I glance over my shoulder. The hallway's empty. From the kitchen, I can hear Jasper loudly defending his right to unlimited treats while Perry quotes statistics about sugar intake.
I turn the envelope over and slide my finger under the flap.
Inside is a simple card—white paper, no frills, just a subtle red border. The same elegant handwriting fills the center of the page:
I see the way you hold yourself apart.
The way you watch over everyone else.
But who is watching you?
Someone should take care of the man who takes care of everyone.
— Your Secret Valentine
I read it twice. Three times.
My first thought is that it’s a joke.
Jasper's the obvious culprit, the man lives for pranks, but this doesn't feel like his style. It’s too subtle, too...intimate. And to be honest, the guy’s a great firefighter and EMT, but he lacks the refinement to pull off this kind of thing.
Aiden and Chevy wouldn’t dream of risking my wrath with both of them still rookies.
Lance is too kind and shy.
And it’s much too poetic for Perry.
I look around again, half-expecting someone to jump out and yellgotcha. But there's no one. Just me and this card and the faint smell of maple pecan cinnamon rolls drifting down the hall.
I'm a public figure and it’s a small town. People know me…if not my name, or my face. It's not impossible that some woman decided to send a flirty valentine.
But this doesn't read like a generic admirer note. This reads like someone who's beenwatching. Who really knows me. Someone who sees past the uniform and the title to the man underneath.
The man I've spent years making sureno onesees.
I fold the card carefully, slip it back into the envelope, and tuck it into the inside pocket of my jacket.
It's probably nothing.
I head back to my office and try to focus on work.
The note won't leave me alone.
I spend the morning buried in paperwork—budget reports, equipment requisitions, and the endless administrative bullshit that comes with running a fire station.
We get a call around ten, a minor kitchen fire at a rental property on the east side of town. A grease fire that got out of hand. No injuries, minimal damage. Textbook response.
Through all of it, the card sits in my pocket like a lump of coal, warming my chest.
Someone should take care of the man who takes care of everyone.
Who writes something like that? Who eventhinkssomething like that about me?
My brain, unhelpfully, supplies an image: tawny blonde hair in a high ponytail. Green eyes sharp with intelligence. A teasing voice sayingCaptainlike she knew exactly what that word did to me.
Sloane.I shut the thought down immediately. That's insane. She's twenty-three years old. She's Riley's soccer coach. She talked to me for five minutes yesterday—there's no way she'd?—
No. Absolutely not.
