Page 3 of Falling for the Bad Boy Firefighter (Fox Ridge: Fire Station #2)

The smell of smoke clings to me like guilt, a bitter reminder of last night that even a scalding shower couldn't wash away.

I roll my shoulders as I approach the firehouse, feeling the familiar tightness in my muscles—a tension that's part physical exhaustion, part something else I can't quite name.

Last night plays on repeat in my head: finding Penelope on the floor of the building, her form curled against the choking smoke; carrying her to safety; the way she looked at me afterward, like she was seeing me for the first time.

The memory of her weight in my arms stays with me, unexpectedly solid and real.

"Morning, hero," Wyatt calls as I walk through the bay doors. His tone is light, but his eyes are sharp, searching my face for... something. Reaction, maybe. Weakness.

I grunt in response, heading straight for the coffee pot. I've never been a morning person, and the whispers already circulating about last night have soured my mood to curdled milk.

"Nothing heroic about doing my job."

"Not what the chief says," Samuel chimes in, folding his newspaper with deliberate precision. "Says you went in without backup, against protocol."

I pour my coffee, keeping my back to them both. "Building was clear except for her. Simple extraction."

"Simple extraction," Dominic mimics, sliding into the conversation with a smirk. "That why you're checking your phone every five minutes? Making sure she's okay?"

Heat crawls up my neck, and I'm grateful my back is still turned. "Just waiting for an update on the damage assessment."

It's not entirely a lie. I have been checking for updates, though not the kind the department sends. I've caught myself wondering how she's doing, if she's alright after inhaling all that smoke.

But that's not something I'm about to admit to these guys.

I turn, leaning against the counter and taking a deliberate sip of coffee. The liquid scalds my tongue, but I don't flinch.

"You hear what they're saying downtown?" Samuel asks, voice dropping lower.

My jaw clenches involuntarily. Here we go.

"Don't care much what they're saying," I reply, but we both know that's bullshit.

Samuel's eyes flick toward the doorway, making sure we're alone. "Judy from the diner heard Tom Sanders say you might've had something to do with starting it."

The accusation hangs in the air, ugly and familiar. I've heard versions of it my whole life. Walker men cause trouble. Walker men destroy things. Walker men can't be trusted.

"Let them talk," I say, though the words taste like ash in my mouth. "Nothing new."

Wyatt's expression darkens. "It's bullshit, is what it is. Ten years on this job, risking your ass for these people, and they still—"

"Drop it," I cut him off. "Not worth the energy."

The bay doors swing open, and Chief Mason walks in, clipboard in hand as always. His weathered face gives nothing away as he nods in my direction.

"Walker," he says, voice gruff. "Good work last night."

Simple words, but coming from Mason, they're practically a parade in my honor. I nod back, something loosening slightly in my chest.

"Just doing the job, Chief."

The morning briefing begins, assignments handed out, equipment checks scheduled. I'm on truck maintenance today, which suits me fine. Simple, methodical work I can lose myself in.

No thinking required.

I'm halfway under Engine 3, checking for fluid leaks, when a collective hush falls over the station. The sudden silence is so complete I can hear the tick of the wall clock, the distant hum of the refrigerator in the break room.

Curious, I slide out from under the truck, wiping my hands on a rag as I stand. And freeze.

Penelope Clark stands in the doorway like she's wandered into the wrong building by mistake.

Her honey-blonde hair is pulled back in that perfect knot again, but there's something different about her today—a slight uncertainty in her posture, shadows under her eyes that makeup can't quite hide.

She's wearing another of her prim outfits, a soft blue dress with a cardigan that makes her look like she walked out of another decade. The dress hugs her generous curves, professional but unmistakably feminine in a way her carefully buttoned cardigans can't hide.

Our eyes lock across the room, and for a moment, everything else fades away. There's a connection there I can't explain—something raw and new that formed in the smoke and chaos of last night.

I'm suddenly, uncomfortably aware of the grease stains on my department t-shirt, the stubble I didn't bother to shave this morning.

Not that it matters what she thinks of me. It doesn't. It can't.

Clearing my throat, I break the silence. "Didn't know we were getting a visit from the Historical Society today."

My voice sounds rougher than I intended, the words coming out more like a challenge than the casual greeting I was aiming for. Penny takes a deliberate breath, her full chest rising with the effort, her shoulders squaring as if preparing for battle.

"I wanted to thank you," she says, loud enough for everyone to hear, though her eyes never leave mine.

That wasn't what I expected. Not from a Clark addressing a Walker in a room full of witnesses. I feel myself stiffen, suddenly wary of where this is going.

"You don't have to—" I begin, uncomfortable with gratitude I haven't earned.

"I do," she interrupts, lifting her chin in that stubborn way I'm starting to recognize, her round cheeks flushed with determination. "What you did last night... it was above and beyond."

The guys are watching us like we're some kind of daytime drama, and I can practically feel their curiosity radiating across the room. This isn't helping the rumors, not one bit.

I shift uncomfortably under the attention, my expression darkening. Being the center of attention in this town has never worked out well for me.

"Just doing my job," I say for the hundredth time today, but the words sound hollow even to my own ears. We both know going in alone for her wasn't protocol. We both know I broke the rules.

"Well," she says, a slight flush coloring her cheeks, "thank you, all the same."

An awkward silence follows, thick with unspoken words and the weight of decades of family history. I should say something—acknowledge her thanks and send her on her way.

That would be the smart move. The safe move.

Instead, I find myself asking, "How are you feeling? After the smoke inhalation?"

Something flickers in her eyes—surprise, maybe, that I'd ask. "I'm alright. The doctor said I was lucky." A small, hesitant smile touches her lips. "Thanks to you."

Wyatt coughs into his fist, the sound suspiciously like a laugh. I shoot him a warning glance before turning back to Penelope.

"That all you came here for?" I ask, knowing there must be more. People like her don't walk into firehouses full of men who've judged her family for generations just to say thank you.

She shifts slightly, fingers twisting the strap of her purse. "Actually," she says, voice dropping so that I have to step closer to hear her, "I need your help."

Now that's interesting. I fold my arms across my chest, studying her face. "That so?"

Penny glances around at the other firefighters, who aren't even pretending not to eavesdrop anymore. "Could we talk somewhere... private?"

The request raises eyebrows around the room. I can practically see the gossip forming in real time. But something in her expression—a vulnerability I haven't seen before—makes me nod.

"Chief," I call over my shoulder, "taking five."

Mason gives me a look that says this better not cause problems, but he nods his permission.

I lead Penelope outside to the small courtyard where we sometimes eat lunch when the weather's good. The morning sun is bright, illuminating the freckles across her nose I hadn't noticed before.

"What's this about?" I ask once we're alone, leaning against the brick wall and watching her carefully.

She takes a deep breath, as if steadying herself. "I need to go through some documents at the Historical Society. But after last night..." She falters, a flash of genuine fear crossing her face. "I don't feel comfortable doing it alone."

My bullshit detector pings immediately. This isn't just about feeling safe. There's something else here, something she's not saying.

"Pretty sure the police can give you an escort," I point out, testing her. "Or Liam from the library. He's always had a thing for you."

She shakes her head, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. "It has to be you."

The words hang between us, loaded with meaning I can't quite decipher. I should say no. I've got enough complications in my life without adding Penelope Clark and whatever game she's playing to the mix.

But I find myself asking, "When?"

"Tonight," she says quickly, as if afraid I'll change my mind. "After hours. Around eight?"

I raise an eyebrow. "After hours? At your place of work?" A smirk tugs at my lips despite myself. "Why, Ms. Clark, are you suggesting we break the rules?"

The blush deepens, but there's a flash of something else in her eyes—determination, maybe even a hint of mischief. "I have a key. It's not breaking in if you have a key."

"Still doesn't explain why it has to be me," I press, needing to hear her say it.

She hesitates, and for a moment I think she might tell me the truth. Instead, she says, "You know the building now. And after last night, I thought..." She trails off, then straightens her shoulders. "Please, Jax. It's important."

It's the first time she's addressed me like that. Not Walker, not Jackson, but Jax. The sound of it in her soft voice does something to my chest I don't want to examine too closely.

I run a hand over my face, irritation warring with curiosity. 'You Clarks sure know how to complicate a man's day, don't you?' I mutter. "Fine," I say, pushing off the wall and nodding once. "Eight o'clock. I'll be there."

Relief washes over her face, genuine and intense. "Thank you."

As she turns to leave, I catch her arm gently, surprising both of us with the contact. Her skin is warm under my fingers, soft in a way that makes me wonder how the rest of her would feel.

"One condition," I say, dropping my hand when I realize I've held on too long. "You tell me what this is really about."

Something flickers across her face—hesitation, conflict, maybe even fear. But she nods once, a silent promise.

"Tonight," she says softly. "I'll explain everything tonight."

I watch her walk away, her neat little cardigan and perfect posture at odds with the chaotic thoughts I can almost see swirling around her. Whatever secret Clark is keeping, I have a feeling it's about to change things between us in ways neither of us is prepared for.

And despite every instinct telling me to keep my distance, I find myself counting the hours until eight o'clock.