by Teri Wilson
It was a good thing Jack had finally gotten some sleep, because the morning awaiting him at the fire station was the busiest he’d had in quite some time.
First up was a motor vehicle collision on the highway on the outskirts of town. Engine Co. 24 was the first to arrive on the scene, which involved multiple injuries. Luckily, everyone was fairly easily patched up. One of the drivers and a few passengers required transport to the big hospital up in Burlington, but none of the injuries appeared to be life-threatening.
Just minutes after the crew returned to the station, they got another call for a small grass fire at the local junior high, which turned out to be the result of some kids messing around with firecrackers behind the gym. Jack and Wade had the fire out within minutes, but they’d spent nearly an hour educating the culprits as to the dangers of fireworks. It was the sort of call that Jack used to love best—a chance to personally get involved with the residents of Lovestruck, beyond issuing permits or putting out fires.
In recent months he’d lost his passion for interacting with members of the community. Sometimes, as much as he hated to admit it, dealing with the good citizens of Lovestruck made Jack feel like the list of people who wanted or needed something from him was longer than he could manage.
Today he felt different. Some of his spark was back. He didn’t want to think too hard on why he felt like the old Jack Cole, nor did he want to get into another big discussion about his personal life with his coworkers over breakfast. He just wanted to enjoy it, which was why he was the first to volunteer for the third call of the day. It was the call that every member of Engine Co. 24 dreaded most—Ethel Monroe’s cat, Fancy, was stuck at the top of her old sugar maple tree again.
“No way.” Brody didn’t even bother glancing up from the report he was working on for the traffic accident call. “I did it last time, and I’ve still got the scratches to prove it.”
“I’m pulling rank. That cat is a demon. Besides, I’m allergic,” Cap said as he hung up the phone with dispatch.
“Can’t we just tell Ethel to wait it out? Ask her if she’s ever seen a cat skeleton in a tree before. I guarantee the answer is no.” Brody shook his head. “Fancy will eventually come down on her own. Firefighters in Birmingham would never respond to a cat-in-a-tree call.”
“I’ll do it.” Jack closed his laptop on the high school grass fire report, nearly complete.
“Wait. What?” Brody finally looked up. “You’re volunteering to rescue that nightmare?”
“You heard me.” Jack stood. “But Wade’s got to come along and handle the ladder while I climb up there.”
“I’m in.” Wade shrugged. “So long as I don’t have to go anywhere near the cat. That thing is a monster and, like Brody, I’m fundamentally opposed to perpetuating the myth that we save kittens from trees.”
It wasn’t a myth, though. Not in Lovestruck, anyway.
Firefighters didn’t actually rescue cats from trees in big cities, but in rural Vermont, anything went. Last year alone, Engine 24 had responded to four calls for cat rescues, and three of those calls had involved Fancy. One of these days Ethel Monroe’s cranky Persian was going to remember that she was terrified of heights, but today was not that day.
“Come on,” Jack said, grabbing his turnout gear. He didn’t want to get caught without it if something happened to catch on fire before they got back to the station. Also, Brody wasn’t exaggerating. Jack had seen the scratches on his arms and they weren’t pretty.
A couple hours later Fancy was safely back inside Miss Ethel’s cottage. Despite his turnout gear, Jack suffered a few minor scratches—mostly on his face—and returned to the firehouse dressed in cargo pants, his LFD T-shirt and a sizable adhesive bandage on his left cheek. Wade had done the patching up for him, so of course the bandage wasn’t a regular, flesh-colored one, but was instead decorated with colorful cartoon Dalmatians.
All in a day’s work. Somehow Jack’s good humor remained mostly intact. But when he climbed down from the ladder truck and saw Madison Jules sitting primly on the teak park bench outside the firehouse, his spirits soared foolishly higher.
Get ahold of yourself.
He cleared his throat and pretended nothing was out of the ordinary as he walked up the long drive toward the station. Beside him, Wade droned on about something that Jack completely ignored. He tried his best to keep his gaze straight ahead, but it was practically impossible. As usual, Madison looked woefully out of place for Lovestruck. She wore bright red stilettos and a floaty dress—sleeveless, white with black polka dots and a soft bow tied at her throat. It occurred to him that her fancy ensemble almost matched his cartoon bandage, and he bit back a smile. The way she always stuck out like a sore thumb was beginning to grow on him.
What was wrong with him?
Surely, she wasn’t there to see him. She’d probably stopped by on some type of official business. Maybe she needed someone to inspect a new flat iron or blow-dryer.
“Wait a minute.” Wade’s steps slowed as he squinted at Madison sitting in the shade of the American flag flapping in the light summer breeze. “Isn’t that...?”
Before Jack could respond, Madison’s eyes lit up with recognition, and she stood to give him a tentative wave. Jack waved back as Wade’s eyes went wide.
“Is she here to see you?” Wade said under his breath as they drew closer. “Well done, man.”
“Shut. Up.” Jack shot him a death glare. “It’s not what you think.”
Wade’s only response was a gigantic smirk, which Jack could do nothing about because they’d just about reached the park bench where Madison stood waiting for him.
“Hi.” Her gaze moved over his face, and her expression went from worried to amused and back again. “I feel like I should ask if you’re hurt, but I can’t get past the irony of your Dalmatian Band-Aid.”
“The bandage was my idea.” Wade raised his hand. “Glad you like it.”
“I’m fine,” Jack said, but no one seemed to be listening.
“He’s just a little scratched up from rescuing a kitten in a tree,” Wade interjected, oh so helpfully.
Madison laughed. “Seriously? That’s a real thing that you do?”
“He does.” Wade nodded. “He also rescues other cute animals. Last week it was a pair of ducklings stuck in a storm drain.”
For the love of God, would he stop talking already?
Jack raked a hand through his hair, tugging hard at the ends. Time to set the record straight before Wade started planning their wedding. “Wade, this is Madison Jules. She’s my...”
Night nanny.
The words were right there on the tip of his tongue, but Madison interrupted before he could get them out.
“Um, actually I need to talk to you about the whole nanny thing,” she said, smile faltering.
And that was all it took for something in Jack’s gut to harden into stone.
“Well.” Wade shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. “I’ll let you two chat. It was nice to see you again, Madison.”
“Nice to see you, too.” She grinned, but it didn’t reach her eyes the way it always seemed to do when she was busy arguing with Jack.
Despite the warning bells currently going off in his head, a proprietary surge of awareness flowed through his veins. Good grief, he was a mess.
“So,” he said once Wade was out of earshot. “What can I help you with, Madison?”
She took a deep breath, and then her face crumpled. “Stop it, would you?”
He blinked. What had he done now? “Stop what?”
“Stop being so nice and...and—” she glared at his bandage “—heroic,” she spat, as if it was a dirty word.
Jack wanted to laugh, but he didn’t dare. “I’ll do my best.”
“Honestly. Could you please just go ahead and do it?” She wrapped her arms aro
und herself as if it took every ounce of her strength to hold herself together, and Jack was reminded of the lecture Wade had given him on the rig after the first time he’d seen her.
Don’t you think she seemed a little vulnerable?
He’d scoffed at the idea back then, but suddenly it didn’t seem so far off base.
“Madison.” He had to bite his tongue to keep himself from tacking an endearment onto her name. Honey. Sweetheart. Darlin’. Why did he keep forgetting she was his employee? “I’m not sure what all this is about.”
Over her shoulder, Jack spotted Wade, Cap and Brody watching them through the upstairs kitchen window, and he wished they were having this conversation someplace else other than the front steps of the firehouse. Anyplace else.
He lowered himself onto the bench, which wasn’t entirely out of view, but better.
Then he patted the empty space next to him. “Talk to me. Please?”
She sat down gingerly beside him, all womanly softness and polka dot chiffon. God, she smelled fantastic—like daisies and sunlight, with just a telltale hint of baby powder.
“I’m fired,” she said succinctly. “There. If you won’t say it, I will.”
He reached for her hand with his, then caught himself and rested his empty palm in his lap instead. “You’re not fired.”
“Oh, please. I so am. And I definitely deserve it. I’m sorry to barge in at your workplace like this, but I thought it would be best to get this over with so you’d have time to find someone else to take care of the girls.” She gave him a decisive nod. “Someone better.”
He looked at her long and hard. He didn’t want someone better. He wanted her. “Still not firing you. Sorry.”
Her gaze narrowed. “Fine. Then I quit.”
“Resignation not accepted.” He stood and planted his hands on his hips. “Now that we’ve got that all settled, I should probably get back to work. There’s probably a baby animal in need of saving somewhere.”
She flew to her feet just as he started to walk away. “Wait!”
He arched a brow. “Is there something else?”
She studied him for a quiet moment, and something unspoken passed between them—something beyond banter and bravado—something real. And a strange sort of joy bubbled up inside Jack as he got his first glimpse of what it might feel like to be on Madison’s good side.
“Toby is a Chinese crested,” she blurted without preamble.
Jack was lost again. Keeping up with this woman was a full-time job. “A what?”
“A Chinese crested. It’s a type of dog.” She pulled a face. “A hairless one. He’s got an impressive collection of hand-knit sweaters, though.”
So Toby the three-year-old who worshipped her was, in fact, a dog. That explained the baby powder. And the diapers. And the rest of the mess she’d made.
“I would expect nothing less than a stellar wardrobe for the canine in your life,” he deadpanned.
“He’s not technically mine. He belongs to my aunt. I’m staying with them for a while.”
A while. Jack tensed, and he wasn’t entirely sure why.
He shrugged. “You’re still not fired.”
“But I lied,” she countered.
“We all lie from time to time,” he said, thinking of his letters to the Lovestruck Bee. He’d been actively lying about his own identity to a stranger in the newspaper every single day. For weeks. “We’ll see you Friday night, Madison. Ella and Emma are looking forward to it.”
So was he, but Jack didn’t say so.
We all lie from time to time.
A lie by omission was a lie, all the same.
Chapter Seven
Dear Editor,
With all due respect, if listicles are indeed a thing, as Queen Bee insists, I shudder to think what will come of children’s storybooks.
Sincerely,
Fired Up in Lovestruck
Dear Editor,
I can’t help but wonder how Fired Up in Lovestruck feels about Goldilocks and the Three Bears?
The Three Little Pigs?
One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish?
The Three Billy Goats Gruff?
I could go on, but I have a column to write.
My point—even kids love lists. How does Fired Up think they learn to count?
Sincerely,
Queen Bee
Dear Queen Bee,
Touché. You got me.
Sincerely,
Fired Up in Lovestruck
The following Saturday morning Madison couldn’t help feeling just a tiny bit triumphant as she walked to the library for her volunteer shift at story hour.
The night before she’d somehow managed to survive another shift at Jack’s house with his adorable twins. They slept even less than they had during her first attempt at night nannying, but at least she knew how to properly diaper and feed them. They just never seemed to want to do those things at the same time, which was most inconvenient. While Ella slept, Madison took care of Emma. Then once Emma drifted off, Ella would invariably wake up and the cycle would start all over again.
She finally got them both down for the night around three in the morning, thanks to the glider rocker and an early copy of the September issue of Vogue. She read the pages aloud to them for almost an hour. Maybe it was only her imagination, but they seemed to love it. Once she had the babies tucked back into their cribs, Madison cleaned up a little bit. She even did a load of Jack’s laundry—her way of saying thanks for not being fired.
Had she buried her face into his LFD T-shirt, just to get a whiff of his manly, kitten-saving scent? Yes. Yes, she had. She wasn’t proud of that little moment of weakness, but she couldn’t quite help it. The soft cotton material had felt so good against her cheek, and the woodsy aroma of cypress smoke and fresh summer air was somehow comforting and enticing, all at once.
Maybe it was time to admit that Jack Cole wasn’t entirely terrible. In a purely platonic way, of course.
Because platonic friends go around sniffing each others’ laundry all the time.
Madison rolled her eyes at herself as she walked up the front steps of the Lovestruck Public Library to the sounds of church bells marking the hour as they always did, seven days a week. She’d decided to chalk the embarrassing laundry incident up to sleep deprivation. It wouldn’t be repeated, nor would she linger every so often outside Jack’s closed bedroom door and listen to the rhythmic sound of his breathing, wondering if he ever dreamed about her.
He clearly didn’t.
There was just something so unexpectedly intimate about being in a man’s home while he slept. A house says a lot about a person, and Madison loved the bookshelves in Jack’s living room, filled with cracked spines and beloved classics like Where the Red Fern Grows and Call of the Wild. She loved the fact that there were even a few books of poetry tucked in between the novels and that Jack did the Lovestruck Bee’s Sunday crossword puzzle. She knew more about him than she should have; that was all. She wasn’t developing actual feelings for him. That would just be crazy.
He’d been so nice to her when she’d tried to quit the nanny job, though. Far nicer than she’d deserved, since she’d definitely overstated her experience with babies in order to snag the position. And when he’d sat down beside her on the park bench outside the fire station a few days ago, she could have sworn he’d almost reached for her hand. Just the thought of it had caused her palm to go all tingly.
Who was she, and what had she done with the real Madison Jules?
She was supposed to be concentrating on getting out of Lovestruck and back to Manhattan, where babysitting and holding hands with firemen on quaint park benches were nowhere on her radar. Now wasn’t the time to succumb to the charms of small-town Vermont or its heroic inhabitants. Her column was gaining serious ground, and at long last,
her meanie pen pal had caved and admitted she’d been right about something. Oh, glorious day.
Madison took a deep breath as she walked into the hushed interior of the library and reached into the pocket of the oversize knit sweater Alice had insisted she start wearing to her night nanny shifts. She’d tucked the latest letter from Fired Up in Lovestruck inside so she could take it out and reread it when she needed an extra shot of confidence.
The only thing that would have made his short and sweet missive any better was if Mr. Grant would have printed it in the newspaper. On the front page, preferably. In sixty-point font.
Mr. Grant couldn’t print it at all, though, because unlike his other letters, this one hadn’t been addressed to the editor. It had been written to Madison personally. She wasn’t sure what to make of that significant detail. On one hand, it was possible that Fired Up in Lovestruck was simply trying to avoid publicly admitting her column wasn’t complete and total garbage.
But at the same time, she sort of liked the intimacy of a letter addressed just to her. At least he seemed to view her as a real living, breathing person now instead of just a faceless reporter churning out a “whimsical dribble of words” on the regular.
In any case, she decided to hold on to the letter so she could refer back to it the next time she was feeling terrible about the sad state of her journalism career. Her phone hadn’t exactly been ringing off the hook with interview requests at fashion magazines, so she could certainly use a pep talk every now and then—even a pep talk that consisted of a mere four words.
Touché. You got me.
“Oh, hi!” A woman with piles of blond hair twisted into a ballerina bun peered at Madison over the tall stack of books in her arms. “You must be Madison. Alice told us you’d be coming by today to read to the children. I’m Honey, the head librarian.”
“Hello. It’s nice to meet you.” On instinct, Madison stuck out her hand.
Honey juggled her books to one arm and attempted an awkward shake. “Sorry, I’m in the middle of shelving. We’ve got about fifteen minutes until story hour, but kids are already starting to arrive and get settled.”
