CHAPTER ONE
Ethan
“Ethan!” Doug yells from the front desk of the firehouse. “There’s someone here to see you!”
I close my eyes.
Mason snorts out a laugh.
“How many this month?” Lincoln asks as he deals the cards.
“Three?” Colton says, trying to remember.
“No, four,” Mason corrects. “Someone came last night but he wasn’t here.”
We’re in the back of the firehouse, the four of us playing cribbage. James is in the corner, pounding the heavy bag with his bare fists like the thing just insulted his wife.
“ETHAN!” Doug screeches like a banshee.
Mason’s shoulders start shaking as he giggles. The prick is loving this.
“It’s not funny,” I say, glaring at him.
“It’s pretty funny,” he replies, giggling louder.
He’s on my team and we put in five bucks each for the winners.
“We forfeit,” I say, tossing my cards on the cribbage board. “Funny now?”
“Hey!” Mason shouts as I stand up. Lincoln and Colton grab our cash with a laugh. “You can’t do that!”
I hear them squabbling over the money as I take a deep breath and head into the front.
“Good luck,” James grunts as I pass him, the chain rattling with every hard hit.
“Thanks,” I mutter back. I knew this damn fireman calendar was a bad idea. I didn’t want to do it. I still don’t know how I got talked into it. We’re not even halfway through the damn month and I’m already wanting to hide in a cave somewhere in the mountains.
Doug pops his head around the corner, grinning like he’s delivering good news. “She’s cute.”
That does not help.
I take a deep breath, suddenly feeling tired as I walk around the corner into the front. I go this way so the front desk will be a barrier between us.
Her face lights up when she sees me.
I force out a smile.
She is cute. And she has a nice smile. That just makes me feel even worse that I’m going to have to let her down.
She’s wearing a sundress with her blonde hair all done up, flawless makeup on. She’s holding a basket—an actual basket—with gardening tools inside. There’s a trowel, gardening gloves, and a few seed packets. There’s also a huge red bow tied to the handle.
“It’syou,” she says like we already know each other. “Mr. April.”
“Ethan,” I correct.
“Of course,” she says, stepping forward.
I resist the urge to step back.
