Page 26 of Off-Limits Daddy
He turned his gaze to Trent. “What about you?”
“Nah, not with your luck. I’m not ready to lose my dignityandmy paycheck.”
“You don’t have any dignity.”
“Fair,” Trent said, grinning.
I dragged a hand over my jaw, feeling the rough stubble scrape under my palm. I wondered what Ari would think if he saw me now—bone-tired, a little rough around the edges, pretending like I didn’t want things I had no business wanting.
The overhead speaker crackled to life, static loud in the heat.
“Dispatch to Station Three—small brush fire reported off County Road Seven, near the old mill. Caller says it’s contained, but visible flames.”
“Copy that,” I said, standing fast, rolling my shoulders like I could shake off the memory of Ari’s smile. “We’re on it.”
We all moved at once. Trent killed the music with a flick of his fingers. Boone slid the cards into their box and set them aside, movements clean, practiced.
I crossed the bay, boots solid against the floor. The engine rumbled to life, low and steady, a familiar growl underfoot. Doors slammed. Gears shifted. Nobody spoke—we didn’t need to.
That twist in my gut was still there, tight and insistent, but I shoved it down where it belonged. Right now, there was only the job.”
Within seconds, we were rolling again, tires crunching over dry gravel, siren off, lights only, because no one needed a spectacle for a fire the size of a backyard barbecue.
Turned out it was exactly that—some teenagers playing bonfire king behind the mill ruins, one of them panicking when the edge of the flames licked dry grass.
By the time we got it out, we were more smoke-stained than heroic. Trent ribbed the tallest kid about needing to learn how to build a proper fire or find new friends. Boone confiscated the lighter. I kept my mouth shut.
Didn’t feel like lecturing anyone. I remembered what it felt like to be young and restless, hands full of things that could burn if you didn’t know better.
Back at the station, the mood lightened. Trent managed to find a bag of tortilla chips in one of the cabinets, declaring himself chef of the evening. Boone dragged a speaker out andpaired it with his phone, queuing up a playlist that drifted between outlaw country and old-school R&B.
It was good noise, comfortable, filling the cracks where thinking too hard might’ve settled.
Several hours passed.
And then?—
Another call.
TEN
REID
The shrill, clipped alert tone from dispatch cut straight through the music, slicing every note in half midair.
Trent snatched the radio before I could. “Station Three, go ahead.”
Static crackled, followed by the dispatcher’s voice—brisk, no-nonsense. “Possible water emergency at Fox Hollow Lake. Caller says someone went under and hasn’t come back up. No lifeguard on duty. Annual Wet ’n’ Wild crowd. EMS is en route. Fire assist requested.”
Something sharp twisted in my gut—not fear. Not yet. Just that cold snap of instinct that said this could go sideways fast.
We all moved at once. Boone killed the music.
Trent lobbed the chips back into the cabinet. “Every damn year,” he muttered. “That lake party gets someone in trouble.”
I crossed the bay in three strides. My boots hit the metal step hard as I climbed in. The familiar scent of motor oil and worn leather met me before I even reached for my seatbelt.
The engine rumbled to life beneath me just as I dropped into the seat.
