Page 3 of Curvy Girl and the Ex-Military Firefighter

I notice it the moment she opens her door, and it's still nagging at me as we walk to my truck. She's quieter than usual, her smile not quite reaching those beautiful blue eyes I fell for from the first moment I saw her.

I open the passenger door for her, catching a whiff of her vanilla perfume as she climbs in. My hand automatically reaches for hers once I'm in the driver's seat, but she's fidgeting with her purse, avoiding my gaze.

"You okay?" I ask, starting the engine.

"Just nervous about lunch." Her voice sounds strained. "You know how family can be."

I do know. After fifteen years in the military and now five as a firefighter, I've learned that family comes in many forms. But something tells me there's more to her anxiety than just introducing me to her relatives.

The drive to Sara's is silent, which is unusual for us. Usually, Emma can't stop talking, her hands moving animatedly as she tells me about her day or a story about her students.

It's one of the things I love about her—how she can light up a room just by being in it.

Love. Yeah, I'm in deep. Have been since Ashton introduced us at that Christmas Festival last month. One look at her laughing at something Autumn said, and I was done for. Didn't matter that I'd sworn off serious relationships after what happened in Afghanistan. Emma changed everything.

We pull into Sara's parking lot, and I catch her dabbing at her eyes in the reflection of her compact mirror.

"Emma—" I start, but she's already opening her door.

"I'm starving," she announces, a little too brightly. "Let's get inside before the morning rush."

I frown as I watch her practically race to the entrance. Something's definitely wrong. The woman who usually steals bites of my breakfast and playfully argues about sharing her bacon is practically power-walking away from me.

The bell above the door chimes as we enter, and Sara herself waves from behind the counter.

"Well, if it isn't one of my favorite couples! The usual?"

Emma's face goes pale. Actually pale. Like she might be sick.

"I'll have whatever she's having," I tell Sara, my eyes fixed on Emma. "And maybe some water."

What the hell is going on with my girl?

We slide into our usual booth, and Emma immediately grabs the menu, holding it like a shield between us. I've seen her handle her first graders with more composure than she's showing right now.

"Since when do you need a menu?" I reach across the table, gently lowering the laminated barrier. "You've ordered the same thing every Sunday for the past month."

She jumps when my fingers brush hers. Actually jumps.

"I thought I might try something different today." Her voice wobbles. "Maybe no coffee."

No coffee? Emma without her morning caffeine is like a fire truck without water – it just doesn't happen. I lean back, studying her face. The shadows under her eyes are new, and there's a slight tremor in her hands as she fiddles with her napkin.

"Spill it," I tell her.

Her eyes widen. "What?"

"Something's wrong. And don't tell me it's just family nerves." I've dealt with enough crises to know when someone's hiding something. "You're shaking. You look like you might throw up, and now you're turning down coffee?"

Sara appears with our water glasses, and Emma practically lunges for hers, taking long gulps like she's been lost in the desert.

"Ready to order?" Sara asks, pen poised.

"Just toast," Emma mumbles. "Plain toast."

What the actual hell?

"And your usual breakfast special?" Sara turns to me, but I can't take my eyes off Emma.

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