The Fireman I Loved to Hate

by Jenna Gunn

  The Fireman I Loved to Hate

  An Enemies to Lovers, Small Town Romance

  Jenna Gunn

  Jenna Gunn

  Copyright © 2020 by Jenna Gunn

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The Fireman I Loved to Hate

  The Fireman I Loved to Hate is standalone book and is book #2 in the Everything for Love Series by Jenna Gunn.

  When I saw who was driving that firetruck I almost speed dialed 991 to cancel the cat rescue call I’d made.

  He’s infuriating. He’s rude. He’s a cat hater!

  Why does it have to be him rushing to my rescue again?!?

  Men like him are the reason I don’t date, but instead fulfill my fantasies by writing romance novels. I get to dream up hot heroes, chivalrous and adoring ones, not obnoxious like this six-foot-five alpha jerk.

  But apparently the universe has it out for me. Not only does Alex have to come to my rescue again, but somehow in a moment of insanity, we end up in a tangle of lust driven madness.

  But that was it! Never again.

  I swear. No matter how good it was!

  One BIG mistake was enough for me.

  But that sexy devil keeps crashing into my life and just refuses to stop being the hero of my dreams.

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  READ ABOUT STANDALONE BOOK 1 IN THIS SERIES BELOW

  Billionaire’s Bun in the Oven

  (formerly published as Everything Delicious)

  Is a standalone and book 1 in the Everything For Love Series by Jenna Gunn

  A Pet Lover’s, Enemies to Lovers Romance, Second Chance Romance.

  As the owner of Sweet Thing bakery, sweet is my business so I know a little something about delicious...

  Then I discovered that licking, sucking, and riding one ripped Billionaire could make me forget all about dessert!

  Who needs dessert, right?

  Just when I thought it couldn't get any better than the deliciousness of his confections... I mean affections, I discovered we had an unexpected little honeybun in the oven. Suddenly life felt extra sweet!

  Until it didn't.

  Unfortunately, I know sour when I taste it too.

  I lost my sweet tooth for the Billionaire who broke my heart, lied to me, and nearly my ruined newly flourishing bakery business.

  Now I don't give a hoot about his Southern charm, his hot body, his fancy Charleston penthouse, or the fact that he's the father of the baby I'm carrying.

  He's off the menu...for good!

  But, he has something else in mind, with all sorts of tricks up his sleeve for igniting my sweet tooth again....

  Billionaire’s Bun in the Oven will have you craving the sweet things in life. A fun, steamy love affair set in Charleston, South Carolina, This book features a hot billionaire, a clever Pastry chef, an adorable emotional support dog and lots of fun. No cliff hanger, no cheating, Billionaire, hidden pregnancy, second chance, Happily Ever After (HEA) romance.

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  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

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Also in This Series

  READ A BOOK FOR FREE

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  I shift my legs beneath my desk and sit back for a moment to survey what I’ve written. I’m nearing the end of this novel, and I’m not quite sure what I’m going to write after I’m finished. It’s always nice to know what’s coming next so I can jump right in. I feel that I’ve been through every historical period I can, imagining grand romances throughout history. Except contemporary. I can’t imagine myself writing about contemporary men. They do nothing for me at all.

  An orange tabby cat with a missing front leg jumps up onto my desk. I sigh. “Monroe,” I say to him, pulling him onto my lap. He lets out a chirp of protest but settles down for some snuggles. He’s a good cat. He’s also a rescue; I found him on the side of the road in some backwater town I just happened to pass through. The street was Monroe Boulevard, so that’s what I named him: Monroe.

  Monroe allows me to pet him for a few seconds, purring louder than a motorboat, before springing off my lap and stalking out of the room. I stand up and stretch. My work for today isn’t done, but it’s growing hotter in my study.

  I cross the room to the window and slide it open a bit. A breeze flows through it, and I close my eyes to enjoy it, shutting out the cardboard boxes and other clutter that litters the room. I just moved in a few weeks ago, and I haven’t fully unpacked. I’ve gotten the important things - my computer and desk, my bed, some kitchen stuff.

  I kneel by the window and prop my arms up on the windowsill, leaning my head against them. The breeze lifts tendrils of my hair, and I feel like a regency-era heroine staring wistfully over the countryside, wondering if Mr. Benedict will ever call again, or if her recent blunder has driven him away forever.

  My eyes snap open. I’ve got to write that down. I grab a sticky note and rummage through my desk for a pen; I scribble the idea down and stick it to the wall behind my desk, which already has at least a dozen sticky squares on it, all with hastily written notes.

  I cock my head as I glance over all my half-baked ideas stuck to the wall. Is it too soon to write another regency-era novel? The one I’m writing now takes place then. The one before was set in colonial America. Would my readers accept two regency-era romances in a row? Am I becoming predictable?

  I shake my head and cross the room to turn on the ceiling fan. Combined with the open window, the room is already significantly cooler; no need for the air conditioner just yet. Settling down into my chair, I try to push away all thoughts and distractions and doubts. I can’t obsess over my next book before I’ve even finished this one.

  “You can do this, Raina,” I say to myself; and I grab a sticky note and write that on it, too. It’s always good to have some reassurance, even if it comes from yourself. I pull the keyboard closer, sit up a little straighter, and put my game face on.

  Well, it’s still not done, but it’s a lot closer than it was this morning.

  I lean back in my chair, lacing my fingers behind my head. I’m pretty sure I know how I’m going to reunite Mary and Frederic. I think.

  I pat my lap and frown. No Monroe. I could have sworn he was just here. I g
lance underneath my desk; he likes to curl up right where I put my feet, then yowl when I accidentally step on him. But he’s not there. It wasn’t even an hour ago, was it?

  I glance at the clock on the computer; it reads 3:30 pm. I squint. That can’t be right. Wasn’t it just ten-thirty? I grab my phone and check that, too - and it confirms that it’s definitely three in the afternoon. I forgot to stop and take a lunch break again.

  I sigh as I get to my feet and stretch out, hearing my joints crack. “I’m becoming an old lady,” I say to myself as I straighten and glance around the room for Monroe. I leave my study and head out into the living room; he’s not in his usual spot on the couch, or on the blanket on the floor. He’s not sitting on the flowers on the dining room table. “Monroe? Here, kitty kitty.” I head into the kitchen and pull out a bag of his favorite treats, giving them a little shake. I know it’s not good to bribe him - it’s basically rewarding this behavior - but I hate when he hides from me. “Want a snacky, Monroe? Want a snacky?”

  He doesn’t appear. I set down the treats as worry blooms in my stomach. He always comes for snackies.

  I head back into the study to give it another once-over. The window’s still open. And...had I opened it that much?

  He’s probably gotten out.

  Panicked, I rush outside in my bare feet, snatching my car keys off the table in the entranceway as I go. Monroe isn’t meant to be an outside cat. He’s lived indoors since I met him years ago.

  The speckled concrete of my front walk is cool against my feet as I hurry up it, glancing around to spot a flash of orange, a twitching bush, anything. I’ve just moved here; I can’t start off my life in Rockville with losing my cat, my baby boy. What could I even do? Go door-to-door to the neighbors’ houses and ask if they’ve seen him? Make flyers and staple them to trees?

  I hear a distressed yowl from somewhere overhead; freezing in place, I glance up. There’s a tall pine tree in my front yard. Its trunk is thicker than my own body. All the branches are at least six feet above my head.

  And sitting in one of those branches is Monroe, screaming down at me for help.

  With a sigh, I pull out my phone and search for the local fire department’s number. A maiden in distress calling for a firefighter to rescue a kitten from a tree? It’s so...cliché.

  I dial the number, and a dispatcher answers after only one ring; telling her my address and situation seems to remind me how scared I am for Monroe, because I feel my speech getting faster and faster. My heart begins to slam into my chest, punctuated by Monroe’s desperate cries.

  “Someone will be along soon,” the woman on the phone says warmly. “Pet your kitty for me once he’s nice and safe, honey.”

  “Thank you,” I breathe into the phone.

  I hang up, tuck my phone into the back pocket of my jeans, and look earnestly up at Monroe, folding my arms against my chest. “It’ll be okay!” I call up to him. “We’ll get you down!”

  He yowls again. I really hope someone comes soon.

  Chapter 2

  I lean back in my chair. “I can’t believe you think that,” I say incredulously.

  “What?” Ben snaps. “You don’t think they’re meant for each other?” He jabs his finger at the TV.

  “Dude, she’s married,” Michael pipes up from the kitchen. The microwave beeps behind him; he opens it and pulls out the corn dog he’s been waiting for for at least two minutes. “Get a clue.”

  “So what?” Ben asks. “It’s been shown over and over that their marriage isn’t working out.”

  “Right, but the other guy wouldn’t be right for her, either,” I say, tossing my tennis ball straight up into the air and catching it. “Plus, he’s definitely got the hots for that other girl...the one who lives next door?”

  Ben scoffs, and Michael and the rest of the guys laugh. We’ve all been watching some teen drama that comes on in reruns every afternoon. It started as a joke, something to make fun of; but now we’re all invested. Yesterday a debate about the high school basketball team got so heated that the captain had to come out of his office and turn off the TV altogether.

  “Bunch of grown men sittin’ around watchin’ this crap,” he’d said, gesturing wildly with the TV remote. “You’re firemen. Act like it!”

  But today, we caught him sneaking out of his office to watch it from the hallway; when we caught him, his whole face turned red, and he fled back into is office and slammed the door.

  “I’m with Ben,” says Carlita. She slices off a chunk of her apple with a knife. “He’s a teenager with a crush on his teacher. Married girl shouldn’t be married at eighteen, anyway.”

  “Thank you,” Ben replies emphatically as our dispatch radio beeps to life.

  “Fire station, it’s dispatch,” says Terri, rather unhelpfully.

  Bridges - nobody really calls him by his first name - snatches it up. “Talk to us, Terri.”

  “We’ve got a cat up a tree down on Marina Road.” She rattles off the address. I freeze in place as the entire unit turns to me with the exact same expression - all sly grins.

  “A cat, huh?” Bridges says into the radio, eyes still on me. I glare back at him.

  “Yep!” she affirms.

  “That’s gotta be you, Alex.” Michael nudges me with his elbow and takes a huge bite out of his corn dog.

  “Y’all know I hate cats,” I say to everyone, and the room bursts into laughter.

  “But they love you, Alex!” Ben crows.

  I scowl, which only causes more laughter. We’re a somewhat small fire department, so we don’t get a lot of big, dangerous fires - which, of course, is lucky - but we respond to small things, like cats stuck in trees. And every single time there’s a call for some sort of cat rescue, everyone insists that I be the one to respond.

  I hate cats. I always have. I don’t understand them or their appeal. I’ve always been a dog guy. Dogs are easy to communicate with; you call a dog’s name, and it comes. You throw a ball, a dog goes and gets it. You come home after a long day, a dog wags its tail and is obviously happy to see you.

  But cats? You call a cat’s name and it ignores you. They don’t fetch. And when they wag their tails, it means they’re about to pounce on your shoe or something. No, I don’t get them, and I don’t like them, but every time I have to rescue one, it does that weird head-butt thing that cats do and rumbles like a cell phone on vibrate.

  “Can’t somebody else go do this for a change?” I ask the room.

  “Aw, come on,” Carlita says. She cups her hand around her ear. “Oh no! I think I hear the kitty calling for you now! Meow!”

  Ben mimics her. “I hear it too! Meow!”

  They meow back and forth at each other; eventually Michael, Bridges, and the rest of the guys join in, until there’s twenty full-grown adults shouting in a cacophony of annoying cat sounds.

  Irritated, I shove myself up from my chair and grab my own radio, tuning it to the dispatch channel. “Badge number 6308, responding.”

  “I knew you’d go do it, Alex,” Terri says.

  The whole unit laughs as I stomp my way out of the room.

  The address isn’t hard to find; I’m fairly familiar with Marina Road. It’s a pleasant little road lined with houses and leading to, surprise surprise, the marina, where there’s usually a bunch of yachts. Pine trees grow tall in most people’s yards and extend into woods behind them.

  It would be a tight fit for a fire engine, but I’m not in one right now, thankfully; I just took one of the department’s regular pickup trucks with the logo emblazoned on the side and a tall ladder in the bed.

  I slow down to the low speed limit of twenty-five and squint out the passenger window at the numbers on the houses. I’m so tired of being the one who rescues cats. The joke was funny at first, but it’s getting old.

  I see the correct house before I see its numbers - there’s a worried-looking human form out in the front yard. I slow the truck and pull to the side of the road; a woman is
at my door in a split second.

  She’s already talking through the glass when I put the truck in park; I open the door and she steps back, still mid-sentence, gesticulating wildly toward the lone pine tree in her yard.

  “You Raina Groves?” I ask over her incessant chatter.

  She pauses. “Yes,” she says weakly. Her voice is breathy.

  “Is that the tree your cat’s stuck in?” I point.

  “Yes!” she says emphatically. I grab the ladder out of the back of the truck and head across her yard.

  To my dismay, Raina Groves follows, her voice rising over the yowls of the cat. I purse my lips as I set up the ladder.

  “He’s not supposed to be outside!” she gasps, flailing her hands. “I opened the window for just a second - okay, well, it was more than a second, but I lost track of time, y’know, I was working - I work from home - I just moved here, I was so worried - he’s an inside cat - ”