I know. I’ve watched her over the past year, noticed the way she lights up every room she enters. The way people gravitate toward her like she’s the sun and they’re all just planets caught in her orbit.
I’ve noticed more than I should.
“The violations stand,” I say, because I need to establish boundaries before I do something stupid. Like drive back to Driftwood and Dreams and offer to help her figure out a solution. Like look at her mouth again and wonder if she tastes like the vanilla-and-ocean scent that’s been haunting me since I caught her.
“Understood, Chief.” Asher pauses at the door. “For what it’s worth? She likes you. She always asks about you when I mention the station. Says you gave a beautiful toast at our engagement party.”
My chest tightens. I remember that night. Jo in a soft blue dress that matched her eyes, laughing with the book club women. The way she’d hugged me after the toast, all warmth and genuine happiness, and told me Asher was lucky to have me as his chief.
The way I’d caught myself watching her across the room more times than I could count.
“Go check the equipment logs,” I tell him. “And Lennox? Tell your mother to lose the Fabio cutout before someone trips over it and breaks their neck.”
He grins. “Yes, sir.”
The station is quiet for a Thursday afternoon. Jenkins and Torres are running drills. Patterson’s doing maintenance on Engine 3. Everything in its place, everyone following protocol.
This is what I understand. Order. Rules. Systems that keep people safe.
Not chaos wrapped in sunshine. Not glitter and craft supplies and a woman who looks at fire codes like they’re suggestions instead of requirements.
I head to my office, fully intending to file the citation and forget about Jo Lennox and her dangerous eyes.
Rex follows me, settling at my feet with a heavy sigh that sounds distinctly judgmental.
“Don’t start,” I warn him.
He huffs.
I pull up the citation form on my computer, but my focus keeps drifting to the glitter still coating my uniform sleeve. Pink. Sparkly. Completely inappropriate for a fire chief.
Just like the thoughts I’ve been having about Asher’s mother.
My phone buzzes.
Savannah:How’s your day, Dad?
I consider lying. Telling her it’s fine. Normal. Definitely not complicated by the fact that I can’t stop thinking about how Jo Lennox felt in my arms.
Me:Cited someone for occupancy violations. The usual.
Savannah:Anyone I know?
Oh no. Savannah’s met Jo. At the engagement party. They’d talked for twenty minutes about some medical drama they both watch, and afterward Savannah had told me she liked Asher’s mom. That she was warm and funny and real.
That I should ask her out.
I’d nearly choked on my beer.
Me:Asher’s mother. Her boutique had 30 people in a space rated for 15.
The typing bubbles appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Savannah:Mom would have liked her.
My chest constricts. Savannah rarely mentions her mother. We both avoid it—that careful dance around grief that’s easier than actually dealing with it.
Me:Yeah. She would have.
