Page 5 of Falling for the Bad Boy Firefighter (Fox Ridge: Fire Station #2)

Light cuts across my face like a blade, dragging me from a sleep deeper than I've had in months.

I throw an arm over my eyes, blocking out the morning sun that filters through blinds I forgot to close last night.

My body feels different—looser somehow, the permanent knot of tension between my shoulders temporarily unraveled.

For one blissful moment, I hover in that space between sleeping and waking, where nothing matters except the warmth of my bed and the quiet of my apartment.

Then it hits me.

Penny Clark. The Historical Society. That kiss.

Shit.

I sit up, running a hand over my face, feeling the stubble that's crossed firmly into beard territory. The clock reads 5:47 AM—thirteen minutes before my alarm. Outside, Fox Ridge is just waking up, the early risers shuffling to their cars, the ambitious ones jogging past my window.

None of them know. Yet.

But they will.

In a town like this, news travels faster than a brushfire in August. By noon, everyone will have heard about Penny Clark—town darling, historical society curator, and keeper of all things proper and good—locked in an embrace with Fox Ridge's favorite screw-up in the archives of the Historical Society.

I should feel guilty. I should regret it. I should be figuring out how to minimize the damage to her reputation.

Instead, all I can think about is how her lips felt under mine, soft and yielding yet unexpectedly demanding. How her curves fit against me like they were made to be there. How she looked at me afterward, eyes bright with something that wasn't shame or regret, but possibility.

"Goddamnit," I mutter to the empty room, swinging my legs over the side of the bed.

My apartment is sparse but clean—no dirty laundry on the floor, no dishes in the sink.

The military-tight corners of my bed and the precision with which my books are arranged on the shelf would surprise people who think they know me.

They expect chaos from a Walker. What they don't understand is that when your name is synonymous with disorder, sometimes the only rebellion is control.

The shower is scalding, just how I like it. I stand under the spray longer than necessary, letting the water pound against muscles that remember the feel of Penny's hands gripping my shoulders, her fingers tangling in my hair.

Steam fills the bathroom, fogging the mirror and clouding my thoughts.

I know exactly how this plays out. The town will assume I corrupted her, that I somehow tricked their precious Penny into a moment of weakness.

They'll whisper when she walks down the street, cluck their tongues in that special Fox Ridge way that's both judgment and pity.

"Poor thing, got mixed up with that Walker boy. "

The thought makes my jaw clench so hard it aches.

Penny deserves better than that. Better than the scandal that's coming. Better than me.

And yet, the memory of her pressing up on her toes to meet my kiss, her small gasp when I backed her against the shelf, the way she whispered my name—none of it feels wrong. It feels like the most right thing I've done in years.

Turning off the water, I grab a towel and roughly dry myself, avoiding my own reflection in the now-clearing mirror. I don't need to see the conflict I can feel etched into every line of my face.

Outside, I bypass my bike, opting instead for the old truck I keep for bad weather. The rumble of the engine is comforting, familiar. I roll down the windows despite the morning chill, needing the clear air to blow away the fog in my head.

Fox Ridge in the early morning has a certain charm, I'll give it that. The sun catching on dew-covered lawns, the storefronts still dark and peaceful before the day's bustle begins.

I take the long way to the station, past the Historical Society without meaning to.

The building stands silent, yellow caution tape still fluttering around the damaged section.

Just last night, in the basement of that building, something shifted between Penny and me—something that can't be shoved back into whatever box it came from.

The firehouse is already humming with activity when I pull into the lot. I sit in my truck for a moment, steeling myself for what's coming.

"Morning, sunshine," Wyatt calls the second I step inside, his voice dripping with false sweetness. He's leaning against the lockers, arms crossed, a knowing smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Sleep well?"

I grunt in response, heading straight for my locker without making eye contact. The locker room feels suddenly crowded as Dominic appears, pretending to sort through his gear.

"Heard there was some excitement last night," he says, eyes gleaming with barely suppressed glee. "Something about our very own Jax Walker and Penny Clark having a private after-hours session."

I slam my locker shut harder than necessary. "Don't you two have actual work to do?"

"Hey, we're just looking out for you," Wyatt says, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Making sure you know what's coming."

"I give it an hour before it's on the town Facebook page," Dominic adds, grinning. "Mrs. Patel saw Officer Michaels leaving the Historical Society last night. Said he was smiling like the cat that got the canary."

I curse under my breath, grabbing my station t-shirt from my locker. The movement pulls at muscles still tight from carrying Penny out of the burning building two nights ago. It feels like a lifetime has passed since then.

"You all need better hobbies," I mutter, pushing past them toward the coffee maker, which sits like a beacon of salvation on the counter.

Samuel's already there, stirring what looks like his second cup of the day. Unlike the others, his expression isn't teasing—it's concerned, which is somehow worse.

"The town's already buzzing, Jax," he says quietly, his voice low enough that only I can hear. "Just... be careful."

I nod once, acknowledging his warning without responding to it. Samuel's been around long enough to know how Fox Ridge operates, how it builds people up just to enjoy tearing them down.

As the coffee machine groans to life, I stare at it like it might offer some solution to the mess I'm facing.

"I wasn't looking for this," I say finally, the admission surprising even me.

Samuel studies me over the rim of his mug. "Sometimes what we're looking for isn't what we need."

Before I can untangle that bit of fortune-cookie wisdom, Chief Mason strides in, clipboard in hand as always. His weathered face gives nothing away as he begins the morning briefing, assigning tasks and going over the day's schedule.

I'm on equipment inventory, which means hours of checking and double-checking gear in the relative solitude of the storage room.

Perfect .

Two hours later, I'm deep in the tedium of oxygen tank inspections when my phone vibrates in my pocket. I ignore it at first, focused on documenting pressure readings.

When it buzzes again ten seconds later, I pull it out with a scowl that evaporates the moment I see the name on the screen.

Penny Clark.

My thumb hovers over the notification, hesitating. Two text messages in a row means it's not casual. It means she's thought about last night too.

The first message is simple: "Can we meet? I need to see you."

The second, sent moments later: "Please."

That single word—please—hits me harder than it should. Penny Clark doesn't seem like the type to beg, to put herself out there. Yet here she is, reaching out to me when half the town is probably already warning her to stay away.

I stare at the phone, conflicted. The smart move would be to let this go now, before it gets worse. To spare her the fallout of being associated with me.

But I think of how she looked last night, standing in that archive with her chin raised, insisting that truth matters. How she said she was tired of being exactly what everyone expected her to be.

I get that. Christ, do I get that.

My fingers move before I can overthink it.

"When and where?"

Her response is immediate, as if she's been waiting with her phone in hand.

"After your shift? The old boathouse by the lake. 7 PM?"

The boathouse is secluded, away from prying eyes. Smart. I type back a single word.

"Done."

Pocketing my phone, I return to the oxygen tanks with renewed focus. The mundane task gives my hands something to do while my mind races ahead.

This thing with Penny, whatever it is, is a complication I didn't see coming. My life has been a careful balance of work and solitude, of proving myself through actions rather than words. I've avoided entanglements, especially with women the town considers "too good" for me.

And Penny Clark? She's Fox Ridge royalty.

Yet there's something about her that feels different. She sees me—not just the tattoos or the reputation or the Walker name, but me. The way she looked at those documents last night, determined to right a wrong that happened before either of us was born...

It matters. She matters.

"You look like you're trying to solve world hunger over there," Wyatt remarks, appearing at the door of the storage room. "It's just oxygen tanks, Walker. Not exactly rocket science."

I don't look up from my clipboard. "You need something, or are you just here to be a pain in my ass?"

He chuckles, leaning against the doorframe. "Little of both. Chief wants everyone in the conference room in five. Something about updated protocols for multi-story structures."

I nod, making a final notation on my checklist. When I finally look up, Wyatt is still there, watching me with an expression that's shifted from teasing to something more serious.

"You know it's gonna be rough, right?" he says quietly. "The town's going to have a field day with this."

"With what, exactly?" I challenge, even though we both know.

"You and Penny Clark. Fox Ridge's golden girl and the town's favorite bad boy." He shakes his head. "It's like you're writing their gossip columns for them."

I straighten to my full height, which puts me a good three inches above Wyatt. "You got something to say, Reynolds, just say it."

Wyatt holds up his hands. "Hey, I'm just the messenger. You want to make your life harder, that's your business."

"Thanks for the permission," I snap, brushing past him.

"For what it's worth," he calls after me, "I think she's good for you."

I pause, looking back over my shoulder. Wyatt's smirking again, but there's something genuine behind it.

"She got you to smile yesterday. Actual teeth and everything. Scared the hell out of me."

I flip him off, but there's no heat behind it. As I head toward the conference room, my phone buzzes again.

"Thank you. For saying yes."

Five simple words from Penny, but they loosen something in my chest. I've spent most of my life being told no—by the town, by opportunities that closed before I could reach them, by people who judged me before they knew me.

Saying yes to Penny feels like saying yes to something more—something I've been denying myself without even realizing it.

The conference room is already crowded when I arrive, firefighters jostling for seats around the long table.

Chief Mason stands at the front, deep in conversation with the fire marshal from the neighboring town.

I take a spot against the back wall, arms crossed, maintaining the aloof distance I've perfected over the years.

As Mason launches into his presentation about evacuation protocols, I find my mind drifting back to Penny.

To the way her face lit up when she talked about making things right.

To the softness of her curves against me.

To the determination in her eyes when she said she was tired of living in the box people built for her.

I've been living in my own box for so long, I've forgotten what it might feel like to step outside of it.

Maybe it's time I found out.

My phone vibrates one more time—a simple text from an unknown number:

"Saw your girlfriend sneaking out of the Historical Society last night. Wonder what everyone in town will think?"

I stare at the screen, a familiar anger rising like bile in my throat. This is exactly what I was afraid of—the town turning on Penny because of me.

But as I start to type a response—something threatening, something protective—I stop myself.

Penny Clark doesn't need my protection. She knew exactly what she was doing last night. She knew the risks of being seen with me, of getting close to me. And she did it anyway.

I delete the angry response and pocket my phone without answering. Let them talk. Let them try to fit us into the boxes they've built.

For once in my life, I'm done fighting it.