Page 2 of Falling for the Bad Boy Firefighter (Fox Ridge: Fire Station #2)

The moment Walker disappears through the front door, I exhale a breath I didn't realize I was holding. My shoulders drop as tension seeps out of them like water from a cracked vase. I press my fingertips against my temples, trying to steady the strange flutter in my chest.

This was not how today was supposed to go.

When Firefighter Chief Mason called about sending someone to update our smoke detectors, I'd imagined one of the older firefighters—someone steady, unobtrusive, forgettable. Not Jackson Walker with his tattooed arms and knowing eyes that seemed to see right through my carefully constructed facade.

"Get it together, Penny," I mutter to myself, smoothing down my skirt with shaking hands.

The Historical Society feels different now, as if Jackson's presence has disturbed the careful equilibrium I've maintained for years.

I can still smell him—that intoxicating masculine cologne that followed him from room to room.

The scent clings to the places he touched, making it impossible to forget he was here.

I check my watch—nearly five. The Society is closed to visitors now, which means I have the building to myself. Perfect time to dive into work and forget all about Walker.

The archives beckon me with their promise of order and rationality. Down here, everything has its place. Every document is cataloged, every artifact labeled. No messy feelings or complicated family histories—just facts waiting to be preserved.

Or so I thought.

My fingers tremble slightly as I flip through the acid-free folders containing town records from the 1950s. I've been methodically working through this collection for weeks, digitizing the most important documents and creating a searchable database.

It's precise, meticulous work—the kind that usually calms my mind.

But tonight, the words blur before my eyes.

Instead, I see Jackson's face when he caught me staring at him on the ladder, that knowing smirk that both irritated and thrilled me.

I see the way his t-shirt rode up, revealing a strip of tanned skin and the edge of another tattoo disappearing beneath his jeans.

"Focus," I command myself, pulling out another folder.

That's when I find them—tucked between property records and town meeting minutes. A bundle of letters tied with faded blue ribbon, the paper yellowed with age. The handwriting on the top envelope catches my eye—elegant cursive that I recognize from other town documents.

Elizabeth Clark, my great-grandmother.

Curiosity piqued, I carefully untie the ribbon. These weren't in the catalog. Someone must have hidden them here deliberately, away from prying eyes.

The first letter makes my breath catch.

“My dearest Thomas,

What they're saying about you is unconscionable.

Father is beside himself with rage, but I know the truth.

I know it wasn't you who took those funds.

I saw Richard that night, slipping into the office after everyone had gone.

He's determined to ruin your family, to drive the Walkers from Fox Ridge forever…”

Thomas Walker. Jackson's great-grandfather.

My heart pounds as I read letter after letter, the truth unfolding before me like a map to buried treasure. The infamous embezzlement scandal that started the feud—the one that painted the Walkers as thieves and swindlers for generations—was a lie.

A deliberate setup by my own great-grandfather, Richard Clark.

The final piece falls into place when I find the ledger tucked between the letters, with Richard's distinctive handwriting detailing how he planted the evidence, how he turned the town against the Walkers with whispers and half-truths.

My stomach twists with a sickening lurch.

For seventy years, my family has perpetuated a lie. We've nursed a grudge built on false accusations and deliberate deception. And every Walker, including Jackson, has carried the weight of that injustice.

I sit back in my chair, letters spread before me like a confession. What do I do with this?

The truth could finally end the feud, could clear the Walker name once and for all. But it would also destroy my family's reputation, revealing generations of Clarks as liars and manipulators.

And then there's Jackson. Today, for the first time in years, I saw him as more than just "a Walker." I saw the man he's become—responsible, capable, with a quiet intensity that drew me in despite my best intentions.

What would happen if I showed him these letters? Would he see me as complicit in my family's deception?

I carefully return the letters to their folder, mind racing. I need time to process this, to figure out the right thing to do. The weight of seventy years of history presses down on my shoulders, making it hard to breathe.

Glancing at my watch again, I realize it's after seven. I've been down here for hours, lost in the past. The building is silent around me, the old walls settling with occasional creaks and sighs.

I gather my things, sliding the folder into my bag. These letters need to be somewhere safe until I decide what to do with them.

As I climb the stairs from the archives, a strange scent hits me—acrid, chemical, wrong.

Smoke .

My heart stutters as I reach the main floor. Through the tall windows at the front of the building, I can see an orange glow illuminating the twilight. The vintage clothing store next door is on fire, flames already licking up its wooden facade.

Panic floods my system. The Historical Society is barely twenty feet from the burning building. Most of our records aren't digitized yet—decades of history could be lost in minutes.

I grab the phone, punching in 911 with trembling fingers.

"Emergency services, there's a fire on Main Street," I say quickly. "The vintage store next to the Historical Society is burning."

"Fire units are already en route, ma'am," the dispatcher assures me. "Please evacuate the building immediately."

"I will," I promise, already heading toward the archives. "But there are irreplaceable records here. I need to secure them first."

Ignoring the dispatcher's protests, I hang up and rush back downstairs. The most vulnerable documents are here—original town charters, handwritten journals from the founders, irreplaceable photographs.

I grab the fireproof case we keep for emergencies, stuffing it with the most critical items, including the newly discovered letters.

By the time I make it back upstairs, the situation has deteriorated. Thick smoke is seeping in through the old windows, and the heat from next door is intense enough to feel through the walls.

The front door is no longer an option—flames have jumped to our shared porch.

I head for the back exit, case clutched to my chest, but smoke is pouring in from that direction too.

My lungs burn with each breath, and my eyes water so badly I can barely see. Disoriented, I stumble against a display case, sending artifacts clattering to the floor.

"Help!" I call out, but my voice is lost in the crackling of flames and the distant wail of sirens.

I sink to my knees, where the air is marginally clearer. Crawling toward what I hope is the side exit, I try to stay calm, to remember everything I've ever learned about fire safety. Stay low. Cover your mouth. Find an exit.

But the smoke is getting thicker, darker.

Each breath is a struggle now, my lungs fighting for oxygen that isn't there. The case slips from my grasp as my strength wanes. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision.

This can't be how it ends. Not with so much unfinished, so much unsaid.

Through the haze of smoke and encroaching darkness, I hear a crash. Glass shattering. Heavy boots on hardwood.

"Penelope!" A deep voice cuts through the roar of the fire. "Penelope, where the hell are you?"

Jackson .

I try to call out, but all that emerges is a weak cough.

My lungs feel scorched, each breath more painful than the last. Somehow, he finds me anyway, materializing through the smoke like an avenging angel.

His face is grim behind his firefighter's mask, jaw set in determination, his mouth set in that perpetual scowl that seems to be his default expression.

Without a word, he scoops me into his arms, cradling me against his chest like I weigh nothing at all. His body shields mine as he navigates through the blinding smoke, each step sure and purposeful despite the chaos around us.

"The case," I manage to gasp. "The records—"

"Forget the damn records," he growls, tightening his grip. "They're not worth your life."

The world spins dizzyingly as he carries me through what must be a broken window.

Cool night air rushes over my skin, sweet and clear after the choking smoke. Somewhere, sirens wail and voices shout, but all I can focus on is the steady beat of Jax's heart against my cheek.

When he finally sets me on my feet a safe distance from the building, his hands grip my shoulders tightly. He's removed his mask, and his face is streaked with soot, eyes blazing with an emotion I can't quite name.

"What the hell were you thinking?" he growls, the familiar crease between his eyebrows deepening into what I'm starting to think is a permanent furrow. But beneath the anger, there's raw concern that makes my heart stutter. "You could have died in there!"

I stare up at him, gulping in clean air, suddenly aware of how close we are. His fingers dig into my shoulders, not painfully, but possessively, as if he's afraid I might disappear if he lets go.

For a moment, we simply stand there, breathing together under the glow of the flames.

And then it hits me with the force of a tidal wave: Jackson Walker just risked his life to save mine.

The man whose family has been the enemy for generations just carried me through fire without hesitation. The boy I've been taught to distrust since childhood just became my knight in shining armor.