Betsy and Stan Woodbridge emerge from Scoops & Swirls, the ice cream shop, with matching mint chocolate chip cones that they’re trying to eat while speed-walking toward the emergency. Apparently, a crisis doesn’t stop ice cream dates when you’re in your seventies.
This is Twin Waves in crisis mode: bedhead and good intentions.
“Is everyone okay?” Mom calls out, immediately falling into her role as the responsible adult who makes sure people are taken care of.
Dean Beckett, our volunteer fire chief and resident grump, is already barking orders at the other firefighters while shooting irritated looks at Grandma Sanders, who’s fussing about her “Christmas cookie dreams going up in smoke.”
I spot one of the younger firefighters crouched next to Dean, and my heart does this weird little skip thing. Dark hair, broad shoulders, and the kind of focused intensity that makes you think he could handle just about anything life throws at him. He’s checking Dean’s equipment with careful precision, every movement deliberate and controlled.
Wait a second. I know him. He’s Jo’s son, Asher. I’ve seen him helping her out at Driftwood and Dreams, one of our competitor boutiques. Jo is in our book club, The Bookaholics Anonymous.
Even from here, I can see the serious line of his mouth, the way he’s all business while Dean tries to reassure everyone. Grumpy much?
“It’s okay, Mrs. Sanders,” Dean says gruffly, clearly uncomfortable with the crying but trying to do his job. “We’ll sort the bake sale out later.”
Asher looks up from Dean’s equipment and catches me staring. Steel-blue eyes meet mine across the chaos, and my cheeks go warm despite the December air. Great. Nothing says “responsible adult handling a crisis” like blushing at a first responder.
He has the kind of face that would look stern even if he was laughing—all sharp angles and no-nonsense intensity. But there’s something in those eyes that makes me think he might actually have a sense of humor buried under all that professional competence.
“Ma’am, you should probably step back,” he calls out, and his voice is exactly what I expected—deep, controlled, with just a hint of gruffness that suggests he’s used to people not listening to perfectly reasonable safety instructions.
Of course, my immediate reaction is to take another step forward, because apparently I’m contrary when faced with attractive authority figures.
Dean’s been our Santa for the past fifteen years, ever since he moved to Twin Waves and someone noticed he had the perfect ability to terrify children into good behavior. Not exactly the jolly type, but somehow it works. Christmas without Dean as Santa would be Christmas without the annual reminder that Santa’s watching and taking notes.
“The kitchen’s mostly fine,” one of the firefighters reports. “Looks like the oil overheated and caught some curtains, but we got it contained quickly.”
“Thank goodness.” Grandma Sanders sighs. “I thought I’d burned down Christmas.”
The fire’s mostly out—Grandma Sanders’ cookie disaster was more smoke than actual danger—but Dean’s insisting on checking the roof for hot spots. Because that’s who Dean is: the guy who makes sure everyone’s safe.
“Chief, I can handle the roof check,” Asher says, his voice carrying that note of respectful authority that suggests he’s had this conversation before and knows exactly how stubborn Dean can be. “You should probably?—”
“I’ve been doing this job since before you were born, Lennox,” Dean snaps back, already halfway up the ladder. “I don’t need some rookie telling me how to?—”
The crack is audible from twenty feet away. Not the roof—the ladder.
Everything happens at once. Dean’s falling, and Grandma Sanders is screaming. But Asher’s already moving, positioninghimself to break Dean’s fall, catching him in a way that clearly saves Dean from hitting the ground at full impact.
They both go down hard, Asher taking most of the collision, but Dean’s leg still ends up twisted wrong.
“Don’t move, Chief,” Asher says, breathing hard but immediately switching into professional mode. “Let me check you over before?—”
“Get off me, Lennox,” Dean grumbles, but there’s no real heat in it. Even hurt and grumpy, he knows Asher just saved him from a much worse fall. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” Asher says matter-of-factly. “You’ve got a hurt leg, and you’re in shock. Just let me do my job.”
Dean mutters something under his breath that’s probably not suitable for mixed company, but he stops trying to move.
Asher glances up and catches me staring again. This time, his expression is all business. “Could someone call Dr. Morris? And maybe get these folks to step back a bit?”
There’s something about the way he takes charge—not bossy or demanding, just quietly competent—that warms my chest. He’s not grandstanding or making a show of being the hero. He’s just handling what needs to be handled.
“Already called,” Mom reports. “He’ll be here in five minutes.”
“Thank you.” Asher’s attention is back on Dean, checking for injuries with gentle hands. “Chief, can you tell me where it hurts?”
I move closer instead of backing away, because apparently common sense isn’t my strong suit when there are injured people and competent first responders involved.
