Page 75 of Faking It with the Firefighter

She wasgood.

The firefighter spread his arms. “We’re not seeing any evidence of that. Most likely it was the compost that caught fire. Happens all the time.”

I froze. Compost? Rex’s words rang in my head:When was the last time you turned the compost?

Rex’s gaze was like a laser beam to the side of my head. I stared straight ahead and painted a smile on my face. Nothing to see here. I didn’t just ruin his brother’s wedding. Nope. Not me. The town’s biggest screwup had not just screwed up again.

All the warm fuzzies I’d experienced after saving Blair suddenly seemed a lot less warm and a lot less fuzzy. It just felt like too big of a fall from grace for me to acknowledge.

Blair did this thing with her upper body so it was turned to the camera while her gaze stayed on the fireman. Donny kept filming, looking resigned. She flicked her hair and demanded, “A compost fire? Are you kidding me? How does that even happen?”

“Well, if there’s too much heat buildup due to several factors—” the firefighter started.

“Oh, never mind!” Blair yelled and covered her face with her hands. Well. Mostly covered it. I could still see one eye andthe line of her cheekbone. Donny changed the angle of the camera, and I peeked at the phone to see that he’d framed Blair’s hunched-over body with the charred remains of the arbor (and my fence, mind you) behind.

Their life seemed exhausting—and it wasmybackyard that’d caught fire. Donny shifted the phone so he could move into the frame, holding it out with his outstretched arm. He softly patted her back as she cried harder.

Blair wailed. “Why did this happen to me? To my wedding?” She motioned to Donny, and he ended the recording.

“Our wedding,” Donny corrected, shoving his phone back into his pocket.

Blair straightened and looked around the park, a calculating look in her eyes. “Not now, Donny. This isn’t about you,” she snapped, then marched toward one of the videographers standing far back from the carnage with his gear.

Rex and I shared a look with his little brother. The one whose wedding apparently wasn’t about him. But he shrugged it off and said, “She’s just upset.”

Blair had been making me crazy all week. You’d think I’d want nothing more than to see her perfect little day ruined. There was a part of me that felt like she deserved it, because I was petty and mean and she’d been a bad houseguest, but there was another part of me that felt bad.

Maybe if I’d turned the compost like I was supposed to, this wouldn’t have happened. Blair and Donny would be wed and off on their honeymoon, and I wouldn’t have to use part of my next commission check to rebuild my fence.

I realized I was a person who made mistakes—some biggerthan others—but I didn’t want to be Abigail Stone, professional screwup. I didn’t want to be the woman everyone expected to fail. I wanted to be better than that. More like Rex. A stand-up kind of person. The kind of person others could rely on.

When you were responsible for a catastrophe, there was only one thing to do.

Make it right.

“Where are we going to get married now?” Blair sobbed some more, this time facing the videographer, who had a camera set up in front of her.

I probably should’ve kept my mouth shut. But I was feeling a little freaked by the whole compost fire thing, and then I’d jumped into action and actually done something right, for once, and Rex had told me he was proud of me. Nobody was ever proud of me. They were tolerant, or annoyed, or resigned. But not proud.

Even when I was the top-selling realtor in town one year, my family had acted like it was some big joke that had happened despite my nature, not because of it. No one had congratulated me. When I kept the title for three years running—and was on track to remain on top for a fourth—I hadn’t even bothered mentioning it to them. What was the point, when no one seemed to think it was worth celebrating?

So although I could’ve let Blair clean up this disaster on her own, I was feeling generous and perhaps a smidge guilty. I turned to Donny and said, “Let me make a call.”

I stepped away from the Montgomerys and Montgomery-to-be and called my infamous client.

“Abigail, how’s my deal coming along?” Sinclair answeredmy call.

“No news there. I’m calling about something else.”

“Oh, and what’s that?” I could hear him smirk over the phone.

“You know how you were trying to butter me up with promises of untold riches before, including an open favor?”

“Is that what you took from our conversation?”

“Sinclair. Please.”

He laughed. “So what’s this call about?”

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