Page 7 of Wrong Number, Right Firefighter
“Because they wouldn’t let you?”
“Because they wouldn’t let me pick a dress.” I laughed, a little bitterly. “They vetoed everything. Said it was too tight, too short,too adult. Said I’d be asking for attention I didn’t know how to handle.”
His jaw tightened.
“I know they meant well. I really do. But by the time I moved out, I didn’t know how to be in the world. I didn’t know how to go to parties, how to flirt, how to date. I was afraid of everything.”
“You don’t seem afraid now,” he said softly.
“I’m still figuring it out. Still behind, I guess.” I lifted one shoulder. “Trying things in baby steps. One weekend away. One margarita. One failed pizza order.”
He smiled at that, and the tightness in his expression eased.
“I never even had a real first kiss,” I blurted, then grimaced. “Okay, not true. I did. But it was weird and awkward and involved braces and a game of truth or dare in the church basement. I don’t count it.”
He laughed, and it made my chest ache with how good it sounded.
“I’m serious,” I said. “I just… I missed everything. The milestones. The normal stuff. I was always the responsible one, the cautious one, the girl who did everything by the book. I didn’t get to be reckless or curious or wild.”
“And you think taking a sip of margarita and calling the fire station counts as wild?”
“I mean, it’s a start.”
We both laughed again, but the heat between us was different now. Quieter. Thicker.
I watched him as he set his empty plate aside and leaned back on his palms. God, he was so damn broad. Muscles straining the sleeves of his T-shirt, fire gear jacket still slung over the arm of the chair nearby. His hair was damp from the rain, and his jaw had the faintest scruff.
He looked like temptation incarnate.
I should’ve been nervous. Or embarrassed. Or at least slightly more restrained.
But I wasn’t. Maybe it was the storm. Maybe it was the margarita. Or maybe it was the way he looked at me.
“I’m still figuring it out,” I said again, quieter now. “Still trying to understand what I want.”
He watched me closely. “What do you want tonight?”
The question landed with a heavy thud in my chest. My pulse tripped. My breath caught.
He hadn’t moved, but I could feel him across the space. Like gravity. Like tension wrapped in velvet.
I reached slowly for the margarita glass I’d abandoned earlier, lifting it to my lips and taking the tiniest sip left at the bottom. Then I looked him straight in the eye.
“I’ve never had sex before.”
His eyes widened. He blinked once, then again.
I held the glass tighter. “I’m a virgin.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it again. Swallowed.
“Not because I wanted to wait until marriage or anything like that. Not for religious reasons. Just…because I never had the chance. Never had the freedom. Never had someone who made me feel like it was okay to want that.”
He swallowed again. “Camille…”
“I know it’s probably a terrible idea,” I said quickly, voice rushing now. “You’re probably thinking I’m going to regret this or that I’m too tipsy or too emotional or that I don’t even know what I’m asking for. But I do. I really do.”
I hesitated a long moment, giving him space to respond. He didn’t say a word. I couldn’t even read his expression. So I took a deep breath and continued.
