Page 23 of The One Who Risked it All

“Bold of you to assume I haven’t been carefully weighing my escape routes,” she teased, but the faint blush in her cheeks betrayed her. Probably the cold. Definitely the cold.

I leaned a little closer, letting my voice drop conspiratorially. “You don’t want to run. Admit it. Rakes are way more interesting than gentlemen.”

Her laugh was immediate and bright, breaking through the frost in the air. “I’ll give you interesting. But if you’re a rake, what does that make me? The lowly, unsuspecting governess who falls for your questionable charms?”

“Sounds about right.” I gave her a wink, but the wordlowlylodged itself somewhere uncomfortable. My father might see her as beneath us, but truthfully, she was far superior. “Except you’re way too smart for that.”

“Oh, absolutely.” She raised an eyebrow. “I’m not falling for anything.”

That made two of us. Not falling into anything.

“Which brings us back to square one,” I said with mock seriousness. “If not a rake or a boor or a cad, then what? A clown?”

That did it. She doubled over with laughter, clutching her sides. “Oh no. You can’t put that out there. You’re one-hundred-percent a clown.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I said, holding up my hands as if I’d just been accused of something truly heinous. “Clowns are terrifying. And not in the charming, dangerous way. More like the nightmare fuel way.”

She wiped at her eyes, still giggling. “What’s the difference?”

“Seriously?Seriously?” I leaned back, feigning shock. “Have you seen my shoes? Perfectly normal size. No squeaky noses here, Putters.”

“No, but you do have the jokes. And the inability to take anything seriously.” Her smile softened, and so did her voice. “You’re kind of clown-adjacent, whether you like it or not.”

“Adjacent, huh?” I muttered, rubbing the back of my neck. “I can work with that. Adjacent leaves room for improvement.”

“Oh? Is that what we’re doing here? Improving you?” Her lips quirked up, but there was a flicker of something warmer behind her teasing.

“Hey, you’re the one trying to pin a label on me,” I shot back, cocking an eyebrow. “Rake, clown, boor—it’s exhausting trying to live up to your expectations.”

“I never said they were high expectations.”

The words hit like a punchline, sharp and precise. But the look she gave me—half-challenging, half-inviting—kept me from retreating behind the wall I’d perfected.

I flashed her a grin that I didn’t quite feel. “That’s probably wise of you,” I said, a self-deprecating joke drawing an end to the exchange.

The moment passed, but her laughter lingered in the air, softer now, like an echo that refused to fade. I should’ve shrugged it off—the teasing, the labels, the way she didn’t quite let me take myself too seriously. That’s what I was good at, after all. Laugh it off, throw in a joke, deflect before anyone could get close enough to see the cracks. But Carla? She had a knack for getting past the jokes, for poking at the places I didn’t want to acknowledge, even to myself.

And blast it all, I cared. More than I should. Her opinion shouldn’t matter. It couldn’t matter. But when she looked at me, I felt this stupid, aching need to prove something. To be something more than the clown, the rake, the guy who didn’t take anything seriously. I hated how much I wanted her to see me differently—how much I wanted her to see me at all. It wasn’t just about the labels she tossed at me like darts; it was about the warmth behind her words, the flicker of understanding in her eyes when she wasn’t trying to make me laugh. That scared me more than any joke ever could. Because if she was right—if I was more than the masks I wore—what did that make me? And worse, what would she think if she ever saw the man underneath?

Our loop around the block completed, we arrived back at Nathan and Rebecca’s house a minute after the boys. A whirlwind of activity hit us as soon as we stepped through the door. The boys are bouncing off the walls, still hyped up from their scooter adventure.

“Alright, munchkins,” I announced, clapping my hands. “Who’s ready for the world’s most epic bedtime routine?”

Carla shot me an amused look.

I put on my best game show host voice. “Step right up, ladies and gentlemen, for the Wells-Putnam Bedtime Extravaganza!”

To my surprise, Carla jumped right in. “First event: The Lightning-Fast Tooth Brushing Challenge!”

We tag-teamed the boys through brushing, pajamas, and a quick bedtime story. It was chaotic, but there was a strange comfort in the mayhem. It felt natural, working with Carla, the five of us like some kind of... family.

Whoa. Pump the brakes, Wells.

After we finally got the boys settled, I collapsed dramatically onto the couch. “Wake me up when Rebecca and Nathan get home.” Never mind that it would still be six more days.

Carla chuckled, patting my leg. “Still think you’re hot stuff, Mr. Firefighter?”

Me, hot? No. Except where her hand was resting on my calf. That was scorching.

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