Page 1 of Falling for the Bad Boy Firefighter
Chapter 1 – Jax
The smell of engine oil and fresh coffee hits me as I step into the Fox Ridge Fire Station, motorcycle helmet dangling from my fingers. Morning sunlight streams through the high windows, catching dust motes that dance above the polished fire trucks.
The garage is already buzzing— Samuel checking oxygen tanks with his usual methodical precision while Dominic tinkers with a pressure gauge, looking like he's seconds away from breaking something expensive.
Wyatt spots me first, raising his coffee mug in greeting. "Look who decided to grace us with his presence," he calls out, leaning against the cherry-red engine with the station's emblem gleaming on its side.
I roll my shoulders, feeling the familiar knots of tension that never quite leave. "Some of us have better things to do than stand around holding coffee all morning, Reynolds."
"Late night?" Wyatt asks, his eyebrow arching with suggestion.
I don't bite. It's the same old dance—the subtle digs, the assumptions. In their minds, I'm still the kid who wrapped his car around the old oak by Miller's Creek, the one who'd show up to school reeking of cheap beer and cheaper decisions.
Ten years as a firefighter, never missed a shift, never backed down from a call, and still—Fox Ridge has a long memory for sins and a short one for redemption. No point in explaining myself to people who made up their minds about me before I could even spell my own name.
"Nightmares about your ugly face kept me up," I volley back, grabbing the coffee pot. The liquid is darker than tar and probably just as toxic. Perfect.
I scowl at Wyatt when he offers creamer. Black coffee, black mood—seems fitting today.
Samuel glances up, his serious face creasing into something almost resembling a smile. "You two done flirting? Some of us are trying to work."
I take a long sip of coffee, letting the scalding liquid burn away the remnants of a restless night.
Chief Mason's boots sound against the concrete floor—heavy, deliberate steps that command attention without trying. He's flipping through papers on his clipboard, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose.
"Walker," he says without looking up, "you're on smoke detector duty at the Historical Society today."
I pause mid-sip. "The Historical Society?"
Now Mason looks up, his weathered face unreadable. "Problem?"
"No, sir." But there is.
"Good. Ms. Clark is expecting you at nine." He hands me a work order that lists inspections and installations for the entire building. "Don't give her any reason to call me."
"Wouldn't dream of it, Chief."
Wyatt snickers behind his mug. "Clark, huh? Isn't her family the reason your grandad threw that brick through the town hall window back in '85?"
"That's just a rumor," I mutter, though we all know it isn't. The Walker-Clark feud is as much a part of Fox Ridge history as the founding fathers' statue in the town square. A messy tangle of property disputes, local politics, and bad blood that goes back generations.
"Just keep your head down and do the job," Mason warns, but there's a flicker of concern behind his stern expression. He's known me since I was a scrawny kid climbing trees I had no business being in. "That building's old, and half the electrical is original. We don't need any accidents."
"Yes, sir." I down the rest of my coffee and grab my toolkit from my locker. "I'll be on my best behavior."
"That's what worries me," he mutters as I head for the door.
The morning air hits my face as I swing a leg over my bike. Fox Ridge unfolds around me as I navigate the quiet streets—past the diner where my grandfather still argues every Tuesday, beyond the high school football field where I once had potential, according to Coach Stevens. The town's watching me, always watching, windows like judging eyes as I pass.
I park near a hydrant—perks of the job—and take a moment to straighten my department-issued shirt. Not that it'll make a difference to Penelope Clark. To her, I'll always be the Walker boy, trouble with a capital T.
The Historical Society sits on Fox Ridge's most respectable corner, a three-story brick building with white columns and enough gravitas to make even the most rebellious spirit feel underdressed.
I park my motorcycle right out front, knowing the rumble of the engine has already announced my arrival better than any doorbell.
Sure enough, Clark is waiting on the top step, arms crossed over her chest like she's physically holding herself back from telling me to leave.
She looks different from the shy bookworm I vaguely remember from high school—honey-blonde hair pulled into a neat bun that doesn't dare let a strand escape, soft curves hidden beneath a professional navy skirt and cream cardigan buttoned all the way up. Her face is pretty in that classic, almost untouchable way, with wide eyes that always seem to be cataloging your flaws.
