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1
Sam Faurier hadn’t been born a 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 eighteen 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. Or, he guessed itwouldmake for some super fun Christmases, if he’d ever been invited to the estate for the holidays. Which he definitely hadn’t for the last decade and a half.
Not that Sam gave a single flying fuck—hashtag: BeenThereDon’tCare. He’d rather be a borderline obnoxious, overly cocky son of a bitch than a cold, controlling asshole. Anyway, he’d found his real family seven years ago, when he’d moved up the ranks to Remington’s Rescue Squad and landed at Station Seventeen.
Regret level: zero.
“Why, Sam Faurier. I know you aren’t just standin’ there in front of all that backup gear, lookin’ pretty,” came a familiar drawl from beside him in Station Seventeen’s walk-in storage closet.
Sam turned toward Lieutenant Gabe Hawkins and let one corner of his mouth drift upward. Good-natured shit slinging was as much a part of fire house life as the hoses and helmets, and Sam’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. I can’t let everyone forget that I’m Mr. September, can I?”
Hawk rolled his eyes, but his grin stuck around. “Like any of us can forget. What with you reminding us constantly.”
Sam put a hand over the front of his navy blue RFD T-shirt, solemn. “I’ll have you know that the Remington’s Hottest Firefighters calendar is for charity.” Never mind that Sam had happily posed for the thing four times in his tenure with turnout gear, and gained more than a little notoriety each time.
“Uh huh,” Hawkins said.
But as fluent as Sam was in smack talk, he was an even better firefighter, so he said, “Hey, I’m not just a pretty face.” He held up the tablet in his hand, the inspection checklist they completed at the beginning of every shift flashing over the screen. “I’m doing the inventory you assigned me to, because in addition to being good-looking, I’m also extremely smart.”
Hawkins shook his head. 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, and he turned toward the source. “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 check by now.”
She held up her own tablet, her checklist 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 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, amber-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 light gray RFD T-shirt as she lifted her shoulders in a shrug. But before Sam could cook up a charming smile and a cocky 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 scooped in 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.
Funny, Lucy was one step in front of both him and Hawkins, her tablet left in the wake of her own surefooted movements. She veered over to Engine Seventeen as Sam and Hawkins headed to the other side of the engine bay where the squad vehicle stood, each of them gearing up in swift, well-practiced movements. Sam jumped into the operator’s seat—which he’d earned six years ago when fellow squad member Dallas Garrity had retired due to an injury—firing up the vehicle and pulling on his headset in order to hear above the chaos.
“Nice of you gentlemen to join us,” Hawkins drawled over his own headset, aiming a look at the back of the vehicle, where Tyler Gates and Ryan Dempsey had just clambered into position.
“Nothing like starting the day with a bang,” Dempsey said with a grin, and Sam couldn’t have said it better himself.
“Just another day in paradise,” he agreed, already pulling the vehicle out of the engine bay. Although the squad vehicle had a large GPS screen built into the dashboard, he mapped the route in his head, turning toward Hawkins as soon as his mental light bulb flashed. “This fire is in North Point, in warehouse alley.”
It wasn’t the technical name for the place, but they all knew the area in question well enough. North Point was the rougher side of Remington, with the pier and docks hemming in overcrowded neighborhoods and aging city blocks, most of them in disrepair. Warehouse alley was the name they’d given to the stretch of large industrial buildings lining the area just off the river. The warehouses and other commercial structures had been built decades ago, some now abandoned and others not even close to up to code. The whole section headlined the RFD’s “most dangerous” list, and Sam’s pulse tapped with equal parts unease and adrenaline.
“Affirmative,” Hawkins said, maneuvering through the dashboard computer program with his light-brown brows tugged tight. “And it looks bona fide. Dispatch has a nine-one-one call reporting flames showing. The building appears to be abandoned, although we’re waiting on the city to confirm,” he added, the tension in his shoulders easing by just a fraction as he delivered the news. “Either way, the place seems to be burning pretty good. Be ready to earn your paycheck, y’all.”
