Page 3 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Firefighter

“You’ve made your point, babe,” Dean says to me, those whiskey-colored eyes boring into me, pleading for me to play along. It’s the most eye contact we’ve shared since I laid a big wet one on him months ago. “You can stop trying to punish me by going on these fake dates and come home now.”

“I thought you lived alone,” Jonathan says.

I push out of my chair, desperate to get as far away from this creep as possible. Shit. I might have to move.

“I hope you’re ready to grovel,babe,” I say to Dean, playing along. Hoping Dean will get the message and burn the AI-generated family portrait along with the whole dream he has about our future. I shudder again.

“If you want me on my knees, that’s where I’ll be,” Dean says, his tone laced with innuendo. For half a second, I believe he means what he’s saying. My nipples tingle in response at the image his words conjure. But of course, he’s just playing a part.

“What’s happening?” Jonathan demands, his face turning a shade of tomato red.

“She’s with me, pal.”

“She doesn’t want to go with you,” Jonathan spits. “She’s here with me. We’re not through with dinner. We have matters to discuss. A wedding to plan.”

“Nothing to discuss. Definitely no wedding,” I say, pressing my palm against Dean’s chest and gripping his shirt. Damn, that man is all hard muscle. Just in case Jonathan doesn’t get themessage, I throw in, “I’m going with him. The makeup sex is out of this world. Sorry I lied—Ihatesalad.”

“What the hell is this?—”

“Lose her number or you’ll have to deal with me,” Dean warns, curling his arm protectively around the small of my back and leading me out of the restaurant.

2

DEAN

“Doyou have one of those devices that scans for GPS trackers on cars, or is that more your brother’s department?” Heather asks as I follow her to her car, parked at the farthest end of the steak house’s dimly lit parking lot. Fuck, I hate to think how that creeper might’ve followed her out here and cornered her had she been alone.

I haven’t stopped seeing red since I spotted them in the restaurant.

At first, I mistook it for jealousy. But after a millisecond, I noticed how uncomfortable Heather was. She was gripping her purse like a lifeline. I didn’t think my plan through before I marched past the hostess stand and pretended to be the boyfriend she was set on punishing.

“No.” It’s the only answer I can choke out because I’m seething.

I caught a quick glimpse of that photo on the table, and it has me on edge. What fucking psycho makes a family portrait and talks about wedding plans on a first date? If it weren’t for my sister yammering on and on during her drive to the city earlier this afternoon, I wouldn’t have known Heather was on a date atall. I wouldn’t have found an excuse to hang out at the coffee shop half a block away.

Thank fucking God I did.

I pull my phone from my pocket and scroll for my brother’s number.

“It’s okay,” Heather says, shaking her head. “I’m probably just overthinking this whole thing.”

“For the record,” I say, my words a near growl because I’mthatinfuriated at the whole situation, “you’re underreacting.”

“Do you know him or something?”

“Who?”

“Jonathan the Jackass.” When I look up, she’s biting her lower lip. “I couldn’t find his last name. Red flag, right? He apparently knows everything about me, including where I worked in college ten years ago. You’re right. Totally underreacting. But don’t worry. I’m done dating. I’m going to adopt a clowder of cats and spend Friday nights on my couch from here on out.”

Tears prick the corners of her eyes, and it takes every ounce of restraint I have not to pull her into my arms.

When Heather’s text popped up on my screen hardly fifteen minutes ago, I was shocked as hell to see her name. I figured if the date was a bust, she’d have sent her SOS text to my sister, and Penny would’ve been the one to send me in.

Heather’s avoided me since last Christmas, when she kissed me in her nana’s garage. I can still taste the eggnog on her tongue. It doesn’t matter that she declared it was a mistake before I could recover from the shock. I’ve craved eggnog ever since.

“I don’t have a cat to go home to tonight, but I do have ice cream.” She reaches for the driver’s side door handle, and I immediately grab for her wrist. “You’re not driving this car.”

“I wasn’t drinking. Wait, you really think there might be a tracker on it? I was joking. Mostly.” A tear rolls down her cheek, and she shoves it away with the back of her hand. I have the overwhelming urge to storm back into that restaurant and punch that weasel into next week. Heather is the most vivacious, strong-willed woman I know. That some sorry excuse for a man had the audacity to make her feel afraid only enrages me further.