Page 4 of Nanny for the Firefighter

I keep driving down the road into town, my heart growing heavier with every foot of travel.

You shouldn’t be here, Bridget. This is too risky.

Still, I know that I didn’t have much choice. When your brother calls saying, “Mom is sick,” you go.

There’s not much in the way of traffic right now, so as I pass by Bear Creek Hill, I do the usual look-see for cars and then pass through.

There’s a new, or at least updated, gas station to my left, and as I pass by the Sinclair, I hear the roaring sound of a truck engine giving her hell.

Just when I’m going to look behind me toward the sound, the truck barrels out of the gas station exit and rams right into the back of my little car.

My tires screech as the force shoves me forward into the guard rail at my right. A tall, thin tree covered in new buds is a few feet past the rail, and for a moment, I feel relief that the town saw fit to put the metal protection in place.

That is, until the thing groans and splits open with the force behind my car and I crash into the thin trunk.

I slam forward, greeted with instant whiplash as my airbag goes off. Pain roars through my shoulders as the seat belt and bag do their job, keeping me from smashing into the steering wheel.

Then everything stops.

What the fuck just…umm…okay…

I have to tell myself to stop gripping the wheel, and when I do, I shut off the engine which is hissing. In my rearview mirror, I can see the truck that rear-ended me pushed up into the back of my car.

It didn’t make it past the trunk, thank God. Struggling, I reach down for my seat belt to undo it.

About a million years later, I manage to get the thing to release it’s grip on me and fumble with the door to get out of the useless car.

It’s definitely going to need a tow, but I feel okay. Hopefully, I can get out of this without having to call the cops.

You’re not going to press charges, so…

But as I stumble out onto the road, making sure I’m not about to be hit by another car, I see the driver of the truck looking down at my bumper with his cell pressed to his ear.

Dammit.

He sees me and walks over. It takes everything in me not to beg him to hang up.

“I’ve called the station. They’re sending someone out. Firetruck, too.”

My eyes flare wide. “What? Why?”

The other driver, who looks particularly inconvenienced for being the reason this all happened, points toward the front of my car.

I don’t see what he’s gesturing to at first, but then, when I bend down a bit, I can see the liquid dripping down steadily from under my engine.

“Umm, right. That’s probably not good.”

Grumpy Truck Asshole, as I will now be referring to him, chews on his cheek, pumping his eyebrows at me.

“You got insurance?”

My jaw falls open slightly. “You hit me. I should be asking you that.”

He scoffs, and then we both turn to look up the road toward the sound of sirens. I hate this day.

The police and firetruck arriving pause our conversation, and I try to stay clear of the firetruck as it angles toward the front of my destroyed car.

After a few seconds, the cop who arrives on the scene blocks off the road around our accident and walks over to us.

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