Chapter One
EMMALINE
This fire?Not her fault.
Well, mostly not her fault.
Fine, a little bit not her fault.
Sonofabitch, it wastotallyher fault.
Her fault for always saying yes. Her fault for marrying the wrong man. Her fault for divorcing him. Her fault for thinking she deserved an orgasm to celebrate closing the loan on her new home in her new life. A life where she did not plan to blend in with the curtains anymore. A life where she planned to stand up and shout, “I’m Emmaline!”
But now, flames licked up the inside of the dumpster as though they were starving and the metal came coated in chocolate syrup.
She sighed. Mostly, the fire was her fault for purchasing a knock-off-brand battery-operated-boyfriend that began smoking before things even got good.
Here’s the thing: she was the daughter of a firefighter. He had lectured her about how fires start. Never once—not once!—had Dad mentioned the peril of knock-off vibrators.
She should’ve gone brand name.
Emmaline Eaton learned this lesson in the hardest of hard ways.
Light the neighborhood dumpster on fire the first night in her new home in Denver? Check that box right off the list. She was officially the worst at all things decision-making related.
This was not the way she’d planned to make herself stand out.
The neighborhood stayed quiet this close to midnight, and no one was around. Small blessings and all that. The thin mountain air of Denver’s summer was sure feeling thick right about then—and not because of the burning garbage fumes, either.
When the “thing” started smoking, she’d panicked. Tossed that pretend lump of a man right in the trash and took that bag to the neighborhood dumpster.
Em had considered putting out the flames quickly, but she couldn’t risk anyone digging through the trash to figure out what had started this mess. She’d briefly hoped that maybe no one would connect the dots on this one. They’d find the who-dittily-do and have no idea where it came from.
But then she’d remembered the mail with her name that she’d tossed out in the same bag. So it made lots of sense to just let it burn for a minute. Not too long. Just long enough to destroy the evidence.
Burn, baby, burn.
The neighborhood HOA had the foresight to place the dumpster way off at the end of the cul-de-sac with nothing in the direct vicinity but some soaked grass from the sprinklers. Nothing flammable close by—other than the contents. Contents that needed to burn, burn, burn.
Not to worry, she had a plan to eventually put out the fire where Bob was burning. Bob being the name she’d given her battery-operated boyfriend when she still had hope for his usefulness. Being a responsible adult, she had a fire extinguisher and a hose with her—she’d even turned on the water at the spigot nearby before she came to battle the flames, something Bob couldn’t do. Turn her on, that is. She could just get a Roomba and namehimBob. Then she’d at least get clean floors.
Next time she bought herself a vibrator, it’d be top of the line, and she’d name it Banks or something even more unique. Somethingcreative.
She used to be creative, but that was before the divorce. Before the marriage, really.
Definitelybefore the current dumpster fire.
Grr.
“Mom?” Fiona, her ten-year-old daughter, called from the porch of their new home. Oh geez, she had apparently woken up.
“I’m here, babycakes,” Em replied, not as loud as her daughter, but with enough volume to be heard through the distance that stretched between them.
“Why are you outside?” Fiona asked, sleep still present in her voice.
“Taking out the trash.”
“Why’s it on fire?” Fiona asked, like this was totally normal and not that big of a deal.
