Page 118 of That Time I Kissed My Beachfront Boss

“GET HER OUT OF THE TRUCK!” I try shouting this, but my lungs feel like they’re full of flames, and I can barely breathe.

Can Olivia breathe?

Sheer terror fogs my brain, blurring my vision. A deep voice in my head screams at me to call Ford, but I don’t want to slow down to pull out my phone. Then again, Ford is Liv’s cousin and a firefighter. He’s trained for these kinds of emergencies. If this is as bad as it looked …

I lift my face to the skies.

Please don’t let this be as bad as it looked.

Still running at full speed, I shove a hand into my pocket, groping for my phone, but it’s back in the lobby. On the coffee station. I left it there when I filled Liv’s travel mug.

“NOOOOO!”

I round the corner, gasping for breath, charging on toward the noises of the accident. A car horn sounds. A man calls out, then a woman. But it’s not Liv. In the distance I hear a siren. Somebody called 911.

Help is on the way.

But still, I have to get to Liv. Now. I can’t trust anyone else to arrive in time, or to do whatever it takes to save her. Not like I would.

What if the truck she was in plowed right through the intersection, out onto the bridge, and into the lake? My blood runs cold, and I gulp down the gorge rising in my throat. But I refuse to double over or let the nausea slow me. If I pause, even for a moment, I’m afraid I’ll puke.

Keep going, Hudson.

Stay alive, Liv.

Stay alive.

Please, God, let her be alive.

I stumble in a spray of gravel, then recover enough to increase my speed again. Up ahead—just around the bend—are the crossroads. What will I find there? Pain splits my stomach, but I shoot forward ready to face whatever’s waiting for me. All I care about is Liv. And that’s when I see it, in the middle of the intersection: the mangled back end of a Chevy.

The one that isn’t Uncle Phil’s truck.

Two other cars block the intersection, caught up in what must have been a four-vehicle collision. Around them is a mosaic of crushed glass. Broken headlights. Scattered car parts. The drivers are out on the other side, arms up, waving.

So where is Liv?

Not in the lake, not in the lake, not in the lake …

Heart thrashing in the cage of my chest, I leap high in the middle of a long stride, like a hurdler in a relay. I catch only a quick glimpse beyond the crossroads, but it’s enough to see a second truck out on the bridge.

The howl of sirens coming from town grows louder. A firetruck and the paramedic’s ambulance are heading in our direction. I reach the other two cars and the Chevy, quickly scanning for damage and injuries. The back end of the truck is smashed. A man and a woman stand outside it, hugging each other. No one seems severely hurt. But what do I know?

I dodge the wreckage and there, finally, I see Phil Graham’s Chevy. Twenty yards out on the bridge, slammed into the barrier.

But where is Liv?

Pat Murphy’s over by the driver’s side of the truck. A torn-off bumper’s in the middle of the road. He sees me coming, and holds up his hands. “Slow down, son!”

“Is she?—”

“Don’t.” He uses his whole body to block me.

“But—”

“Hudson.” He throws one hand flat on my chest. The other’s got a fistful of my shirt. With a jerk of his head, he nods at the other side of the bridge. “Firetruck’s almost here, and you’re too worked up. You shouldn’t try moving them. It would only make things worse.”

Them. Right. Jacqueline’s in the truck too.

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