Just This Once, page 4
I shrugged. “I know. He’s just protective, and he’s always warned me about firefighters. Plus, I know from experience that they’re all either womanizers and cheaters or adrenaline junkies. Sometimes all three are wrapped up in an addictively hot package. Something about that type of man being caught up in the thrill of it all.” I chewed my lip. “But really that’s not the worst of it.”
Rachel’s wide eyes spurred me to continue. “I saw his uniform on the floor and I knew.” I blew out a breath. “And instead of talking about it, I completely freaked out.” I scrunched my face. “I gave him a high five and left.” I buried my face in my hands.
“You did what?” Rachel’s jaw hung open.
“Yeah, a high freaking five. And then I got dressed faster than I ever have in my entire life, left his house, and never looked back.”
Rachel nodded and laughed, then sat back. “So you ghosted him.”
My head reared back. “I didn’t ghost him. I just . . . never spoke to him again.”
“I’m guessing you didn’t leave your number?” Her bland look was unimpressed.
I cringed. “I practically ran out the front door as he was still zipping up his pants.” Shame coursed through me. I was a grown woman, fully capable of having a no-strings one-night stand, but I couldn’t help but feel bad for Whip. He’d been charming and funny, and leaving him without any kind of explanation left a slimy feeling in my gut. The fact that my immediate reaction was to run spoke volumes for how closed off I’d become.
Maybe Craig was right about me after all. Damn it.
My only hope was that my stepfather was right, and a man like Whip wouldn’t give me a second thought. Which, come to think of it, made my complicated feelings about the whole thing only worse.
I folded my arms and dropped my head to my forearms with a groan.
The server set down a round of waters for our table along with our drinks, and Rachel plucked it up and took a sip. “Well, there are worse things than a high five, you know.”
I wanted to be anywhere other than hiding at a back table at the Grudge, letting the shame of my awkward exit wash over me.
Rachel bumped my shoulder. “Well, relax, Casper. It looks like you’re off the hook.”
I lifted my head and my stomach pitched. A pretty brunette playfully draped her left arm across Whip’s back. He laughed at something she said and smiled down at her. The look was full of friendliness and affection.
I shouldn’t have cared. I was the one who’d bolted on him, after all, but nausea still rolled through me. My gaze was locked onto them as they engaged in what looked like friendly, comfortable conversation. Whip kicked off the bar and with his brother, along with the mystery woman in tow, headed toward the exit.
I had no right to wonder who she was or whether or not she was going home with him. It was none of my business, but a petty part of me hated her anyway. Between my fresh start and my father, any kind of future with Whip, a one-night stand or otherwise, was completely off the table.
As I watched the trio walk out of the Grudge, I couldn’t help but wonder if things in my life could be different.
Just this once.
SIX
EMILY
“Miss Ward! Michael shoved my pencil up his nose, and now there’s snot on my math page.”
I paused, my nostrils flaring to stifle a grin, and turned to Samantha. “Michael shoved your pencil up his nose and you continued to use it?”
The redhead pouted. “Well, it’s my pencil and I have the right to—”
I held up one hand. I swear, some days it feels like first grade instead of sixth . . .
“Okay. It’s all right. Why don’t you get a fresh pencil from the jar and throw Michael’s booger pencil in the trash.”
An incredulous look twisted her round features. “But it’s a brand-new pencil. That seems awfully wasteful . . . are you okay with killing more trees?”
I blinked and offered her a gentle smile. “I think, just this once, we can sacrifice one fresh pencil.”
She scowled but stood from her desk and walked to pitch her pencil into a nearby trash can. I turned back to my class, thankful Samantha’s newfound righteousness hadn’t escalated further—any other day she might have prepared a full-on protest.
I pressed the button at the corner of my desk, letting a doorbell chime ring out to alert my students. “Remember to manage your independent work time well. I will need group four in the back with your writer’s notebook and a pencil.” I raised an eyebrow in Michael’s direction. “A clean one.”
He blushed and gathered his supplies and headed toward the bean-shaped table in the back of the room. I smiled at the young man’s back. With his floppy, unruly brown curls, Michael was one of those students who was tenderhearted, but full of mischief.
In my short time as their teacher, I had grown to feel affection for all my students. A few managed to hold a special spot in my heart, and Michael, with his mischievous grin, was one of them.
Time slowed as Michael stumbled on his way to the back of the classroom. His sneakers squeaked, and his hand landed on the corner of Talisha’s desk before slipping from it. He crumpled to the floor.
My eyes immediately locked with Michael’s health services assistant. “Get the nurse.”
With a calm and commanding voice, I instructed my students: “Class, please line up outside of the classroom in the hallway immediately. Just like we discussed. Everything is fine.”
Inside, everything was not fine.
Michael had documented medical concerns, including a history of seizures. According to his parents, who were lovely at his last meeting, he hadn’t suffered from a seizure in over a year.
They were hopeful that his new medication would be a turning point in regaining some of his independence in the classroom. Being a preteen with a nurse following you around all the time had taken a toll on Michael’s social standing.
I sucked a harsh breath through my nose as my mind went to work, and I stripped off my cardigan. I knew his seizure care plan backward and forward, and my body took over, positioning his head on top of my cardigan to keep him safe as I watched the clock to approximate the length of this episode.
Within moments the school nurse and health-care aide were at my side. The nurse’s eyes met mine, and I grimly shook my head. “It’s getting close. One minute forty-five.”
I looked on helplessly as the seizure racked Michael’s young body. As a part of his care plan in the event of a grand mal seizure, emergency services were to be called if his episode lasted longer than three minutes.
In so many situations three minutes feels like the blink of an eye—laughing over cocktails with friends, watching a sunset wrapped in your lover’s embrace, a day on the beach where warm sunshine heats your skin.
Three minutes.
I watched helplessly as three minutes felt like three days. Michael’s health-care aide stood at my desk with the phone in her hand, prepared to make the call.
I stared at the clock as the seconds ticked by. “It’s too long. Call it.”
She punched the final number to alert emergency services as we waited. Relief that medical professionals would be on their way to help him washed over me. I instructed Michael’s care aide to bring the rest of the classroom to the library. I’d likely get an earful from the crusty old librarian, but I was attempting to provide Michael a sliver of dignity.
Thankfully Outtatowner was small enough that the whine of ambulance sirens in the distance came quickly. Adrenaline coursed through my veins as we waited.
My jaw dropped open when Whip King surged through the doorway with a commanding authority. Two emergency medical service workers, a man and a woman, followed closely behind him with a stretcher. Our eyes locked without even a flicker of recognition crossing his handsome features.
A mixture of relief and surprise filled my chest. Whip’s attention was focused solely on his patient. He surged forward, pushing desks aside as he got closer. His navy tactical pants and short-sleeved shirt strained against his muscles. Whip crouched to assess Michael. Only inches away, I studied his profile as his gaze moved over Michael in what I could only assume was standard protocol to assess the boy’s breathing.
My eyes squeezed shut. Please help him.
When I opened my eyes again, I saw how Whip’s every movement was confident and assertive. It was clear he was calm amid the chaos as he worked swiftly. He clearly communicated with his team, instructing them on exactly what he needed, and they followed his orders without hesitation. His fingertips gently swept back a strand of hair from Michael’s face, and my heart seized.
Another EMT slid a pad under Michael’s head, replacing my cardigan.
“Skin coloration and airways look good.”
I wasn’t sure if Whip was talking to me or his crew, but I nodded anyway. The medical team continued checking his vitals as Michael’s body slowly calmed.
“Did he hit his head?” Whip stared at Michael but was asking me.
“It’s possible. He fell pretty hard.”
The team continued their treatment as we looked on helplessly. Michael’s mother had arrived at the school, and despite her experience with his seizures, tears streamed down her face.
Mrs. Marsh knelt beside her son and gripped his limp hand. I stood, giving a mother her moment with her child. The school nurse and Michael’s health-care aide flanked me.
“He’ll be fine.” The confidence in my voice was hollow.
We stood as helpless observers as Michael emerged from the haze of his seizure. Whip and his mother helped him to a sitting position. Whip examined his head for tender spots. Michael had wet himself and slumped against his mother. Tears burned my nose as I moved to the coat closet in my classroom. I always kept a few sets of spare sweats and T-shirts on hand for the odd spilled lunch or muddy football debacle.
I gently placed a folded pair of spare sweatpants next to her. Tears shimmered in Mrs. Marsh’s eyes. “Thank you.”
A firm nod was all I could offer her. I was confident my voice would be thick with emotion. I turned and cleared my throat, discreetly patting the wet corners of my eyes.
“This is yours.” Whip’s deep rumble startled me, and I turned to him.
His clear blue eyes pinned me in place. Stunned, I searched for any ounce of recognition, but his features were hard and unmoving. I glanced over his shoulder, and Mrs. Marsh had stood with Michael, her arm wrapped around her son as the other EMTs chatted with her. Michael was nearly as tall as his mother, but in the aftermath of his seizure he looked slight and fragile.
Refocusing on the man in front of me, my eyes dropped to the cardigan in his hand.
When I reached for it, our fingers grazed, and electricity crackled across my palm and up my forearm. I tucked the cardigan under my arm as I folded them across my chest.
No recognition. Nothing. He doesn’t remember me.
“Thank you.” I couldn’t even look at him. The single hottest night of my life and I was completely forgettable. I wanted to fold in on myself and dissolve before having to face him again.
Whip pulled a pen from his uniform and lifted the clipboard in his other hand. “He’ll be released to his mother.”
I nodded, unable to speak.
Without another word, Whip and his team strode out of the doorway and out of my life for good.
SEVEN
WHIP
I pressed the heel of my hand into my chest, willing the ache to let up. I was shocked to barge into a classroom for a medical emergency call only to find the woman I had been obsessing over gaping back at me.
Thankfully I stared for only a fraction of a second too long before instinct took over.
“It’s always the worst when it’s a kid.” Lee Sullivan stared out the windshield of the ambulance.
I dropped my hand. “Yeah.”
Lee and I were on opposite sides of the King–Sullivan feud, but when it came to work, it was the job that mattered. We typically saved our petty bullshit for the break room or outside of work. Plus, fucking with him held slightly less appeal now that I knew my sister would have my ass if we took it too far. Still, it hadn’t kept me from gift wrapping Duke Sullivan’s entire truck with dinosaur paper in honor of my nephew’s impending birthday.
I chuckled quietly to myself. Our town flashed past the truck as we rolled down the road back to the station.
“What tickled your pickle, Bill?” Lee Sullivan gave me the side-eye from the passenger seat.
I clenched my teeth, knowing full well that if Lee knew I was behind the prank against his brother, he’d make it his personal mission to exact revenge. “Nothing—just remembering how funny it was to see you like a turtle on its shell when you slipped in that puddle.”
During a house fire a few months ago, Lee was stripping siding off the building when he lost his balance and fell backward into a shallow koi pond. The weight of his air tank had made it so he couldn’t roll himself over. He’d been stuck, like a turtle on its shell, moving his arms and legs and rolling around trying to right himself.
“Fuck off. You know those air tanks are heavy as shit, and it’s not my fault the mud was too slick for me to flip over. You could have helped sooner, you know.”
I grinned at the mental image of cocky Lee Sullivan stuck on his back, arms and legs moving in a desperate attempt to flip himself over. I watched and laughed for a good five minutes before hauling him up and out of that shallow puddle.
We drove through our small town, returning waves and smiles as we passed. Lee grinned and basked in the attention. In another town—another life—Lee and I might have been friends, but given who my father was and our family’s history, there was little chance that would ever happen.
Too drained to continue our typical banter, I stayed quiet as I drove the ambulance the rest of the way to the station.
In our small town, the men and women on my team were trained as both firefighters and EMTs, and there were perks to serving my hometown—free coffee and congratulatory handshakes, kind smiles while waiting in line at the grocery store—but it also meant the people who needed your help would be family, friends, or neighbors. Every call carried the weight of knowing you could be arriving on the worst day of their life for someone you loved.
Once the fire truck and ambulance were parked, the team got to work restocking supplies and cleaning up. Back at the station I spent time preparing lunch for the crew and willing myself not to think about the soft shudders of Emily’s breath as she came on my fingers or the pliant curve of her hips.
I dragged a hand down my face and sighed. Damn it.
The reality was she had consumed my thoughts for the past two months. Emily and I had danced and laughed and had what I thought was the most incredible accidental date of my life before she panicked and bolted out the door.
What the hell had I done wrong?
I went over every moment I could recall from the general store to the Grudge, to the hours tangled in my sheets, trying to find the exact moment I fucked it up. Despite my obsession with figuring it out, I couldn’t pinpoint what it was about me and our night together that had sent her running.
Not even her hurried exit or the high five kept me from attempting to track her down. Despite her insistence she wasn’t a librarian, I still made calls to nearby libraries and searched their websites, seeing if anyone named Emily was on staff. Of course, I had come up empty. I tried to ask around without raising too many questions, but in a tourist town, it proved impossible.
It wasn’t until I came face-to-face with her that a tiny spark of hope ignited. The woman had disappeared like an echo on the wind, but somehow she was back in Outtatowner and teaching junior high.
Not a librarian.
I should have known. The shock on her face made it clear she had recognized me, but my gut told me she wasn’t all that happy about it, so I didn’t press the issue. I probably should leave well enough alone, but her immediate about-face rejection gnawed at me. Normally I was the first to bail when things started getting serious, so it was a blow to the ego for her to beat me to it.
Afterward, I had sat on my bed and felt so . . . used.
“William.” Chief Martin’s voice shook me from my thoughts, and I tossed aside the kitchen towel. “My office. Now.”
“Yes, sir.”
I followed behind my chief toward the row of offices in the fire station. Lee lifted his chin in my direction, and I flipped him my middle finger, earning a grin from him.
When we entered, Chief Joseph Martin stood behind his desk. He was on the shorter side, stocky yet strong, with white strands lightening his auburn hair. Chief was the kind of dude who took care of himself, even working out during our shifts if he had the time. He was a man who demanded the best from his crew, but never asked someone to do a job he wasn’t willing to do himself. “Close the door, son.”
I turned, ignoring the hot poker that jabbed my ribs anytime he called me that.
“I debriefed with Captain Jones about the call at the junior high today. I was glad to hear everything went smoothly.”
I nodded. “Yes, sir.”
His assessing eyes rolled over me, and I straightened, unwilling to let him see me squirm under his gaze.
“Jones said you took the lead, stayed levelheaded. That’s not easy when children are involved, but that’s exactly the kind of leadership we need in a lieutenant.”
Quiet buzzing filled my head.
“Truth is, you’re not getting any younger,” Chief continued. “But you have a real future here . . . if you want it.”
My insides went tight. Did I want it? Moving up in the ranks would be so fucking satisfying, but every time I thought about it, visions of my father’s own social climbing tainted the very idea. Having a son as a lieutenant would be the exact type of thing Russell King would exploit to his advantage.
I sat up. “I hadn’t really considered it, sir.”
