Page 31 of The Firefighter's Angel
Sometimes I ride with him when he’s scouting potential fire zones. I pack us lunches and sit with my feet on the dash while he points out changes in tree lines, shifts in underbrush, wind behavior, all with that deep, thoughtful voice of his.
He’s so good at what he does, and I love watching him work.
When I’m not with him, I’m here in my little shop in town. It’s called Pine & Trinket—a cozy, eclectic space full of handmade candles, tiny wood carvings, jewelry, crystals, old books, and hand-drawn maps of the trails nearby. I make a lot of the items myself, with Daniel’s help on the wood pieces. Tourists eat it up. Locals stop in just to talk.
It’s become a haven. A place that smells like lavender and cedarwood and feels like a second heart.
Three years ago, I met the man who would change everything. The man who would rewrite my story.
Oddly enough…I’m grateful to Lyle.
Not for what he did. That will never be excused. But because that chain of events led me to Daniel.
And justice was served. I pressed charges, and Lyle’s sentence included a restraining order, probation, and therapy mandated by the court. I haven’t seen or heard from him in over two years. He’s not even in the state anymore.
My mom…well, things are different now. After I told her I wasn’t coming home unless Lenny was out of the picture, she finally saw the truth for herself. She divorced him a year later and started therapy. We’re rebuilding. Slowly. Carefully. She still tries too hard sometimes, but…she’s trying. And I can live with that.
Today, though, I’m not thinking about the past.
I’m thinking about tonight.
I leave the shop early, flipping the little sign toClosed. Tonight, we’re celebrating something special. I lock the door with a giddy anticipation bubbling in my chest. My boots crunch across the gravel as I make my way to the truck, the brown paper grocery bag in the passenger seat filled with his favorite things—steak, whiskey, and dark chocolate.
Back at the cabin, I light every candle we own. The fireplace crackles in the background. I cook slowly, humming to myself while the meat sears and the potatoes bake. I throw one of Daniel’s flannel shirts over my cotton dress and dab a little pine-scented oil behind my ears. The whole place smells like love.
But that’s not the real surprise.
That will come after dinner, when we’re full and lazy and tangled on the couch, his hand resting on my belly like it always does when he’s winding down. That’s when I’m going to tell him.
I hear the sound of his truck pulling down our gravel driveway, and my heart skips a beat even as I run over to the window to confirm.
Crap. He’s home early.
Panic flutters in my chest and I spin in a full circle, eyeing the dining table that I haven’t finished setting.
“Well, there goes the surprise,” I mutter, rushing toward the bouquet on the counter and nearly knocking over a mason jar full of wooden spoons.
It’s my fault for daydreaming all day instead of actually hurrying my plans along.
I barely make it to the kitchen doorway before I hear the front door open and close with a familiar thunk, followed by the heavy, comforting sound of his boots on the wood floor.
And then…there he is.
All six-foot-whatever of Daniel Foster, framed in the doorway like the universe built him for moments like this. His hair’s a little damp from the rain, his shirt tight across those broad shoulders, and he’s holding a bouquet of wildflowers in one big, calloused hand.
A smile spreads slowly across his face, all soft edges and molten heat, and just like that, all my frantic plans melt right into the floor.
“Hey, baby,” he says, voice warm and low. “Happy anniversary.”
God. Three years and he still makes me breathless.
I blink, then break into a grin and cross the kitchen toward him. “You’re early,” I say, trying for a stern voice, but it comes out breathless.
“Caught a ride back with one of the crew,” he says, setting the flowers on the counter before pulling me flush against him. “Didn’t wanna waste a second of today without you.”
And then he kisses me.
Hot, slow, toe-curling. Like he’s remembering every other time we’ve kissed and promising ten thousand more. When he finally pulls back, I’m clinging to him like a lifeline, my knees barely working.
