Page 4 of Wrong Number, Right Firefighter
Get it together, Scoop.
I moved carefully, sliding one hand beneath her shoulder to ease her onto her side. The other steadied her hip, keeping her from rolling too far. She was small. Not delicate exactly, but soft in a way that made me feel like I had no business touching her. And yet I couldn’t seem to stop.
As I adjusted her arm, her head lolled slightly on the cushion, face now angled toward mine. And that’s when it happened.
Her eyes opened. Bright. Blazing. Green. Not a muted moss or a soft sage—no, these were vivid, vivid green, the kind of color that didn’t exist in real life. Only in photos you assumed were filtered. Only in dreams.
And they were staring right at me.
“Whoa,” she whispered.
I swear to God, I almost fell backward into the damn coffee table. I caught myself just in time, planting my hand against the edge of the couch as I met her gaze.
“You’re awake.”
She blinked, her brows knitting. “You’re not pizza.”
I huffed a laugh. “No, I’m definitely not pizza.”
“You’re…” She squinted. “Fire guy.”
“Firefighter,” I corrected, realizing I probably shouldn’t have been smiling. “You called the fire station. Said your stomach was on fire.”
She groaned and threw an arm over her eyes. “That sounds like something drunk me would say.”
“You said your name was Camille.”
“I did?”
“You did.”
“Well…drunk me is very trusting.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “You’re not going to arrest me for pizza fraud, are you?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
That earned me a tiny smile. It did things to my chest I wasn’t proud of. Things I hadn’t felt in a long time.
“I’m sorry I worried you,” she said softly. “I’m fine. Just…I didn’t eat dinner, and then I made a really strong margarita, and I might have underestimated how that works.”
I nodded slowly. “You’re lucky. You passed out, and it could’ve been worse. A lot worse.”
Her expression shifted, lips pressing together. She nodded, then looked down at her body as though checking to make sure everything was still there.
“I wasn’t trying to be reckless,” she said. “I’m just here for a few days working on my grad school application. I thought I’d have this cozy little night to myself. Get some writing done and celebrate.”
“Celebrate?”
“Turning it in,” she said. “The personal statement part. I’ve been working on it for weeks, and I finally hit submit. It felt like a moment. So I made a drink. And then…” She gestured vaguely at the room. “This.”
I studied her for a beat. “Where were you applying?”
“Edenridge. For clinical psych.”
That surprised me. But also made perfect sense. She had that quiet, thoughtful energy. Even now, half-drunk on a couch with mascara slightly smudged under her eyes, she looked like someone who saw more than she said.
“And your plan was to stay here and work on that?”
She nodded. “I thought it would be quiet. No distractions. But I didn’t think through the food thing. I picked up stuff for breakfast tomorrow, but I forgot about dinner. Pizza’s always an option, so I thought I’d just order one up when I got hungry.”
