Page 4 of Saving His Sunshine

“Oh, you have a hot firefighter for a neighbor? Why didn’t I know this? We are so having the next sister brunch at your house.”

“Uh, what the fuck?” Razor rumbles in the background. “Other men don’t even exist to you, pretty baby.”

“Oh, busted,” I say, giggling.

“Mind your business, Razor Montgomery,” Adalynn sniffs to her husband. “Hot firefighters don’t count.”

“They totally count,” I mutter, happily taking Razor’s side. What? He’s a famous rockstar who treats her like a princess. Of course I’m taking his side.

“I gotta go,” Adalynn squeals as Razor rumbles something unintelligible to her. “Good luck with the fire dog! Love you. Bye!”

“Talk to you—” I shake my head, smiling as she hangs up on me before I even get to say bye. I do not want to know what they’re doing right now. It’s probably dirty.

I glance back down at Rivin. “So, what am I going to do with you, huh?”

His only response is to wag his tail lazily. He doesn’t even bother opening his eyes.

“Come on, buddy. We’ve got to get you home,” I say, patting my leg in an attempt to get him off my couch.

He doesn’t even twitch this time.

“Great,” I mutter. “Now I have a kitchen to clean and a giant furball to wrangle before I can finish my recipe. And said furball doesn’t want to be wrangled.”

I briefly consider leaving him here while I run next door to request assistance from his owner but quickly decide there’s no way I’m leaving him unattended in here. God only knows what chaos he’ll cause next, especially with Skeet in the house. I don’tknow if fire dogs like cats, but Skeet doesn’t like anyone or anything that isn’t me. Better not to risk it.

Instead, I grab my phone and text Dillon Armstrong, the sheriff. He’s sort of family. He’s married to Razor’s sister, and my younger sister, Charlie, is married to his wife’s boss’s twin. Small-town life is so much fun.

Me: Can you have someone at the fire department call me?

Dillon: … Why?

Instead of trying to explain, I snap a photo of Rivin and send it to him.

Dillon: JFC. Is that Rivin?

Me: Guilty as charged.

Dillon: Do I even want to know why he’s passed out on your couch?

Me: Nope.

Dillon: I’ll have someone call.

Me: Thanks! I owe you.

He doesn’t respond, which I assume means that he’s on the phone with the fire department, so I head back into the kitchen to start cleaning up. With paw prints through the spilled spices and my footprints in flour, it looks like a culinary crime scene.

I grab the broom to start sweeping. Not even two minutes later, my phone rings.

“Hello?” I answer.

“Dillon Armstrong told me to call you about a situation you have there,” a man says in a deep, rumbling voice.

“Hi, yes,” I say, trying to juggle the phone and sweep at the same time. “Um, a big black lab named Rivin just broke into my kitchen. I think he belongs to one of your firefighters?”

“Jesus Christ. He broke into your goddamn kitchen?”

“Yes. And he ate my kolaches.”

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