Page 1 of Wrong Number, Right Firefighter
1
CAMILLE
Margaritas were yummy. The yummiest thing I’d ever tasted. But then, everything tasted and felt a little better than usual right now. Okay, alotbetter.
I sighed as I looked out the gigantic picture window in the rental cabin I’d found online—the only one in the whole town. How was that possible?
I knew how it was possible. I’d driven through town a few hours ago. I noticed very little, aside from a diner, an inn, and a town square that was basically a strip of old-timey buildings with an insurance office, an antique store, and a bank. I’d stopped at the small market to get some bread, eggs, and coffee for tomorrow morning.
Food. I needed food. I didn’t buy anything for dinner at the market. I’d just assumed I’d have something delivered when I got hungry. Every town had food delivery. If nothing else, I could get a pizza.
Pizza. Yes, that sounded perfect. But when I tried to push myself to my feet, I immediately plopped back down again.
Oh, no. What had I done?
This was my first sip of alcohol in my life—not counting the gulp or two I’d snuck at my cousin’s wedding reception a few years ago. My parents complained about the champagne all the way home, not realizing their daughter had a little of it in her system. But this was well beyond that.
I set the almost-empty margarita glass on the coffee table and took a deep breath, closing my eyes. Sobering up just took time. There was a chart somewhere online that said how long before I could get behind the wheel. But I didn’t need to get behind the wheel. I just needed to get to the kitchen.
So I took a deep breath, opened my eyes, and did my best job of pretending I was sober. I had to grab onto the wall a couple of times, but I eventually made it. And once I was there, I vowed to never take a sip of alcohol again.
I did not like this feeling of not being in control. I was always, always in control.
A loud clap of thunder almost knocked me off my feet. It wouldn’t take much right now. But luckily, I was holding on to the counter as I thumbed through the binder the owner had left. There it was. A page with the wordsemergency numbersat the top.
I’d smiled when I first got here at the fact that pizza delivery was listed as an emergency, but now I got it. This was definitely an emergency.
My phone was still across the room. Crap.
I snatched up the binder, clutching it to my chest as I headed back in that direction. This time, my footsteps weren’t quite as wobbly. Was I sobering up already? No, I’d probably just gotten used to being on my feet.
Bam!
The sound of thunder nearly had me grabbing onto the wall. “Stop doing that!” I yelled at the ceiling.
In response, a new noise filled the cabin. Rain. Hard, pounding rain. That meant pizza delivery drivers might not want to come out. Hopefully, it would pass over, though. I had to take the chance.
I plopped down on the couch, leaning forward to snatch up my phone. I eyed the margarita and considered taking another sip, not to extend this feeling, but to slide that yummy concoction past my lips one more time.
After I ordered, maybe I’d use that fancy margarita maker to blend a non-alcoholic version of this yummy drink. It would at least tide me over until the food got here.
I settled the binder on my lap and opened it to the page of emergency numbers. I ran my finger down the line. Police. Ambulance. Fire. Hartsville Pizza. I had no idea what or where Hartsville was. Was it a town or a street? Whatever the case, I was calling.
I snatched up my phone and dialed the number, aware halfway through that I probably could have pulled up the name on my phone and searched for pizza delivery near me. It would’ve saved me the walk over to the kitchen. Too late now, though. Apparently, after enough tequila, I didn’t think very clearly. Good to know.
Sighing, I moved the phone to my ear. I tapped on the screen to put it on speaker as it started ringing on the other end.
I sat back, closing my eyes. Pepperoni. Maybe some bacon. No onions or peppers. I was always having to pick those off when my roommate and I ordered pizza. No, this was my weekend, spent all alone while I worked on my grad school application. I could have whatever pizza I wanted.
“May I help you?”
A male voice suddenly replaced the ringing sound, pulling me out of my thoughts. I blinked in surprise.
Had he said the name of the pizza place? Maybe I’d missed it. He didn’t sound very polite, either way.
“Do you deliver to…?” I hesitated a second, then turned back to the first page of the binder to get the address.
“Thirty-six fifty-nine Blount County Road?”
