Page 82 of His Secret Obsession

I had the feeling this day was coming.

“It’s mine.” My tone is clipped.

She frowns. “My cousin says she went to the Cedarwood Winter Festival, and you had a booth set up with…stuff like this.” Her hand gestures towards the clock.

“Yup.”

She gives me a pointed stare. “You realize this is considered a conflict of interest? How can I have a local competitor working at my store?” She wrinkles her nose, but all I hear is the wordcompetitor.

My lips stretch into a slow grin. “You think I’m a competitor?”

“Heavens, no, that is not—” She rolls her eyes. “It doesn’t matter. If you want to remain employed here, you’ll have to stop your little hobby.”

Despite the ultimatum, a thrill shoots through me. I have never been more sure of anything in my life before and, part of that, is thanks to Jax. He gave me the boost of confidence I needed to get to this point, even if the talent is all mine.

“That’s the thing. I don’t actually want to remain employed here.”

“Excuse me?” Irene sets the clock down on her desk with an audible thump, her beady eyes scrutinizing me.

“In just a few weeks, mylittle hobbyhas made me more money than this miserable job ever has,” I say, giving her a grim smile as I stand. “I would say that I appreciate the opportunity, but I really don’t. Have a nice life, Irene Johnson.”

Irene’s appalled gasp rings out across the room as I stroll through the door. “Why, you ungrateful little—”

Tuning out the rest of her hateful words, I give her a one-fingered wave goodbye and storm out of Zamora’s Home Décor for the last time.

As my car flies down the highway, mountaintops looming in the distance, I think about the possibilities. I already know what I want to do next, although thinking about a future without Jax in it still feels bleak and depressing. But before I can start making plans, there’s one more thing I need to take care of first.

It’s something I’ve been thinking about since Mary’s visit, a task that’s long overdue.

Pulling into the empty parking spot at the Cedarwood Valley Fire Station, I sigh in relief when I don’t spot Jax’s truck. He isn’t normally scheduled to work on Thursdays. But the mere idea of running into him has had my palms slick with sweat. Although part of me yearns to see him again, I’m also afraid I’ll just break down and sob about how much I miss him. Shutting my car off, I stroll through the front door before I can second-guess this.

As I step into a small, brick-walled lobby, I approach a red and black painted desk. On the wall above it is a row of framed photos. The cursive words painted above the pictures flow together effortlessly and sayIn memory of those who have served.My eyes roam over the elegant photos, each person in a fireman’s uniform and holding a helmet. And under each picture is a date. My heart stumbles at an eerily-familiar, older looking version of Jax. He has the same pensive expression, the same emerald eyes and black hair. There are streaks of silver in his hair and some wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, but there’s no mistaking the resemblance.

“George Parker,” I whisper as I read the name aloud.

The seat behind the desk is currently empty, but an older man appears from around the corner. His brown hair, peppered with gray, looks vaguely familiar as well. His face lights up with recognition, wrinkles crinkling next to the corners of his eyes when he smiles.

“Miss Raddix!” His voice, although loud and booming within the small space, is friendly. “If you’re looking for Jax, I’m afraid he isn’t working today.” At first, I’m surprised he knows my name, but then I realize he was one of the men with Jax the night he evacuated the restaurant.

Ah, the captain. I wonder what the men here know about our relationship. Do they know anything at all or just have some vague assumptions?

The car keys still dangling from my fingers clink together as I absentmindedly fiddle with them. “Hi again. Um, actually, I was wondering if I could see a report from an accident. Uh…my accident.” The mixture of serious assessment and intrigue on his face makes me gulp as I shift on my feet. “It would have been about five years ago. I mean, is that allowed? I would like to know who worked the scene. I never got his name.” My shoulders relax when his expression softens.

“Of course.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Sometimes, it takes several first responders to clear a scene, but I can give you the name of all the firemen who responded to the call. And maybe one of them will ring a bell?”

Right. Shit. My stomach twists. How will I know which one was my savior?

“Well, actually, that’s the thing. I was pulled out of a car accident that killed my parents. And I know five years is a long time to procrastinate...” I bite my lip before looking down at the floor. “I guess I would like to know the name of the person who pulled me out.”

I don’t know why I need to know, but I do. For some inexplicable reason that I can’t seem to put into words, I need to know the name of the kind-hearted man who made me feel safe on the worst day of my life. I never got to put a name to that low, soothing timbre that told me I was going to make it. The rough, calloused hand that held mine.

“No worries. The request is more common than you think.”

I give the captain a grateful smile, watching with interest as he turns on a computer and begins clicking buttons. I give him some basic information so he can do a search for the report: my name, date of birth, and the date of the accident.

“Ah, here it is,” he mutters. My gaze follows his movements as he scans over the electronic report, my body going tense when he stiffens. He frowns before glancing at me, then back at thecomputer. His eyes bore into the screen like he’s trying to solve a mystery, and I get an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“I—uh, I’ll print this out and be right back,” he mumbles, his eyes refusing to meet mine. He clicks a button before standing and turning his back to me as he walks towards a printer. While it’s shooting out pages, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a dingy-looking cell phone. He glances furtively at me before typing something out, pocketing his cell phone, and gathering the papers in his hands.

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