Page 4 of Curvy Girl and the Ex-Military Firefighter

"Yeah, sure." I wait until Sara leaves before leaning forward. "Talk to me, sweetheart. Whatever it is, we can handle it."

She makes a sound that's somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

"Can we?"

"Try me." I reach for her hand again, and this time she lets me take it. "I've run into burning buildings, survived three tours in Afghanistan, and once had to rescue a cat from the chief's hat. I think I can handle whatever's bothering you."

Her free hand drifts to her purse, and for a moment, I think she's actually going to tell me. But then Sara returns with Emma's toast, and the moment shatters like glass.

"We should eat," Emma says, pulling her hand away. "We don't want to be late for lunch with my family."

I watch her pick at her toast, my own appetite disappearing.

The silence stretches between us like a rubber band ready to snap. I shovel eggs into my mouth without tasting them, watching Emma reduce her toast to crumbs on her plate. Every few minutes, she glances at her purse like it might explode.

"You know," I try again, "my shift doesn't start until tomorrow morning. After lunch with your family, we could—"

"We should get going." She cuts me off, pushing her barely-touched plate away. "It's almost time, and Aunt Linda will have a fit if we're late."

I signal Sara for the check, noting how Emma's hands shake as she reaches for her wallet.

"I got this."

"Max—"

"Let me take care of you." The words come out more intensely than I intended.

Because that's all I want to do – take care of her, make her smile, figure out what's got her looking like she's facing a firing squad instead of a family lunch.

She stares at me for a long moment, and I swear I see tears in her eyes before she blinks them away.

The drive to her family's place looms ahead of us—ninety minutes of this strange tension. I drop a few bills on the table and stand, offering her my hand.

"Ready?"

She nods but doesn't take my hand. Instead, she clutches that damn purse to her chest like it's her only lifeline.

The walk back to my truck feels longer than any training march I ever did in the military. My mind races through every possibility, each worse than the last.

Maybe she's realized this whole fake dating thing is a mistake. Maybe she's met someone else. Maybe I pushed too hard, too fast.

Hell, I practically invited myself to this family lunch. When she mentioned needing a date to get her aunt off her back, I jumped at the chance before she could ask anyone else. Subtle as a five-alarm fire.

I open her door, but she doesn't even seem to notice, lost in whatever's eating at her. The purse stays clutched to her chest as she climbs in like she's protecting something precious or hiding something.

When I start the engine, I can't help but remember how different things were just yesterday. She laughed when I showed up at her classroom with lunch, how naturally her hand fit in mine, and how right it felt when she fell asleep against my shoulder during movie night.

But maybe that's just it. Maybe it felt right to me, but not to her.

"Emma," I start, pulling onto the highway. "If you want to call this off—"

"No!" She says it so sharply I nearly swerve into the next lane. "I mean, no. Please. I want you there."

I glance at her, trying to read her expression, but she's staring straight ahead, knuckles white around that purse.

"You sure? Because if this is moving too fast—"

"It's not that," she whispers, and for a second, I think she might actually tell me what's wrong. But then she just closes her eyes and leans back against the headrest. "I'm just tired."

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