Page 34

CHAPTER 33

FUCK IT

CASS

T he day is crisp and cloudless, and in the air is the scent of fall, barbecue, and several dozen gorgeous firefighters.

Okay, maybe they aren’t all Pretty Young Things—at least half of them are in or nearing retirement age with more paunch than hair—but there are a shocking number of young, hot firefighters in our county, ladies and gentlemen alike. The crew from Carterville aren’t bad at all, and Franklinville showed up with a couple handfuls of beefcake. Riverville definitely did not come to play—I can see the veins in one of their guy’s biceps from thirty feet. But Roseville? We win the battle of the hotties every damn time.

I mean, maybe it’s the barbecue, but I’m pretty sure it’s a different kind of meat altogether that has every straight woman in a mile radius drooling.

One thing to note about Tennessee—nearly every town in our great state is some kind of ville . And don’t you ever say it like it’s spelled. Anything other than vul is unacceptable and labels you instantly as an outsider in Appalachia—which, by the way, is AppaLATCHa, not that other way you Yankees say it. Take Louisville for example: to an Appalachian, the pronunciation is a slurred together version of Loo-a-vul. I once heard a comedian say it sounded like he had a dick in his mouth.

Honestly, it’s a good rule of thumb, if you want to get it right.

Five neighboring towns in total sent their fire department to the muster today, and they’ve been competing for a few hours now. Mostly, Wilder has been busy doing demonstrations and things between events, so we walked around the market with the gang a bit and sampled some of the fare. Jessa inhaled a strawberry shortcake with such intensity, she damn near bit me when I tried to get some. Honestly, she’s a freak for the stuff. She tried to tell me a story once about her and Remy and some homemade whipped cream, but I cut her off and told her to eternally shut up on the matter. They even bought the abandoned strawberry patch in town, though they have yet to make anything of it, despite going there all the time. Who even knows what they’re doing.

On second thought, I’m a hundred percent certain I don’t want to know.

But everyone is here, the knot of us moving around the grounds together without breaking. Mama is with Remy’s mom Linda and crazy aunt Julie, and the way those three have been blushing and giggling during events has me certain they’re objectifying the young men on display. Wilder’s dad Buck is sidled up next to Paul in his beat up old baseball cap. The two of them stay deep in conversation about fishing for what seems like most of the day. Remy is here of course, even with today being his birthday, which he occasionally announces so he’ll get his way. I think the only bite Jessa gave up of her funnel cake was to his birthday pandering.

A bunch of our friends are with us too, including guys from the team. Even Greyson showed up, the grumpy bastard, his beard barely softening the razor sharpness of his square jaw. I wonder if he’ll have a funny tan line after walking around with his arms folded across his massive chest and remind myself to check later.

Molly is with us too, happy as a clam, watching all that muscle run around with an innocent joy that, as a couple of pervs, Jessa and I do not possess. Somehow, we dig deep and manage to keep it PG since Cricket is with us, bouncing around between her old grandparents, new grandparents and great aunts, and of course me.

And I have been a bundle of nerves since last night.

I barely slept, my mind spinning around and around like a wheel. First, trying to figure out how to tell Wilder how I feel while resisting the urge to call/text/get in my truck and drive to him. Because I wanted to wait until we were alone. Until we could talk, and, you know…other stuff. Honestly, I don’t know what will happen if we aren’t alone, but I would like to avoid public sex, if possible.

Partly, I’m scared to tell him, though I couldn’t tell you why. It’s not as if I don’t know how he feels. I don’t think he’ll reject me, but for some reason the thought plucks my heartstrings. Maybe I’m afraid of what it will mean for us—what will happen now. If for some reason I’ll fail him, or find I’m not ready, despite piles of evidence to the contrary.

It’s just that the last time I did this, I ended up abandoned and betrayed.

But Wilder? I know with certainty drawn from my marrow that he would never do that. I don’t think he could, even if for some reason he tried. It would betray everything he is.

The thought pushes the wheel around again, wondering when to tell him. Can I wait until tonight? When we’re home and alone after Remy’s birthday party at The Horseshoe?

It feels like an eternity, and I’ve already waited an eternity.

The words are going to eat me up from the inside before I get there, I swear.

On this endless day, we’ve watched the boys compete in a variety of events. They completed several races—first to the top of the ladder truck’s extended ladder, then rolling up an unfurled hose. There was a tug-of-war game over a massive puddle that had some of the guys looking like mud wrestlers. Another had them competing to see who could connect the hoses fastest, and is called—wait for it…the hose lay.

At the moment, all five teams are pretending to be asleep at one end of the field. At the other end are stalls set up with their bunker gear and a big tank of water. And back at the starting line are five small houses with gutters and a stack of buckets. The goal—get your gear on and set up a line to pass buckets of water from the tank to the house, toss the water onto the roof, and fill the container collecting the runoff before the other teams.

We’re currently tied with Carterville, which means this one is for the whole enchilada.

Anticipation is thick in the air as the commissioner raises his starter pistol. Counts down. Fires.

And we explode into a sea of noise as twenty-five firefighters sprint across the field to their gear. I don’t exactly know what about it that’s so alluring, but watching them race to put on their equipment is so hot, maybe hotter than them taking it off. My eyes are on Wilder as his muscular legs disappear into the boots, then his pants, which he’s pulled up by the suspenders at an alarming speed. One corded arm slides into his jacket as he swings it around his back and punches the other through. The only skin I can see is his thick neck as he looks down to secure his coat. Then it’s gone too, lost in the shadow of his helmet.

I can’t even see the shape of his body beneath all the Kevlar—I can barely even see his face, for God’s sake—and somehow he’s never been more fuckable. Maybe it’s that he’s dressed to literally run into a burning building. Maybe it’s that he’s so good at everything, an ace start to finish, and loves to prove that competence is perhaps the sluttiest thing a man can possess. Could be that he finished first and immediately jumped in to lead, taking charge without ego, just a desire to help.

Just like he always does.

He gives and gives of himself, wanting nothing more than to show the people he loves how much they mean to him. He puts everyone first, Cricket and I most of all. He would do anything for us, raze the earth, move the mountains.

There’s nothing in the world that could stop him.

As I watch him filling and passing buckets of water down the line, a feeling dawns on me slowly, spreading from the kernel of truth that lives in my heart. It’s a sudden rightness, a slow, aching certainty, a deep and overwhelming yes , sighing through me like a prayer.

I love him.

It’s not as if I didn’t know—Jessa and Shelby even said as much last night. I don’t think I understood what they meant, not really. I’ve never denied it, not once, but it was always I loved him, so of course I love him . It was I love him in my memory but not now . It was I’ll always love him .

But the truth is that right here and now, I am in love with Wilder. I always have been.

I always will be, come what may.

This was what they meant, what they saw that I couldn’t.

I fucking love him, and I’m exhausted from fighting it. Even now, I’ve been fighting the urge to tell him since last night. Why? Why do I keep making it harder than it has to be, throwing obstacle after obstacle between us?

Thoughts break away like shale as I scramble through them.

I don’t deserve him.

The knowledge shocks me, its honesty painful. Has it all been some penance I’ve demanded of myself? Payment for mistakes made with Davis? Have I always felt like what happened with him was my fault?

Yes, I realize. I should have known. I should have seen it. I should have wanted more for myself, respected myself enough to see what was happening. I let myself be caged and cut off. So now I don’t get to have nice things.

But the truth of that thought is dubious at best, despite its honesty.

I might not feel like I deserve him, but he loves me anyway.

And I trust him more than I trust myself.

All he’s done is everything I’ve asked, just like always. For the past two weeks, he’s left me alone. At first, I was smug, waiting to catch him slipping. When he didn’t, I slid into a permanent pout. And lately, I’ve lived for the moments we had to pretend and despised the all the time he spent giving me the space I asked for.

He gave me time to miss him. And now here I am, in love.

Fuck waiting. I’ve waited long enough.

And so has he.

The crowd is screaming—the cords of Wilder’s neck straining as he shouts encouragement down the line, passing buckets to Tate at an inhuman pace until their lead spreads. And when the final bucket sends water spilling over the edge of the barrel, the roar rises.

We’re jumping and cheering, and the guys are celebrating by slinging buckets of water onto each other and picking each other up and slapping each other’s backs. Carterville comes in second, then third registers. The rest halfheartedly finish the race, and Roseville files over to the other teams to shake their hands and congratulate them.

Before I know it, Wilder is rushing in our direction, his face alight with joy, smile flashing like the sun. He scoops up Cricket first, and I watch with a pang in my chest, not expecting him to turn that smile on me. His arm slides around my waist and pulls me into him, pressing his lips to mine in one swift motion, and I’m overwhelmed by the safety I find in his grip, the smoky scent of fire, the certainty of his kiss. Because he knows exactly what he wants—he always has.

Me.

I breathe him in like I’m drowning, fall into him, wind my arms around his neck and pull until our bodies are flush. Distantly, I sense him setting Cricket down so he can snake his arms around me. I claim him, marking him with the kiss, my heart panting with relief as the shackles fall. And he knows. When he puts me down, he tips me back to the sound of whooping and cheering.

My hand cups his jaw when our lips finally separate—he’s so close that he blots out the sun. Behind his eyes is victory and surprise and a dash of smugness that draws laughter straight from my heart.

“Did you change your mind?” he asks with a tilted smile, his voice smoky.

“How’d you guess, husband ?”

His laugh lights my heart up like a carnival game. “I’m gonna cash in on that the second I get you alone, wife .” With a brief kiss promising just that, he stands me up and returns me to our group.

“Sorry,” he says to them, absolutely not sorry at all. “Had to give my wife a proper hello.”

My skin is on fire and I know I’m red as a cherry, but I can’t help but laugh with the rest of them as he clasps hands with Remy and says goodbye before trotting back to his crew. I watch him, reeling as Cricket takes my hand.

Molly sighs at my elbow and shakes her head. “Damn. You’re a lucky girl, Cass.”

And I’ve never agreed with anything more in my whole entire life.