Page 1 of Burned By My Mate (Twisted Oak Pack: First Responders #3)

ONE

Emerson

I smile as I take a look around at my new house. A thrill of excitement rushes through me despite my exhaustion. I just moved in a few days ago, and I’m standing in the small living room, surrounded by half-unpacked boxes.

I survey the space with a sense of pride. It’s not much—a small, single-story home on the outskirts of Twisted Oak—but it’s mine.

Finally.

It was scary to spend all of my money on this place, but I knew that it was the right move. I’ve always believed that if you ask the universe for a sign, it will lead you in the right direction. I asked what I should do, and a few days later, a listing for this house popped up, and I fell in love with it.

It’s remote, so I’ll have some privacy to work, plus I had just enough money to buy it. I like what I’ve seen of Twisted Oak, too, and I can really see myself being happy here.

Rolling out my shoulders, I exhale slowly. This move was supposed to be a

fresh start, a way to rebuild my life after years of feeling stuck. I spent every last cent I had to buy this place outright, hoping to put down roots in this sleepy, small town.

I’ve only been here a few days, and so far, Twisted Oak is exactly what I expected—a quiet, friendly little town where everyone knows each other. When I stopped byBaker’s Marketyesterday, an older woman at the checkout, Mrs. Dorsey, told me she used to babysit the previous owner of my house. She gave me a warm smile and a plate of cookies with a warning to stay away from the Red Fog territory. I thanked her, not quite sure what she meant by that. I don’t know much about the area yet, but I’m hoping that will change soon. Who knows, maybe one day it will be me welcoming newcomers to town and offering them advice.

I smile at the thought, but for now, my focus is on getting my home in order. The house needs work, but that’s part of the charm. I’ve already scrubbed the walls, ripped out some old carpet, and started painting the bedroom a soft, creamy white. It’s been a long few days, and my stomach growls, reminding me that I skipped lunch.

I glance at the clock on my phone—just past six in the evening. If I hurry, I can grab some groceries and maybe even treat myself to a real dinner instead of peanut butter on toast.

Grabbing my purse, I step out of the house and stretch, rolling my shoulders to ease the ache from a day of heavy lifting and scrubbing. The late-summer air is warm, carrying the scent of pine from the woods behind my house. I should be more tired, but I feel strangely energized, like I’m on the cusp of something new, something good.

With one last glance at my little house, I head for my car, climb inside, and head toward town.

Twisted Oakis charming in a way that feels almost nostalgic. The downtown area is lined with brick buildings, mom-and-pop shops, and string lights that twinkle even though the sun is still setting. A small diner,Ruby’s , sits on the corner, and I make a mental note to eat there one day when I have the funds.

For now, I head straight tothe Twisted Oak Market.Inside, the air is cool, the scent of fresh bread and coffee filling the space. I grab a cart and make my way through the aisles, tossing in essentials—bread, eggs, cheese, coffee. My budget is tight, but I allow myself a small indulgence: a pint of vanilla bean ice cream.

At checkout, Mrs. Dorsey is working again. She smiles when she sees me.

“How’s the house treating you, dear?”

I return her smile. “It’s coming along. Still needs a lot of work, but I love it.”

“That’s good to hear. If you ever need anything, just holler. Twisted Oak takes care of its own.”

I nod, warmed by her kindness. “Thank you.”

After paying, I carry my bags back to the car and slide into the driver’s seat, already dreaming of a hot shower and a quiet night in. The drive back is peaceful, the road winding through stretches of dense trees. I hum along to the radio, feeling lighter than I have in a long time.

See? This place is already so good for me, I think with a smile as I take the last turn.

But the moment I turn onto my street, I slam on my brakes, and my heart stops.

My house is on fire.

Flames lick at the roof, smoke billowing into the darkening sky. For a second, I can’t move. Can’t breathe. My home— my fresh start —is going up in flames right in front of me.

I want to cry, to scream. Panic is clawing at me, and I’m not sure what to do.

Then my body jolts into action. I slam the car into park and throw open the door. The heat is instant, pressing against my skin like a smothering blanket. The fire spreads quickly, swallowing everything I own.

A sharp pang of grief hits me, but then another thought shoves its way forward?—

Grandma’s recipe book.

It’s the only thing I have left of her, a battered old notebook filled with handwritten recipes and little notes in the margins. If I lose that… I shake my head.

I can’t.

Ignoring every rational thought, I run toward the house.

I don’t make it far. A strong hand grips my arm, yanking me back. I stumble, gasping, as a deep, furious voice cuts through the chaos.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

I twist, coming face-to-face with a towering firefighter. He’s wearing heavy gear, his dark brown hair damp with sweat, blue eyes glaring at me.

How did I not notice the fire trucks headed this way? How did I not see him coming?

I guess I was too focused on the fact that I’m literally watching everything I own go up in smoke.

“Let me go!” I struggle against his grip, but he doesn’t budge. “I have to get something!”

“Are you insane? ” His voice is rough, edged with something that sounds like barely-contained rage. “Running into a burning house? Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

“I just—” My throat tightens, and I shake my head. “It’s important.”

He doesn’t soften. If anything, his grip tightens.

“Nothing in there is worth your life.”

Frustration and heartbreak crash over me in equal measure. “You don’t understand!”

“I understand plenty,” he snaps. “You think you’re the first person to try something this stupid?”

My hands clench into fists. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

“The guy keeping you alive.” His gaze hardens, and then his nostrils flare slightly. His whole body stiffens, his expression unreadable. He looks… conflicted.

The other firefighters are running around, getting hoses ready, and aiming the water at the flames. I watch, hope building in me that they’ll be able to save this place and at least some of my things.

The recipe book.

A loud crash pulls my attention back to the house. Flames explode through the front window, sending shards of glass flying. My stomach drops. It’s gone. Everything’s gone.

Tears burn my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. Not here. Not in front of him.

I stand there, with the firefighter still keeping his grip on me as the other firefighters work to put the fire out. My eyes and throat sting, and I’m not sure if it’s from the smoke or from holding back my tears.

The firefighter’s radio crackles, and a voice comes through. “The fire’s under control, Chief. No sign of gas leaks. You need to see it, though. Looks like arson.”

His gaze snaps back to me. “You set this fire? You put my men at risk?”

I reel back. “What? No! Why would I do that?”

His jaw tightens. “People do desperate things for insurance money.”

Anger surges through me. “I just bought this house! I put every dime I had into it! Why would I burn it down?”

For a moment, he just stares at me. Then something shifts in his eyes, as if he’s reassessing.

Before he can say anything, another firefighter approaches. “Chief, we found footprints out back. Too big to be hers.”

A muscle in his jaw ticks. He exhales sharply, then turns back to me.

“Stay put,” he growls, and I glare at him.

He turns and stomps off, following the other man to where I’m guessing he found the footprints.

I watch him go, determined to stay far, far away from the rude man.

Then I turn back to the burnt remains of my house and sigh.

What am I going to do now?