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Chelsea had been craving her return to work for weeks. She loved her job and hated staying home, but the hospital insisted she heal fully before returning. Naturally, Chelsea hadn’tentirelyobeyed the doctor’s order. She had her clients to her house for their progress lunches, and for those who didn’t feel comfortable with that, she video chatted with them.
She may have been a workaholic, but at least she loved her job.
Going back to the office after a long one-month medical leave took the remaining weight from her chest. She sat in her fancy, three-hundred-dollar office chair and took a small spin before facing the piles of files on her desk. For most people, the files would feel overwhelming. But after four weeks of light work, Chelsea faced them with both determination and excitement.
That’s why—after nine hours of hard, diligent work in her office—her eyes burned, and her wrist cramped from the extensive notes she’d added to a few manuscripts. Her office assistant had left low-priority manuscripts for her to read when she got back, while delivering the most important correspondences to her home.
Chelsea didn’t follow her doctor’s orders much at all. The broken ankle, through-and-through bullet wound on her left thigh, crushed fingers, burns across her calf, and harsh cuts on her legs couldn’t stop her from the mental game of being a literary agent. Even if her mental game had taken a therapist and four weeks to get in check, Chelsea was back and better than ever. She didn’t blame the job, nor did she blame her client, Emily Young, for attracting a group of crazed fans to Chelsea’s doorstep.
She blamed only the men who had kidnapped and tortured her for hours before help arrived.
Chelsea packed her remaining files into a knapsack to take home with her, stuffing them neatly in alphabetical order. The bag had some weight to it once it had been filled, and she left her office with a renewed sense of purpose—an excitement to get back on track and do every part of her job. She guided her walking boot and crutches through her doorway and down the hall. The boot was a welcomed improvement after the cast had been removed and she’d been cleared to work, but it still drove her mad.
On her way out, a few people greeted her, carrying copies of documents and walking confidently with clicking high heels. Oh, how Chelsea missed wearing high heels. Even once she could remove the blasphemous boot, her feet and heels would be so mangled with scars that Chelsea knew she’d never feel comfortable wearing anything but full-coverage booties or pumps again.
Her poor closet. All those designer heels and calf-exposing skirts would go to waste. Her wardrobe would forever be limited.
But at least she was alive. She was back at work. She was better.
Chelsea rushed from her office building and sat in the seat of her car, relieved to be cleared to drive again. She had a perfectly good right foot to use while driving, but her doctor was insistent that she refrain unless absolutely necessary. Now that she was free of the restricting cast and had stopped taking all pain medication—aside from an occasional ibuprofen, of course—life was back to normal.
She took her normal route back home, thinking about her bed awaiting her at home, but her attention caught on the fire department. She’d passed it hundreds of times while she lived in Boston. Since she bought her Victorian home in the suburbs, the station was located on her route to and from work every day, but it never meant anything to her. She didn’t know any of the firefighters inside, and she’d never had a run-in with the department.
Not until Redmond Donovan.
Chelsea found herself pulling into the visitor’s garage without thinking about her decision. She hadn’t seen him or thanked him for what he did for her and Emily, and the thought felt abhorrent to her. How had she not thanked the man who had most certainly saved her life?
She strutted into the fire station with one goal in mind: thank Redmond Donovan for what he did. She could still visualize the features of his horrified face in her mind. The dark eyes that scanned her for injury as he untied her from the chair. The buzzed brown hair. The large hands and the brute strength that allowed him to fight her captor off and save her. When she saw him again—if she saw him again—she had no doubt that she’d recognize him and feel immediate gratitude.
Chelsea gave the front desk woman his name, and she made a call, asking for his company and hours. Chelsea imagined that her crutches gave her a slight advantage, as the front desk woman appeared both courteous and extra attentive as she informed Chelsea that Mr. Donovan was at the tail-end of his shift, and he’d be down to see her shortly.
She waited, standing against the wall of the room rather than sitting. Her nerves grew with each moment, despite her usual uncaring and straightforward nature. Chelsea didn’t get nervous. Not typically.
The elevator door beeped open, and there he was—walking with a straight back toward Chelsea. While she thought she’d remembered him fully, there was a lot that she either hadn’t seen or didn’t recall. For starters, he wasn’t as massive as she remembered. He had a solidly built body, and muscle ripped beneath his T-shirt, but he wasn’t bulky. In fact, he was slim. His height didn’t tower her tall and willowy frame, though he stood at least six feet tall. He couldn’t have been more than two or three inches taller than her.
On his right arm was evidence of a horrible burn. The arm that she hazily remembered burning as he threw her away from the flame of an attack. The memories surrounding him all felt hazy from blood loss and pain, but she knew the full arm of healed burns were from that night.
She crutched her way forward, and his line of sight. Redmond’s mouth tightened into a line as she approached, and something warm flooded her stomach at the sight of him. Even scowling, he was undeniably attractive.
“You probably don’t recognize me, but—”
“Chelsea,” he grumbled. His voice sent pangs of pleasure through her. The depth of it felt as if it rumbled the innermost parts of her core.
She paused and nodded. “Yeah, actually. I came here to thank you for what you did for me and Emily.” He stood tall as she waited for a response, but nothing came. She knew nothing about the man who stood before her, but he didn’t seem like someone who spoke often. To make up for it, she continued. “We probably wouldn’t have made it if you hadn’t come.”
He nodded, not in agreement, but in acknowledgment. He looked down at her legs, both covered fully with long dress pants. Her boot covered her calf on the injured leg. “How are your injuries?”
The conversation felt tense, but his demeanor—just watching him as he stared down at her leg—made her feel better than she’d felt in weeks. Chelsea was no stranger when it came to flirting with men who attracted her, but he felt different. Off limits.
“Good, and yours?”
He crossed his arms across his chest, hiding part of the injured one. “Healed.”
She also had little experience with men who didn’t appear interested in her. When she pursued a man, he always reciprocated the feelings. Redmond didn’t seem to feel anything more than a twinge of irritation for her, and while it caused a slight ache in her chest, she understood. She stood before him crutched and damaged. She had no doubt that with a strong, handsome face like his, he had no trouble finding women interested in him.
“Well,” she started, leaning into her left crutch to give her ankle a break from holding a fraction of her weight. “I guess that’s all I came to say…”
