Page 4 of Falling for the Bad Boy Firefighter (Fox Ridge: Fire Station #2)

The clock on my watch ticks steadily toward eight as I wait on the steps of the Fox Ridge Historical Society, clutching my folder of documents tightly against my chest. The evening air carries the acrid smell of smoke that still lingers a few hours after the fire.

Yellow caution tape flutters in the breeze, cordoning off the right side of the building where the flames did the most damage.

Workers spent all day boarding up shattered windows and reinforcing the weakened structure.

The vintage clothing store next door is completely gone—nothing but charred beams and memories.

I run my fingers over the folder's edge, taking comfort in the solidity of the papers inside.

Pure luck saved these documents—stored in the basement archives while the upper floors suffered smoke damage and partial destruction.

The collection rooms on the second floor weren't as fortunate; we lost several displays of Civil War memorabilia and an entire cabinet of photographs from the town's founding.

"This is purely professional," I remind myself aloud, my voice sounding unnaturally bright even to my own ears as I pace the concrete walkway. "He deserves to know the truth about his family. That's all."

But even as the words leave my lips, I know they're only partially true.

There's something about Jax that draws me in—something beyond the tattoos and the bad-boy reputation.

I saw it in his eyes when he pulled me from the fire, a depth of feeling that contradicts everything I thought I knew about Jackson Walker.

The rumble of a motorcycle engine cuts through the quiet evening, and my heart does a ridiculous little skip. I smooth my hair, tucking a stray strand behind my ear, and stand a little straighter.

Professional. This is professional.

The bike pulls up in front of the building, engine cutting off with a final growl.

Jax swings his leg over the seat with ease, removing his helmet to reveal slightly tousled dark hair.

His leather jacket hangs open over a simple gray t-shirt that does nothing to hide the muscular chest beneath, and there's a day's worth of stubble shadowing his jaw.

"Breaking and entering, Penelope?" His voice is low, rough-edged, with a hint of amusement as he approaches. "Didn't think you had it in you."

I lift my chin, refusing to be intimidated. "It's not breaking and entering when you have a key, Mr. Walker."

His lips twitch. "Mr. Walker was my grandfather. And he was a mean old bastard."

"Well, I certainly wouldn't want to confuse the two of you," I say primly, but I can feel a smile tugging at my own lips. Something about his grouchiness is oddly endearing, like a thundercloud that grumbles but never quite storms.

His eyes scan the damaged building, narrowing at the blackened bricks and the shattered windows now covered with plywood. "Should we even be in there? Place looks one stiff breeze away from collapsing."

"The structural engineer cleared the basement level this morning," I explain, fishing the keys from my purse. "The archives are underground—they escaped the worst of it."

Jax grunts, unconvinced. "If the ceiling caves in on us, I'm blaming you."

"Such a ray of sunshine," I tease, surprising myself with the boldness. "The team reinforced everything. We're perfectly safe."

"That's what they always say right before disaster strikes," he mutters, but he follows me to the side entrance nevertheless, hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders hunched against the evening chill.

The door opens with a metallic groan, revealing a darkened stairwell. I flick on my flashlight—the power is still out in parts of the building—and lead the way down the narrow steps.

"Watch your head," I warn, ducking under a low beam. "The Archives were built in 1910 when people were apparently much shorter."

"Or they just wanted to make sure I'd hit my head a century later," Jax grumbles, but he ducks just in time, his broad frame barely clearing the obstacle.

The basement level looks almost eerily normal compared to the chaos upstairs—rows of metal shelving filled with acid-free boxes, climate-controlled cabinets housing the most delicate materials, and the heavy oak table where I've done most of my research over the years.

The only signs of the fire are the faint smell of smoke that's seeped through the building and a fine layer of dust from the damaged ceiling upstairs.

I flip on the emergency lights, illuminating the space with a soft glow. "The power's still working down here, thankfully. The preservation systems need consistent temperature and humidity."

Jax strolls into the room, his eyes scanning the documents I've already spread across the table. "So, what's so important that you had to drag me into a half-collapsed building after hours? Must be one hell of a smoke detector emergency."

The teasing in his tone makes my stomach flutter. I gesture to the chair opposite mine, grateful when he actually takes it. His large frame makes the antique chair look almost comically delicate.

"I found something," I say, pushing a folder toward him. "Something that changes everything we thought we knew about our families."

Jax's expression shifts, wariness replacing amusement. He doesn't open the folder immediately, just watches me with those dark, assessing eyes.

"That right?"

I nod, suddenly nervous. "It's about the feud. About why it started in the first place."

He leans back in the chair, arms crossed over his chest. The movement pulls his t-shirt tight across his shoulders, and I force my eyes back to his face.

"Sweetheart, I know why it started. Every kid in Fox Ridge gets that bedtime story. Your great-granddaddy accused mine of stealing land that rightfully belonged to the Clarks. Next thing you know, there's bad blood that lasts a century."

The casual "sweetheart" makes my cheeks warm, but I press on. "Except that's not what happened." I flip open the folder, revealing the faded documents inside. "These are the original land deeds from 1923. And letters between Elizabeth Clark and Thomas Walker."

Jax's eyebrow rises again, but he leans forward slightly—the first crack in his carefully maintained indifference.

"According to these records, there was never any theft.

The land was legally purchased by Thomas Walker from a third party.

The Clarks misunderstood the boundaries of their own property.

" I slide another document toward him—a yellowed letter in elegant script.

"And worse... my great-grandfather knew the truth.

He deliberately spread lies about your family to turn the town against them. "

Jax's jaw tightens as he skims the letter, a muscle working in his cheek. When he finally looks up, his eyes are darker than before, storms gathering on the horizon.

"So your family screwed over mine and got the whole town to play along. Tell me something I don't know, Penelope."

"Penny," I correct automatically, the words tumbling out. "Just... call me Penny. Everyone does."

Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, at this small offering of familiarity.

"Penny," he repeats, and the way my name sounds in his deep voice sends a shiver down my spine.

I clear my throat, trying to recapture my professional demeanor. "The point is, this evidence proves the Walkers were innocent. If we make this public, it could change how people see your family. It could change everything."

Jax snorts, running a hand through his hair in a gesture that seems more frustrated than casual. "You really think a century of judgment gets erased with a few old papers? That's not how this town works."

"It could be a start," I insist, leaning forward. "The truth matters, Jax."

He studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "You really believe that, don't you? That people change their minds when faced with facts?"

"I have to believe it," I say softly, meeting his gaze. "Otherwise, what's the point of any of this?" I gesture to the archives around us. "History isn't just about preserving the past—it's about learning from it, too."

A reluctant smile tugs at one corner of his mouth. "You're something else, you know that?"

I blink, taken aback by the almost-compliment. "What do you mean?"

"Most people in this town made up their minds about me years ago. They see the name, the tattoos, the reputation I earned when I was too young to know better." He gestures vaguely to himself. "A Walker is a Walker. End of story."

"That's not fair," I protest.

"Fair?" He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Sweetheart—Penny—life isn't fair. Especially not in a town with a memory longer than its main street."

His resignation bothers me more than it should. "So you're just going to accept it? Let them define you by your last name forever?"

"I'm a firefighter, aren't I?" he counters. "I save their houses, their pets, their kids. Hell, I pulled Mrs. Abernathy's cat out of a tree last month, and she still clutched her purse tighter when I walked past her on the street yesterday."

The unfairness of it makes my chest ache. "Then we prove them wrong. With this." I tap the folder emphatically. "We show them they've been wrong about the Walkers for generations."

Jax tilts his head, studying me with an intensity that makes my skin tingle. "Why do you care?"

The question catches me off guard. "Because it's the right thing to do."

"No." He shakes his head. "There's more to it than that. Why does Penny Clark, town sweetheart and keeper of Fox Ridge's precious history, suddenly care about clearing the Walker name?"

I feel my cheeks flush. "I'm not the town sweetheart."

"You kind of are," he says, a hint of that smirk returning. "Always volunteering, organizing the festivals, baking those little cakes for the senior center."

"They're scones," I correct automatically, then stop. "How do you know about that?"

Now it's his turn to look slightly caught out. "Small town," he mutters, looking away.

The thought that Jax has been noticing me, even from a distance, sends a strange thrill through me. I stand, needing to move, to dispel some of the energy building inside me.

"I care because I was raised to believe truth matters," I say, pacing between the shelves. "Because the same town that judges you judges me too—just differently. Perfect Penny Clark. Never a hair out of place. Never a rule broken. Never anything but exactly what everyone expects."

The words come faster now, years of frustration bubbling to the surface. "Do you know how exhausting that is? To be forever trapped in the box people have built for you?"

Jax stands too, his movement startling me into stillness. He's closer now, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "I know exactly how that feels."

We stand there, the air between us charged with understanding, with recognition. Two people trapped on opposite sides of the same coin.

"So help me fix it," I whisper. "Help me tell the truth."

Jax steps closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. "You really think it's that simple?"

"No," I admit. "But it's a start."

His eyes drop to my lips, just for a moment, but long enough to send my heart into overdrive. "You really are something else, Penny Clark."

The way he says my name—soft around the edges, despite the gruffness of his voice—makes something in my chest tighten.

"Is that good or bad?" I ask, aiming for lightness but hearing the breathlessness in my own voice.

Jax's hand comes up, surprisingly gentle as he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. The brush of his fingers against my skin sends electricity coursing through me.

"I haven't decided yet," he murmurs, his eyes never leaving mine. "You're... unexpected."

Coming from him, it feels like the highest compliment.

"Jax," I whisper, not sure what I'm asking for, only knowing that the space between us feels like too much.

"Tell me you don't want this," he says, his voice rough with restraint. "Tell me, and I'll walk away."

But I can't say it. Because it would be a lie, and I've had enough of those between our families.

Instead, I rise on my tiptoes, closing the distance between us. For a heartbeat, we're suspended in the moment—his breath warm on my face, his eyes searching mine.

Then his control snaps. His mouth crashes down on mine, hungry and demanding. His hands slide to my waist, gripping the soft curves with a possessiveness that makes me gasp against his lips.

I'm backed against the bookshelves before I realize we're moving, the solid wood a welcome support as my knees threaten to give way. Jax kisses like a man starved, like he's been waiting for this moment longer than he'll ever admit.

One of his hands slides up to cradle my face, surprisingly tender compared to the urgency of his lips. I let my hands explore the broad expanse of his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath cotton, before sliding up to tangle in his hair.

He groans when I tug gently, the sound vibrating through me, igniting fires I didn't know existed. His body presses against mine, his thigh slipping between my legs, and I feel myself melting into him, all thoughts of history and feuds evaporating like morning mist.

I've never been kissed like this—like I'm something precious and wild all at once, like I'm a revelation. His stubble rasps against my skin, the slight burn a delicious contrast to the softness of his lips.

Then, just as I feel myself surrendering completely to the moment, a sharp knock echoes through the building above us.

We break apart, breathless and disoriented. Jax's eyes are dark with desire, his chest rising and falling rapidly. My lips feel swollen, tingling from his kiss.

"Security check," a voice calls from upstairs. "Ms. Clark? Your car's still in the lot."

It's Officer Michaels, making his nightly rounds.

Jax chuckles, the sound low and intimate in the quiet room. "Guess history's watching us after all."

I can't help the small laugh that escapes me, even as I try to steady my racing heart. "I should probably let him know everything's fine."

Jax steps back, giving me space, though his eyes still burn with unspoken promises. "Is it, though?" he asks softly. "Fine?"

I smooth my hair, trying to collect myself, but I can't keep the smile from my face—bright and genuine in a way I rarely allow myself to be.

"No," I admit, meeting his gaze. "It's better than fine."

And for once, I don't care what anyone in Fox Ridge might think about that.