Page 15 of Nanny for the Firefighter

I couldn’t tell them why I hadn’t come back, why I ran, or why I’m still running. Because then…they’d know.

They’d know that I’m a failure and a coward. They’d know that I’m not safe and that my being here put them at risk.

Jai still has friends and family who live here or visit regularly. Red Lodge is the last place I should be.

But Mom is sick. So I came.

Still, I can’t stop my mind from churning as I take my bag to my old room. The place has been redecorated a bit, but the pictures and trophies from teenage years still litter the walls and shelves.

My legs and ass ache from the drive as I hoist the suitcase up onto the bed, and it occurs to me that the car accident may have done a bit more damage than I realized.

Whiplash, thy name is Bridget.

I kick off my shoes and leave them at the foot of my old bed, padding around in my socks as I unpack the few things I’ll need for the evening.

Tension prickles down my spine, however, and I hear that nagging voice in the back of my head.

This is stupid. Someone could tell Jai that you’re here. He could come looking for you. Hurt your mom. Hurt Hudson.

My pulse ticks up, and I sit on the edge of the bed, trying to regulate my breathing.

“I always promised to come back one day.” I sigh, my eyes stinging. “But this is not what I expected.”

Jai told you. He said if you ever ran, he wouldn’t stop until he found you. You know he’s out there. Hunting you down until he can?—

“Bridget, come on out for a glass of tea and talk with your mother!”

She calls out from down the hall, interrupting my spiraling thoughts. I can’t stay cooped up in the room forever, so with a sigh, I stand up and go to meet her in the kitchen.

Walking into the kitchen, I remember why this was always the center of the house.

Something smells good—wafting through the air from a pot on the stove—and the light from the long wall of windows beams inside.

The house isn’t new by any stretch of the imagination, but I love the place. It’s so stuffed full of happy memories that my heart aches all the harder to be back inside it.

The ceiling and walls are made from long wood panels, white-washed in a warm white.

The mismatched light fixtures still hang from the ceiling all down the center of the narrow length of the kitchen, one wall holding the back door and a few shelves while the other houses the sink, wood-topped counter, stove, and another bit of floating counter at the very end.

My steps creak on the uneven floorboards, purposefully chosen for their knotted imperfect appearance, and I see my mother sitting at the small round table that’s placed in the open space just a few feet away from the stove on the opposite side.

“Hey.”

Mom looks up at me, an easy grin smoothing over her features.

“Hey there, honey. Have a seat. I made some iced tea yesterday. I’ll get you a glass.”

Shaking my head, I try to keep her from getting up. “Mom, you don’t have to do that. I’ll get it.”

“Nonsense. This is my house and my kitchen. I’ll be running it until I’m six feet under.”

“Mother!” Hudson calls out as he joins me at the table.

“Oh, relax.” Mom rolls her eyes, getting the iced tea from the stout old fridge on the other side of the backdoor. “Just a bit of gallows humor.”

I know there’s no fighting her on it, so I just sigh as she reaches inside for a large glass pitcher and hauls it to the counter behind her.

Narrow kitchens aren’t usually a blessing, but right now, I’m glad that she doesn’t have to lug the thing far.

---