Page 7 of Falling for the Bad Boy Firefighter (Fox Ridge: Fire Station #2)

The morning sunlight filters through the faded curtains of Penny's little boathouse, painting golden stripes across her.

I've been awake for nearly an hour, just watching her—the gentle rise and fall of her chest, the way her golden hair spills across the pillow, the slight curve of her lips even in sleep. Like she's dreaming of something good.

Maybe she's dreaming of me. The thought still feels foreign, impossible. Yet here we are.

I trace the freckles on her shoulder with my fingertip, connecting them like constellations.

She stirs slightly, murmuring something incoherent before settling deeper into the pillow.

I can't help the smile that tugs at my lips.

Penny Clark—town sweetheart, keeper of history, and apparently a heavy sleeper—is in my arms.

Last night replays in my mind, the memory of her soft skin under my hands, the way she trusted me completely, the sounds she made when she came apart.

But it's more than that. It's the way she looked at me afterward, like I was something precious instead of damaged goods. Like I was exactly where I belonged.

No one's ever looked at me like that before.

Carefully, I slide out of bed, tucking the blanket around Penny's curves. She mumbles something in protest but doesn't wake. I pull on my jeans and pad barefoot into the small living area, checking my phone to find it lit up with notifications.

Three missed calls and a text from Wyatt that simply reads: "Check the Fox Ridge Community page."

Something cold settles in my gut. In Fox Ridge, that's never good news.

I open Facebook and there it is—multiple posts on the town's community page.

Someone snapped a photo of my motorcycle parked next to Penny's car outside the boathouse last night.

The comments section is already overflowing with speculation, thinly veiled judgment, and a few downright nasty remarks about the town's favorite bad boy corrupting the historical society's golden girl.

"Jesus Christ," I mutter, running a hand through my hair.

"What is it?"

I turn to find Penny in the doorway, wrapped in a sheet, her hair tousled from sleep and my hands. She looks soft and warm and perfect—until her eyes land on my phone screen.

Her face pales slightly, but then something shifts in her expression. Not embarrassment or regret. Determination.

She crosses to me, taking the phone from my hands and scrolling through the comments.

"Well," she says with forced brightness, handing the phone back to me, "that didn't take long."

I set the phone face-down on the counter. "I'm sorry."

She tilts her head, studying me. "For what, exactly?"

"For this." I gesture toward the phone. "For dragging your name through the mud. For making you part of the Walker scandal machine."

Penny crosses the room to stand before me, her chin lifted in that stubborn way I'm coming to love. "You didn't drag me anywhere, Jackson Walker. I went willingly." A small smile plays at her lips. "Enthusiastically, even."

Despite everything, heat pools in my stomach at her words, at the memory of just how enthusiastic she was. I reach for her, pulling her against my chest, breathing in the scent of her hair.

"They're going to talk," I warn, my voice rough. "They're going to say I corrupted you, or that you're slumming it, or that it's just another example of a Walker causing trouble."

She leans back to look up at me, her eyes clear and certain. "Let them talk."

"It doesn't bother you? What they'll say?"

Her fingers trace the tattoo on my chest, following the lines of ink that disappear beneath my collarbone. "Do you know what I realized, going through those old records? History is just stories we tell each other. Some are true, some aren't. But they only have power if we believe them."

I shake my head, marveling at her. "How are you so damn optimistic all the time?"

"I'm not." Her smile falters slightly. "I'm terrified, actually. But not of what the town thinks." She takes a deep breath. "I'm afraid of what happens next with us."

Something squeezes in my chest. "What do you want to happen next?"

"That depends," she says softly. "Was this just one night for you? A good time with the buttoned-up curator who finally let her hair down?"

"Christ, no." The words come out more forcefully than I intended. I cup her face in my hands, needing her to understand. "Penny, you're not... this isn't..." I struggle for words, cursing my ineloquence. "I'm not good at this," I finally admit.

Her eyes never leave mine. "Try anyway."

I take a deep breath, searching for words that won't come out wrong.

"I've spent most of my life believing I wasn't meant for this.

For someone like you. For something real.

" My thumbs stroke her cheekbones, feeling the softness of her skin.

"The men in my family, we don't exactly have a great track record with relationships.

My father left. My grandfather drank himself into an early grave.

I figured it was better to just... not try. "

"And now?" Her voice is barely above a whisper.

"Now I can't imagine not trying. With you." I press my forehead to hers. "You make me want things I never thought I could have."

Penny's eyes shine with unshed tears, but she's smiling—that brilliant, sunlight smile that first caught me off guard in the Historical Society. "Like what?"

"Like mornings. And evenings. And all the moments in between.

" I swallow hard, forcing myself to continue.

"I want to argue with you about history and kiss you when you get that furrow between your eyebrows.

I want to make you come apart in my arms every night and watch you put yourself back together every morning. I want..."

I hesitate, the word lodging in my throat. It feels too big, too soon. But Penny's looking at me with such hope, such openness, that I force it out.

"I want everything. With you."

A single tear slips down her cheek, and I brush it away with my thumb. "Too much?" I ask, trying for a lightness I don't feel.

She shakes her head. "Perfect. You're perfect."

I can't help the short laugh that escapes me. "I'm really, really not."

"Perfect for me," she clarifies, rising on her tiptoes to press a soft kiss to my lips. "That's all that matters."

Something settles in my chest—a weight I didn't know I was carrying suddenly lifted. I pull her closer, the sheet between us doing little to hide the curves I spent hours worshipping last night.

"So what now, Ms. Clark?" I murmur against her hair. "The town's talking. Your family will be scandalized. My reputation is rubbing off on you as we speak."

She pulls back to look at me, and the mischief in her eyes makes my heart stutter. "Well, Mr. Walker, since my reputation is already in tatters, we might as well make it worth the scandal."

Her meaning is clear as the sheet slips lower, revealing the soft swell of her breasts. I groan, lifting her effortlessly against me. "You're a bad influence, Penelope Clark."

Her laugh is bright as she wraps her legs around my waist. "Says the town bad boy."

"Former town bad boy," I correct, carrying her back toward the bedroom. "I think I'm reforming."

"Don't reform too much," she whispers against my lips. "I quite like the parts of you that aren't entirely proper."

As I lay her back on the bed, watching the morning light play across her skin, I'm struck by the certainty that this—us—is the beginning of something neither of us expected but both of us needed.

Fox Ridge will talk. They always do. But for the first time in my life, I don't give a damn what they say. I've spent years trying to outrun my name, to prove I'm more than just another Walker disaster waiting to happen.

But Penny—bright, stubborn, beautiful Penny—doesn't need me to be anything other than exactly who I am.

And maybe that's the biggest revelation of all—that love isn't about becoming someone new. It's about finding the person who sees you, completely, and chooses you anyway.

As Penny pulls me down to her, her smile warm against my lips, I make a silent promise—to her, to myself, to whatever future we're building together:

I choose you too. Today. Tomorrow. Always.