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She turned to Roman. “Thank you for saving my life. Again.”
“I never would’ve figured out how to find you so fast or gotten here so quickly without these guys,” Roman said, gesturing to the detectives. “And your brother is right. I never would’ve had the time to get here to do any saving if you hadn’t distracted Portia in the first place.”
“She killed Archer. She told me everything,” Camila said, and Roman nodded.
“We know about Archer. His body is in the next room.” He spun a look around the warehouse and shook his head. “Crime scene techs will have to process all of this, but with Archer’s laptop, the evidence here, and your statement, we should be able to wrap this one up with ease. She’ll go to jail for the rest of her life, Camila.”
“Well, good,” Camila said, wrapping her arms around Roman’s shoulders. “Because I’ve got plans for the rest ofmylife, and I’d like to get started as soon as possible.”
Roman pulled her close, and oh, she’d never feel as right or as good as she did when this man held her in his arms. “And what exactly do these plans involve?”
“Solidarity,” she said, her heart fluttering faster as he pressed his lips to hers.
“Solidarity sounds good to me. I love you, Camila. I’m always going to have your back.”
“And I’m always going to let you, and have yours, too. I love you, Roman. I love you so freaking much.” She kissed him again, losing herself in his arms for just a second before pulling back to grin. “Now, what do you say we get out of here? After all, I have a statement to give.”
EPILOGUE
Three months later
Sam Faurier hadn’t been borna cocky son of a bitch. Not to say hewasn’ta cocky son of a bitch—even his bravado had bravado, and he was never shy about trotting the stuff out. But his swagger had been hand-crafted over time, built in tiny increments and born out of complete necessity.
As the son of Jameson Faurier III (yes,theJameson Faurier III), attitude was a sink-or-swim survival skill. Sam had learned at the tender age of fifteen that he could either flex his or be stuck in a life he hated. Unlike his brother, he hadn’t chosen Door Number Two, and unlike his mother, he’d been standing up to his father ever since.
Which made for some super fun Christmases. Not that Sam gave a single flying fuck.
He’d rather be a cocky son of a bitch than a cold, controlling asshole. Anyway, he’d found his real family seven years ago, when he’d joined Remington’s Rescue Squad and landed at Station Seventeen.
Regret level: zero.
“I know you aren’t just standin’ there in front of all that backup gear, lookin’ pretty,” came a familiar drawl from beside Faurier in Station Seventeen’s walk-in storage closet.
He turned toward Lieutenant Gabe Hawkins and let one corner of his mouth drift upward. Good-natured ribbing was as much a part of fire house life as the hoses and helmets, and Faurier’s cocky side never let him pass up an opportunity to go full throttle.
“I am, in fact, standing here in front of all this backup gear, lookingexceedinglypretty.” He held up the tablet in his hand, the inspection checklist they completed at the beginning of every shift flashing over the screen. “But I’m also doing the inventory you assigned to me to, because in addition to being pretty, I’m also extremely smart.”
Hawkins shook his head and rolled his eyes heavenward. But he was saved from making a comment by the sound of a soft snort coming from the opposite side of the gear closet.
Hawk’s expression lit with amusement. “Something to say about Faurier’s IQ, de Costa?”
The engine firefighter poked her head around the row of lockers bisecting the space lengthwise, her brown eyes landing first on Sam, then on Hawkins, before she smiled. “Well, since you asked, I was just wondering why, if Faurier here is so brilliant, he isn’t done with his inventory by now.”
She held up her own tablet, her engine inventory obviously complete, her smile growing both larger and sweeter until Hawkins laughed.
“I should have known. Your competitive streak is about as big as Faurier’s ego.”
It was an accurate statement. Lucy de Costa—also affectionately known as DC to everyone in the house—had arrived at Station Seventeen three years ago with both boots first and her ambition blazing. Sam had chalked a lot of that up to the fact that her father was one of Remington Fire Department’s most revered battalion chiefs. But Lucy had more than proven her ability and dedication as a firefighter. Sam might not work with her directly since she was on engine and he was on squad, but they’d done enough time together on A-shift for him to know she could back up her competitive streak as well as he could back up his ego.
The competence porn was hotter than he cared to admit. With her riot of black corkscrew curls, light brown skin, and strong, capable body full of lush curves and lean muscles,Lucywas hotter than he cared to admit.
Especially since she’d shot him down in flames when he’d flirted with her not long after her arrival at Seventeen.
Lucy’s grin didn’t lose any of its steam at Hawkins’s words, and it yanked Sam out of his pants and back to the moment. “Guess I don’t see any point setting the bar anywhere other than the top,” she said, her curls bouncing against her navy blue RFD T-shirt as she lifted her shoulders in a shrug. But before Sam could cook up a charming smile and a tart retort to counter, he was interrupted by the shrill electronic signal of the all-call blaring over the house’s overhead speakers.
“Engine Seventeen, Squad Six, Ambulance Twenty-Two, Battalion Seventeen, structure fire, seventeen hundred block of Bridgeford Drive, requesting immediate response.”
Sam’s pulse machine-gunned through him for a second before he took a breath to lock it down. His boots were in motion, three strides over and done before he even registered the forward momentum toward the squad vehicle.
