by Ella Roane
The Fireman’s Feisty BBW
Ella Roane
For my sweet James.
Thank you for loving me best.
About the Author
Ella Roane writes scintillating romances with lots of feels. Her stories capture the imagination and refuse to let go. Her characters experience love—and sometimes loss—but no matter what happens to them, Ella’s readers are always safe knowing love will prevail.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
Newsletter Sign-Up
Chapter 1
Stella
“Just a nice, quiet night. That’s all I wanted,” I yell.
I have to yell. It doesn’t matter that me and my EMS partner, Marcus, are standing shoulder-to-shoulder in front of our ambulance’s open bay doors. We must yell to be heard above the fire’s deafening roar. It’s an out-of-control monster sending waves of heat that prickle my cheeks like a sunburn plus wafts of acrid smoke that tickle my nose. It doesn’t matter that we’re all the way across the street.
“If you wanted a quiet night at home,” Marcus yells back, “why’d you agree to be put on call?” His brow furrows. “Wait, isn’t today your birthday?”
“Wha?” I say with a laugh and a roll of my eyes. It’s my lame attempt at dismissing the idea that I was born this day twenty-five years ago. I’ve been avoiding any mention of birthdays for weeks in hopes that mine would slip by without notice.
My attention drifts back to the unfolding scene before us. The firefighters are coordinating their efforts like some messy dance, while I watch, helpless.
In stark contrast, the fire seems blissfully ignorant of our existence. We don’t matter. It licks at a blackened, starless sky while consuming what remains of a two-story, mid-century home—a home that had been elegant and full of life before the setting of the sun. Now, inch by inch, foot by foot, that yellow-orange beast creeps its way from the once-sound structure’s back to its front, destroying all the layered history in its path. But it’s not just me and Marcus plus the firefighters here. We aren’t the only ones watching the old place burn.
The dying home’s family huddles ten feet away from us. Devastation fills their otherwise blank expressions. They’re sitting on the cold, hard, unforgiving ground, wrapped in thin-as-air silvery Mylar blankets. It’s a mom, dad, daughter, son, and elderly grandmother. They cling to each other. They are all they have left.
My heart goes out to them. It does. But that’s as much latitude on the matter as I can give myself. It’s their reality. Not mine. Even if I wanted to travel with them into their emotional abyss, I couldn’t allow it. I must stand outside this poor family’s tragedy. I’m here to provide a steadying, helpful hand, even if there’s not always a lot I can do... beyond saving a life.
And yeah, I know. Saving a life is a big deal. I get that. But it’s not everything—not by a long shot. That moment between living and dying is a blip on the radar in comparison to everything else that comes before and after. It’s the Cliff’s Notes of life. It barely matters.
Yet, that’s where my expertise lies. Within that moment. That great, singular hiccup to existence.
Well, I say singular, but I suppose it’s a ride some people take more than once. The lucky ones, anyway. And maybe a few of the not-so-lucky ones, depending on the life we’re talking about.
Truth is, I know quite a few people who court that pinnacle of moments with gleeful, joyous abandon. Again and again. They dance with it, sing to it, write poems for it.
Okay, maybe not write poems. But they do throw themselves off abandoned bridges with only a glorified rubber band attached to their ankles.
Yeah, I’m talking about those people. Adrenaline junkies. At least, that’s what I call them.
My ex-boyfriend is one of them. His buddies, too—and a few of my former one-night stands.
Hey... Don’t judge. They were fun. But fun only gets a girl so far. It doesn’t take care of her when she’s got a cold. It doesn’t pick her up at the airport. And it doesn’t do the damn dishes.
Yeah, I went there. The dishes. The effing damn dishes.
But noooo. Fun eats the breakfast you cooked on its way out the door to meet the guys for another day of free-climbing abandoned buildings.
I’m done with fun—romantically anyway. I’m done with people who crave to be on a first-name basis with the big hereafter. I’d like to say I’m also done with stitching them back together, too, but that’d be a lie. I know myself better than to think I’d ever turn my back on someone in need of medical aid. Figuring out I had a talent for putting the fun-boys back together was what led me to become a paramedic. So, I do thank them for that.
Knowing them made me who I am now.
Marcus throws me a wry smirk, which pulls my wandering thoughts back inside my head. Back to the burning house, the heartbroken family, and my annoyingly curious EMS partner.
“It is, isn’t it?” Marcus asks, still pushing about my birthday. There’s laughter in his voice. “What the hell are you doing here? Why aren’t you out getting drunk with the girls?” His mouth quirks up at the corners. “Or getting a good schtooping between the sheets?”
Marcus is like the younger brother I never had. You know, the one that sleeps with everything coming and going—men, women, thruples. He’s an equal opportunity lay.
Thankfully, he’s never tried to turn his charms on me. Not that it would do him any good. I’m pretty sure I’m immune. Pretty sure... Almost sure. Although, he is devilishly handsome. But the girls in Marcus’s life are usually hookups. Any trysts Marcus has lasting more than one night are always with guys.
Really hot, incredibly sexy, tongue-loll worthy guys.
My most recent ex-boyfriend aside, the best I’ve ever been with was maybe a six and a half. Marcus dates tens. He dates the underwear-clad guys who grace twenty-foot tall billboards. As in, literally. I’m pretty sure he’s dated two underwear-billboard guys.
It’s not fair. I want an underwear-billboard guy. I’m cute enough. There’s nothing wrong with being a little curvy. Nothing wrong with a little extra junk in the trunk and ripe melons on the front. So what if I need a steel enforced torture device to keep the twins looking forward instead of at the ground. Curvy girls are still nice to hold, to kiss, to…
My thoughts screech to a halt. Marcus’s piercing, unwavering gaze is still on me. Damn him. He’s not letting me off the hook. He wants to know why I’m not living it up on my birthday, but I’m not going to give him a straight answer. I don’t need the pity.
“Pa-lease,” I say with another eye roll. It’s the best non-answer I can think up, because, you know, I’m witty that way.
Marcus’s gaze doesn’t move away. Instead, it sharpens. He adopts a Sherlock Holmes’ squint... but snarkier.
“Don’t tell me you didn’t have plans.” His voice lilts between accusation and dismay with a whole bucketful of barely contained amusement.
I do my best to ignore him, but that doesn’t slow him down.
“On your birthday?” I can hear his unexpressed laughter, but I’m failing to find the humor.
“
Go to hell,” I snap. I’m not actually mad. I’m just annoyed at how right he is. But the words come out more of a boisterous boom than I’d intended.
I shoot a concerned glance in the direction of the nearby family—the ones watching their lives go up in flames. Their eyes are forward. Not on me.
I breathe a sigh of relief. I would never want to add to their pain. Our humor, our joking, it’s how we cope with having to bear witness to other people’s grief day in and day out. I wish we could do more for them, but we can’t. We’d offered them temporary sanctuary within the EMS truck, but they’d turned us down. They aren’t injured, so there’s no point in taking them to the hospital. None of them are in medical shock. They don’t have any minor burns, scrapes, or even smoke inhalation.
Physically, they’re fine.
Emotionally...? That’s another story and way beyond the magic I can work with a salve and bandage.
TLC and time are all that can help these people now. They need the chance to grieve the destruction of their past and the death of what they had thought would be their future.
Marcus nudges my elbow with his.
“Look alive,” I hear him say.
I focus forward.
Something is happening.
In the distance, the night’s dark clouds flash with the sudden glow of lightning, but no rain is falling. Not here. The only thing combating the home’s destruction is the spray from a fire engine’s hose.
It’s heartbreakingly insufficient. It’s not a fight that’ll be won. It’s a defeat that’s being postponed.
And yet, the brave men and women of Firehouse 42 don’t give up. They keep fighting as the family watches on.
And I keep hugging myself because it’s the only thing I can do.
A chorus of voices, pointing, running and turned heads narrow my attention to one spot within the chaos. I squint as I stare. The burning home is a myriad of lightwork patches. Some are blindingly bright. Others are inexplicably dark.
“He’s got him! He’s over there!” someone yells.
My gaze darts this way and that, searching for the someone they’re yelling about. That’s when Marcus points. I follow the long line of his extended arm and finger, and my eyes capture the scene like it’s happening in slow motion.
Out of one of the pockets of darkness, a man strides forward. Something—no, someone—is draped like a heavy sandbag over his shoulder.
Lightning rips through the sky again, and a part of my soul is torn open with it. My hands shake, and my breath turns unsteady.
The man striding toward me. Him. Oh my God. Him!
What him? There is no him. I can’t even see the man’s face. It’s masked in sliding shadows and obscured by his helmet’s visor and breathing mask.
And yet... Oh my God. And yet! I can barely breathe. Can barely think!
“Hey... Hey!” Marcus’s loud voice jolts me out of whatever mesmerizing rabbit hole I’d just fallen down. I look at what he’s doing. He’s grabbing gear. I need to do the same.
I snatch the stretcher. Then we run. We meet the walking man halfway across the yard. The intermittent gusts of searing heat followed by chill winds settle into an unyielding brick-oven heat.
The walking fireman stops as we reach him, and together we lay his load carefully onto the grass. It’s another firefighter. He’s unconscious. I’m not even sure he’s breathing.
We all crouch around him. My fingers fly into action to unlatch his helmet, but I glance up at Marcus as I do.
Marcus has gone still and very pale.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“I know him,” Marcus answers.
This changes everything. The man on the ground means something to Marcus.
In a single instant, Marcus has gone from a helper to a victim. He’s among the injured now.
“I need you, Marcus,” I say as I begin gently pulling the helmet from the unconscious man’s head.
Marcus swallows as his lips press thin. He gives a curt nod. I’ve got my partner back, and we get to work.
We check for a pulse.
Got one!
We check for breath.
Yes... yes... It’s there. Shallow, but there.
There are no visible burns.
“Sir! Can you hear me?” I ask in a very loud voice.
No response, but then a flutter of his eyelids.
He’s in there. He heard me.
“What happened?” I ask, directing my question to the man who had carried the unconscious firefighter out.
That was a mistake.
Lightning shoots through me, stealing my breath again. The man has pulled off his full-face gear, giving me an intimately close look at him. His eyes are misty gray. His skin is tan, slightly weathered, and he’s several days past due for a shave. There’s an almost indiscernible quirk to his lips. It’s like he knows a secret, one that he finds funny and isn’t in any hurry to tell anyone else.
And that’s okay, but what leaves me unnerved is the way he’s looking at me. Like he wants me. Like he already has me.
Who the hell is this guy?
Marcus speaks. As always, his voice grounds me in the present.
“Chuck,” Marcus says to the man lying on the ground, “stay with me. Hang in there. You’re going to be okay.” Marcus puts an oxygen mask over the man’s nose and mouth.
Stay focused, I tell myself. I need to know more in order to determine the best course of care.
“What happened?” I ask the gray-eyed firefighter.
“Not sure,” he answers, his voice like the low rumble before lightning.
“Found him in a doorway. Passed out. My guess is heat exhaustion.”
Heat? That was a definite maybe.
The sound of cracking timbers and crashing debris fills the night, temporarily overpowering the roar of the fire.
It’s the house’s roof collapsing, and it sends a plume of lit embers scattering upward. It’s both mesmerizing and horrifying at the same time. The two firefighters have been outside the burning structure for less than two minutes. Two minutes longer inside that inferno could have left them trapped forever.
“He has diabetes,” Marcus says. “Type 1.”
“Hypoglycemia?” I ask.
Marcus nods. “That’s what I’m thinking.”
If that’s the case, we have to get his blood sugar level up, and we have to do it fast.
Together, Marcus and I ready Chuck to move, then get him on the stretcher. Next, we get him inside the ambulance.
Marcus heads for the driver’s seat, and I climb inside the back of the rig with Chuck. I reach to close the ambulance’s open bay doors, but Mr. Gray-Eyes gets to them before me. We share a second. Only that. That’s when I hear a radio squawk.
“Bowman,” a voice crackles.
Mr. Gray-Eyes reaches for his jacket and pulls up a hand radio I hadn’t spotted before.
“Here,” Mr. Gray-Eyes—aka. Bowman—says into the hand radio.
“Thompson’s still inside. Chief says stand down.”
Bowman’s jaw clenches, the hinges momentarily bulging as he grits his teeth. His gaze deadens, then he glances over his shoulder at the half-collapsed house. It’s burning as hot and fiery as ever. All light from the moon and stars has been blackened out by the ashy smoke pluming upward. Sparks dance in a swirling vortex within. I can’t imagine anything still being alive within that house. There couldn’t be. There’s no way.
“I’m heading back in,” Bowman says.
I strangle off my scream of “Nooo!” I want to throw myself at him and tackle him to the ground.
Bowman doesn’t meet my desperate gaze as he slams the ambulance doors shut. Then the ambulance is moving.
Away. Away from Bowman and the fiery death he’s walking into.
My eyes sting with tears, but I force myself to focus on the man in my care. The man depending on me to save his life. The man that Marcus so clearly cares dearly for.
“Stay with
us, Chuck,” I say, though my throat feels thick. It’s hard to get the words out.
I test Chuck’s blood glucose. It’s low. Dangerously low. But that’s something we can fix.
“You’re going to be okay,” I reassure him, confident that some part of him can hear me. “You’re going to be okay.”
If only I could say the same for me. Bowman’s gray eyes are sure to haunt my dreams. A man who in an instant made me feel alive. A man who was now possibly already dead or—oh God—in the process of dying. Badly.
All I’d wanted was a quiet night…
Why the hell did I agree to be put on call?
Chapter 2
Brad
Those eyes. That mouth.
Those curves!
If Chuck hadn’t been laying passed out cold on the ground, I’d have had her under me right then and there. It didn’t matter that my layers of fire gear and her EMS uniform would’ve been between us. I’d have had her soft body beneath me, and my world would’ve been complete.
Instead, I’m standing in front of a burning house that’s in its last moments of existence. I can stay where I am. I can even turn around and walk away. But instead what I’ll do is walk forward. Into hell. Because there’s someone inside who needs to get out.
I’m going to get him out.
I get my gear in place over my face and check my air tank. A little less than half full. I can work with that.
“Bowman,” a voice squawks over the radio in my helmet. It’s my chief. “Stand down!” he orders. “Repeat. Stand down!”
He should know by now he shouldn’t bother. He knew who I was when he let me on his crew last month. I go back in. It’s what I do. It’s what I always do. I will not leave anybody behind. Ever.
