and nudges me inside.
Not gently.
Not harshly.
Just decisively.
The closet is small—shelves of markers, construction paper, bins of pom-poms—and suddenly filled with way too much man.