Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
I make my way over to him, noting that T.J.’s at his usual table, next to his friend David, where the two are having an animated conversation.
As a cluster of sixth-grade boys passes by the firefighter, I approach from his other side and nearly take him by surprise. Not an easy thing to do to someone with his training. “Mr. Monroe?”
His brows lift, and his warm brown eyes sparkle with warmth. “Principal Ramirez.”
He clasps his hands behind his back, and I ignore the way it makes his chest look like he’s wearing a sculpted superhero costume.
“What brings you to the school today?” I ask. “No one cleared your visit with the office.”
“Just helping out. Part of the department’s community outreach.” He waves at another young fan at a nearby table. “Your cafeteria aides have this room on lock, by the way.”
“I haven’t seen any of you here for lunch duty before.”
“It’s time we rectify that, then.” He gives me a charming smile that definitely does not make my insides flutter.
“I suppose you talked to Buck?”
Weston nods. “Saw him this morning when my shift ended.”
“So you’re not on duty right now?”
Caught out, his grin only gets more charming. “Not officially,” he says, “and unofficially, I came by to apologize for not introducing myself when I first saw you in Moon Ridge. None of us knew what the right approach was.”
I nod once, accepting the apology. “How did all three of you end up here?”
He tilts his head back and slightly to the side, and the muscles in his neck stretch and flex. “Buck was here and said there was work. Seemed like the best option at the time.”
The answer is vague, but not in a way that makes me suspicious. Only curious. Similar to how I felt after I got over the shock of my meeting with Buck last night, I feel safe around Weston, even though I’m not comfortable with the way my body responds to the men.
“How are you liking life in a small town?” he asks.
I lower my voice so no one can overhear. “I was liking it quite a bit until the incident at the administrative building.”
“Got it,” he says. “You prefer less arson, more potlucks and bake sales.”
His joke takes me by surprise, and a little laugh bursts out of me. Even though he’s making light and seems easygoing, he never stops scanning the space.
“Have you seen anything out of the ordinary since the incident?” he asks.
“No.”
“Good. You’ve got our numbers. Don’t be a stranger, Elena.”
Something about the way he says my name—my first name, not my title—leaves me unable to move or even breathe for a second. When I do, I write off my reaction as a symptom of stress.
I pull myself together and give him a professional smile. “Thanks for coming by, Mr. Monroe. Hope you enjoy the rest of your day off.”
Later, as I’m returning to my office after the second lunch group is through, my phone pings with a text from Buck. “Tomorrow morning, I’m installing security at your place. Cameras, sensors, door contacts. You’ll get a schedule window when I have it. Keep your doors locked tonight.”
He’s telling instead of asking, and it irks me, even if I appreciate his intent.
In the early evening, when T.J. and I walk out to the parking lot, firefighter #3 is there waiting for us, a few spots away from my SUV. Calder Black gives us a curt wave but doesn’t say a word, then proceeds to follow us all the way home. He stays in his truck, engine idling, until we’re both inside the house, then he drives off.
Apparently, my emotional walls are about to be tested by three men who protect first and ask permission later.
In the middle of the night, I wake from a bizarre dream where I’m chewing soft plastic. I’m taking more and more of it into my mouth but can’t swallow any of it. A horrible taste coats my tongue, and it’s when I gag that I finally wake up from the nightmare.
But the bad taste doesn’t stay in the dream, and now my nose wrinkles from a bad smell.
As I surface from my sleepy haze, my mind makes excuses for the acrid odor, but a soft popping sound from somewhere in the house snaps my eyes open.
As I’m blinking in the dark, the shrill shriek of the smoke alarm slices through my skull and turns my blood to ice.
Wide awake, I sit up fast, coughing from air that tastes like it’s full of chemicals. My eyes sting, and my heart pounds violently.
T.J.
I grab my phone as I hurry out of bed. The floor is cool, but the air is warmer than it should be. When I open my bedroom door, the hallway is hazy. There’s an orange glow coming from the living room, and when I step out, the open doorway to the den on the opposite side of the house is bright with flickering light, crackling and snapping.