She’s not my fake fiancée anymore. She’s the one damn thing I can’t walk away from. Even when I have to. Even when I shouldn’t. And for the first time in years, running into a fire feels easier than turning away from her.
Chapter Eleven
Briar
The historic Rosemont Hotel looks like something out of a storybook—white pillars, sprawling front lawn, a chandelier the size of my car hanging from the lobby ceiling.
The school district couldn’t have picked a fancier venue for the fundraiser, and my kindergarteners are losing their minds over it. “Miss Tate, is this a castle?”
“Is there a princess?”
“Is Captain Saxon coming?”
The last question makes my throat tighten.
“No,” I say gently. “He’s working.”
Junie pouts. “He should come anyway.”
I smile, brushing her hair behind her ear. “Believe me, sweetie, if he could be here, he would.”
Her grin grows a little too knowing, but she runs off to join the other kids forming a crooked line near the cookie table. I try to focus on the raffle baskets, the sign-in sheets, the parents milling around in glittery outfits, the PTA drama unfolding in the corner—but my mind keeps circling back to last night.
Saxon on my porch. Saxon’s hands on me. His mouth brushing mine.
His radio crackling and ripping him away. My lips still feel warm from the almost-kiss. I’m still shaking from the way he looked at me—like he wanted to consume me and protect me simultaneously, like he was breaking some vow just by touching me.
And the strangest, scariest part? I didn’t want him to stop.
“Junie!” I call.
She’s wearing a glittery tulle skirt and spinning like a malfunctioning ballerina. She giggles, hair flying, arms outstretched. I feel a rush of tenderness. A rush that turns to ice the moment the fire alarm begins to wail. Piercing. Violent. Not a drill.
Smoke rolls down the hallway like a living thing.
Children scream. Parents shout. Pandemonium erupts in seconds.
I freeze for half a heartbeat—just half—before I run.
“JUNIE!” I scream, the word tearing out of me like something primal.
She was near the dessert table. Near the corridor. Near the smoke.
“JUNIE! BABY, ANSWER ME!”
I plunge through the crowd, shoving past frantic parents. The smoke thickens—gray, choking, stinging my eyes. Voices blur. Alarms echo. Chairs crash.
My heart shreds.
“JUNIEEEEEEE!”
Nothing.
My chest caves. I can’t breathe. Sweet God, I can’t?—
Then I hear him. Not my daughter. A voice deeper. Rougher.
“SAXON!” someone shouts.
