Page 3 of Wrong Number, Right Firefighter
I lowered the phone without saying goodbye, too sleepy to care. My eyelids felt thick and heavy. My legs were weirdly tingly. Not in a scary way. Just…fuzzy.
Maybe I would plug in my phone. Maybe I’d even drink that water. But first, just a minute. Just a tiny nap to stop the room from twirling like a carousel.
The last thing I remember was the sound of rain tapping against the window like impatient fingers. And the strange thought that I’d probably just flirted with a firefighter. Through the emergency line. Because I was trying to order pizza.
I was never drinking again.
2
SCOOP
What the fuck was I doing?
That was my overriding thought as I navigated my SUV up the road to the address the woman had recited on the phone. Yes, I probably should have fired up one of the trucks, but it was clear there was no fire. Just a very drunk woman.
I couldn’t, in good conscience, not check on her. But there was more to it than that. Something in her voice had intrigued me. Made me want to investigate. So here I was.
Lightning lit up the area just as I was trying to figure out which driveway went with which cabin. The addresses were on the buildings but not on the mailboxes, which made this a pain in the ass. I narrowed it down to a long gravel driveway that ended at a cozy cabin.
Lights glowed from the front window. Was that a good sign? Probably not. But it wasn’t a bad sign either. The red-and-white sedan in the driveway told me she was likely still inside. But whether she was okay remained to be seen.
I grabbed my first aid kit and headed toward the front door of the cabin, my heart racing, adrenaline pumping. It was alwaysthis way when I arrived at a scene. But normally, I wasn’t hearing five words repeating in my head like a damn prayer.
Please let her be okay. Please let her be okay. Please let her be okay.
I was definitely way too invested in what I’d find behind that door. I pounded on it with my fist. If she’d passed out—or worse—she probably wouldn’t hear it. But being loud was the only way I had to get through.
For good measure, I pressed the doorbell obnoxiously for several seconds. Next, I tried the handle. No luck. I wasn’t surprised. Of course, a woman in a cabin alone would lock the door.
I could kick down the door, but we didn’t like to damage property if we could avoid it. If the cabin had been on fire, sure, but property wasn’t in danger. Just maybe the woman inside.
I looked down and noted the keypad on the front door. A rental cabin. That made sense. The woman had been trying to order pizza without realizing that the closest place that delivered was twenty minutes away. Sure, they’d bring it up here, but I didn’t know that many people who even bothered. This wasn’t the kind of place where you routinely had food brought to your door at all hours of the day and night. And it was after eleven, so it definitely qualified as “all hours.”
I glanced at the street number next to the door. It was worth a try. I tapped in that number, then the star key, and waited.
Nothing happened. Then came the whir of a tiny motor and a click. My eyes widened. Success. I half expected confetti to fall from the porch covering above my head.
I put my hand on the door handle and turned it slowly, cautiously. I was essentially barging in on this woman, safe or not. She was probably perfectly fine, just tipsy.
But as soon as I peeked inside, I saw her on the couch, cell phone on her stomach. One leg was stretched out, with the othertucked beneath her. She had a smile on her face, but her eyes were closed.
Thunder rumbled again, reminding me to shut the door behind me. I did just that, keeping my eyes on her as I stepped inside.
The sound hadn’t done anything to wake her. Again, not a great sign. By the time I crossed the room to reach her, the words were running through my mind again.
Please let her be okay.
I crouched beside the couch, settling near her foot. Then I moved closer—toward her head—checking her pulse first.
It was pounding a little too fast, actually. I glanced at the margarita glass on the table. A fast pulse wasn’t out of the ordinary when alcohol was involved. Vasodilation. That’s what it was called. The heart pumped faster to maintain blood flow. I’d be more concerned if her pulse was slow. Or, God forbid, thready.
The next step was to turn her on her side, just in case she got sick. I gently moved her hand and adjusted her position. But the moment my fingers brushed her bare shoulder, something shifted in me. It was subtle. A flicker. A jolt. But it was enough to freeze me in place.
Her skin was warm, smooth, impossibly soft. But it wasn’t just that. I’d done this before—dozens of times, probably more. But I’d never felt anything like this. Like my fingertips had touched something electric. Something fragile. Something important.
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to breathe.
She murmured something unintelligible, shifting slightly beneath my touch, and I realized I was hovering. Hesitating. Like some nervous kid who didn’t know where to put his hands.
