Page 17 of Falling for the Bad Boy Firefighter
Three missed calls and a text from Wyatt that simply reads: "Check the Fox Ridge Community page."
Something cold settles in my gut. In Fox Ridge, that's never good news.
I open Facebook and there it is—multiple posts on the town's community page. Someone snapped a photo of my motorcycle parked next to Penny's car outside the boathouse last night. The comments section is already overflowing with speculation, thinly veiled judgment, and a few downright nasty remarks about the town's favorite bad boy corrupting the historical society's golden girl.
"Jesus Christ," I mutter, running a hand through my hair.
"What is it?"
I turn to find Penny in the doorway, wrapped in a sheet, her hair tousled from sleep and my hands. She looks soft and warm and perfect—until her eyes land on my phone screen.
Her face pales slightly, but then something shifts in her expression. Not embarrassment or regret. Determination.
She crosses to me, taking the phone from my hands and scrolling through the comments.
"Well," she says with forced brightness, handing the phone back to me, "that didn't take long."
I set the phone face-down on the counter. "I'm sorry."
She tilts her head, studying me. "For what, exactly?"
"For this." I gesture toward the phone. "For dragging your name through the mud. For making you part of the Walker scandal machine."
Penny crosses the room to stand before me, her chin lifted in that stubborn way I'm coming to love. "You didn't drag meanywhere, Jackson Walker. I went willingly." A small smile plays at her lips. "Enthusiastically, even."
Despite everything, heat pools in my stomach at her words, at the memory of just how enthusiastic she was. I reach for her, pulling her against my chest, breathing in the scent of her hair.
"They're going to talk," I warn, my voice rough. "They're going to say I corrupted you, or that you're slumming it, or that it's just another example of a Walker causing trouble."
She leans back to look up at me, her eyes clear and certain. "Let them talk."
"It doesn't bother you? What they'll say?"
Her fingers trace the tattoo on my chest, following the lines of ink that disappear beneath my collarbone. "Do you know what I realized, going through those old records? History is just stories we tell each other. Some are true, some aren't. But they only have power if we believe them."
I shake my head, marveling at her. "How are you so damn optimistic all the time?"
"I'm not." Her smile falters slightly. "I'm terrified, actually. But not of what the town thinks." She takes a deep breath. "I'm afraid of what happens next with us."
Something squeezes in my chest. "What do you want to happen next?"
"That depends," she says softly. "Was this just one night for you? A good time with the buttoned-up curator who finally let her hair down?"
"Christ, no." The words come out more forcefully than I intended. I cup her face in my hands, needing her to understand."Penny, you're not... this isn't..." I struggle for words, cursing my ineloquence. "I'm not good at this," I finally admit.
Her eyes never leave mine. "Try anyway."
I take a deep breath, searching for words that won't come out wrong. "I've spent most of my life believing I wasn't meant for this. For someone like you. For something real." My thumbs stroke her cheekbones, feeling the softness of her skin. "The men in my family, we don't exactly have a great track record with relationships. My father left. My grandfather drank himself into an early grave. I figured it was better to just... not try."
"And now?" Her voice is barely above a whisper.
"Now I can't imagine not trying. With you." I press my forehead to hers. "You make me want things I never thought I could have."
Penny's eyes shine with unshed tears, but she's smiling—that brilliant, sunlight smile that first caught me off guard in the Historical Society. "Like what?"
"Like mornings. And evenings. And all the moments in between." I swallow hard, forcing myself to continue. "I want to argue with you about history and kiss you when you get that furrow between your eyebrows. I want to make you come apart in my arms every night and watch you put yourself back together every morning. I want..."
I hesitate, the word lodging in my throat. It feels too big, too soon. But Penny's looking at me with such hope, such openness, that I force it out.
