If I want something, I make it happen.
And I wanted this client, so I guess I went and made it happen.
I step into the sparsely furnished space. It has a single window, linoleum tile floors, and concrete block walls. The nylon mattress on the XL twin bed frame reminds me of college in its stark practicality.
But I grew up in a trailer park and currently live in a dusty old walkup, so I’m not fazed by less-than-stellar living arrangements.
The firefighters of Station 47 are all busy being brave and strong, and Lou has already gone home to spend the evening with her lovely wife, so I drop my bag on the bed and set the battered Longchamp that serves as my briefcase onto the little desk.
There’s no time like the present. It’s time to get to work.
I kick off my shoes and tug my skirt down like it’s trying to crawl up my thighs on purpose.
Then, because I’m only human, I loosen the button at the waistband—just enough to breathe—telling myself it’s not “undressing,” it’s “surviving paperwork.”
Unfortunately,getting to workmeans that, five minutes later, I find my eyes blurring as I stare at a page titledMEDIA AND CONTENT LIABILITY AGREEMENT (FDNY—CITY OF NEW YORK—UNION LOCAL 221),which is written entirely in size-six font. There are way too many uses of the phrases “heretofore” and “in perpetuity” in these documents, and even though I know legal jargon is totally important and all that, I just wish attorneys would learn to lighten up and draft these things with a little more charm.
I flip to the next page.
MEZZANINE OCCUPANCY MEMORANDUM,it declares itself.
The contract between Hartstrings PR and Station 47 has already been signed, but the union lady wanted me to review and sign all this extra paperwork before I got started. I guess if I accidentally fling myself over the railing in the process of filming a TikTok, she doesn’t want to be liable. But this place is crawling with first responders, so I’m not sure plunging to the concrete from twenty feet above would bethattragic.
I groan to myself and lean forward, resting my forehead on the desk. It’s been a long day. After the pitch meeting, it took thirtyminutes for all the contracts to be signed. The captain, Noah, and Evan will be the three main stars of the content, so they also had to sign special release forms and agreements that Lou drafted up with the help of her cousin who works as a paralegal.
After that, we had to run back to the office, which is little more than a mildewy closet crammed with two desks we found on the side of the street, that we rent from a guy with an impossibly thick Russian accent. We did a couple hours’ worth of preliminary content prep for the official start of the Save A Hero campaign, then met with the third-party crew to go over the schedule for the first few days of filming.
And then I had to go home to pack, which was a whole ordeal, because how do you really prepare to spend the next several nights in foreign territory while also maintaining a reasonably professional appearance?
A particularly strong wave of exhaustion washes over me and I let my eyes fall shut, thinking that I can just rest them for a few minutes before getting back to the stack of papers currently serving as my makeshift pillow.
I shift in the chair, suddenly too aware of my body — of how tight my skirt feels, of the memory of Hale’s gaze lingering just a second too long earlier.
Ridiculous.
Nothing happened.
And yet my skin still feels warm, like it’s waiting for something.
I let out a contented sigh as I let my mind drift. The distant sounds of the firehouse—plenty of chatter and some laughter alongside various thumps and thuds—fade into the background as I allow myself to wallow in the peaceful darkness behind my closed eyelids.
Before I know it, though, I’m slipping in a little too deep.
I’m back in the conference room from earlier.
Which is weird, because I’m pretty sure I was just absolutely zonked out on the wobbly table in my new accommodations.
Maybe I learned how to teleport. Or maybe there’s a rip in the time-space continuum, located right in the heart of Station 47.
It’s nighttime now, rather than late morning, and through the windows along the wall in front of me, I can see the rest of Midtown clambering all over itself like a mess of scattered, sparkling stones.
“Ms. Hart?”
I whirl around to find the living embodiment of “tall, dark, and handsome” lingering by the door.
“Captain Hargrove.”
He lets the door fall shut behind him with a soft click. “It’s Hale. I told you that earlier, remember?”
