I’m pregnant by the grumpy firefighter I gave a sponge bath I’ll never recover from. So I did the smart thing — I ran.
Owen Peterson is arrogant, bossy, and built like sin in turnout gear. Half of Willowbend has watched us fight — and watched my hands linger.
Then we fall off my roof — and he twists so I land soft. Now he’s healing in my bed, and I’m the nurse who’s supposed to keep her hands clinical.
I don’t. Not when the washcloth slows. Not when he catches my wrist and says my name like a dare.
One kiss behind the bandstand turns into his hands under my dress. I swore it would be one night, one time — and neither of us stops. Neither of us wants to.
By morning I’m his. That’s the problem.
Because a fire already took his wife once. And now there are two pink lines on my counter.
So I run before the truth can break him.
He’s forty miles behind me.
And he knows.