DEAR FIREFIGHTER HERO: A Curvy Girl Romance (SINCERELY YOURS Book 12)

  DEAR FIREFIGHTER HERO

  SINCERELY YOURS SERIES

  LANA DASH

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Epilogue

  Also By Lana Dash

  About the Author

  DEAR FIREFIGHTER HERO is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2021 by LANA DASH

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval systems, without express written permission from the author/publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  1

  LOUISA

  It's been over a year since the fire, and still, only bits and pieces of my memory of that night have come back to me. I don’t want to remember that moment in my life, but the scars from skin grafts on my legs and arm will always be a constant reminder of what I lived through, what I survived.

  I do my best to push down the memories so I don’t have to relive them again and again. But there are still moments when they come back, and I can’t escape them—the heat of the flames licking my skin, the sound of a voice calling for me through deafening noises of the building burning around me—the ice blue eyes of my hero that found me trapped under the collapsed beam.

  “Louisa?”

  I look up into the curious but concerned eyes of my newest counselor, Crystal. “Yes?”

  “Where did you go just now?”

  I pull at the cuff of my sweater, wanting to make sure it’s still covering the scars. Her gaze drops to my hands, and I know that she didn't miss a thing. She's more in tuned and sees through my bullshit than her predecessors.

  “Have you been writing in your anxiety journal?” she asks.

  No.

  “Yes.”

  “Really?” She quirks up one eyebrow. “And how’s that going?”

  “Good. I’m getting a lot weighing on me off my chest.”

  “Such as?”

  “My counselor is making me write in a stupid anxiety journal.”

  The corner of Crystal’s mouth ticks up in amusement. She doesn’t seem to get defensive when I push back. The previous two were so much easier to wind up, but Crystal is a tough nut to crack.

  “Can I hear some of it?”

  “Some of what?”

  “Something you wrote in your anxiety journal.”

  I shake my head. “I didn’t bring it with me.”

  "Do you think you didn't bring it with you because you left the journal I gave you here last week?"

  Busted.

  “That’s entirely possible.”

  “Louisa,” she says, setting down her notepad and pen and lean towards me. “I’m just trying to help you navigate your way through a very traumatic moment in your life. You survived a fire where some people died."

  At her words, I suddenly feel a tightness around my throat, like an invisible hand squeezing my neck. I didn't know the other people, but that doesn't mean I don't feel guilty that the firefighter found me in time and not them. Maybe that’s why I have these scars. They’re the price I must pay to get to live.

  “You feel guilt for surviving. That is a natural reaction to have, but I’m going to be blunt with you because I know that you can handle what I’m about to say.”

  I stare at her unblinkingly and brace for whatever she's about to say.

  “You are not special.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. There isn’t a special reason you were saved over someone else. You aren’t more deserving to be here than one of the people that died tragically that night. You were lucky.”

  A part of me thinks I should be offended by what she’s saying to me, but another part of me appreciates it. It’s like her words are a sledgehammer, and she’s swinging hard at the wall I’ve built up around myself since that night. It’s starting to crumble.

  “Stop thinking this is something bigger than what it actually is,” she continues. “It’s terrible what happened to you. It’s unthinkable what happened to those who lost their lives. But it isn’t your fault.”

  Whack!

  That last part splinters a crack in the wall that I’ve used for too long to protect me.

  “It’s not your fault,” she repeats.

  Whack!

  I brush my sleeve over my cheek and wipe away the tears that have pooled in my eyes. The wall crumbles, and for the first time since waking up in the hospital, all bandaged up, I don't feel the unbearable tightness around my chest. It's like I can finally take in a full deep breath that I couldn't before.

  "Are you sure?" I ask my voice barely above a whisper.

  Crystal picks up the tissue box sitting on the table next to her and holds it out to me. I grab two and dab at my eyes. It feels like a dam has burst, and I suddenly can't stop.

  “Louisa, you are an incredible person. You’ve experienced something in your life that no one should have to experience.” She points at me, accentuating each of her following words. "And. You. Survived."

  Crystal reaches over and pulls on the drawer of her desk, and pulls out the journal I left here last week. She sets it down on the table between us.

  “I know you think that this journal is a dumb idea.” She shrugs. “And maybe it is, but I do think that you need to let out what you’ve been bottling up inside before it consumes you. If a journal entry doesn’t feel right, then maybe you can write a letter.”

  “Who would I write to?”

  “Anyone you have something to say to but don’t want to say it face to face.”

  The ice blue eyes of the firefighter that saved me pops into my mind. He’d probably think I’m crazy for even sending it, but there’s no harm in writing it. I could thank him for saving my life.

  I crumple up the tissue in my hand and toss it into the small wastebasket near her desk. I lean forward and grab the journal off the table and slip it into my bag. Crystal doesn't act smug like the other two counselors when they thought they reached me. She picks up her notepad and pen and continues on with our session as though she didn't just convince me to take a massive step in my recovery.

  I can tell already tell that I’m going to be sticking with her for the foreseeable future.

  2

  TRAYNOR

  The firehouse is quiet and has been for days. The rain that’s been pounding Knight’s Ridge for the last seventy-two hours has finally let up. I’m grateful for the vitamin D I’ve been able to soak up, sitting on the rooftop of the firehouse.

  The sound of the rooftop door opening breaks the silence I’ve been enjoying.

  “Traynor!” Rhodes calls out to me. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

  The old metal folding chair squeaks under my weight as I sit up and glance back over my shoulder. Rhodes walks over to me and holds out an envelope to me.

  My feet drop off the small roof wall, and the pebbles crunch under my boots.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  He holds the envelope up to hi
s head and scrunches his face like he’s concentrating really hard—that or he’s about to rip an epic fart that could ruin his uniform.

  "Nope, my omnipotent powers haven’t kicked in, but I’m going to guess it’s a letter,” he says and tosses it at me.

  The thin envelope flutters into my lap. I pick it up and flip it over. My name is scribbled on the front, but there isn’t a name or a return address on it.

  "Have you finished washing down the truck?” Rhodes asks.

  “Done.”

  “And rolling the hoses?”

  “Yep.”

  Rhodes's cell phone rings in his pocket. The smile that spreads across his face when he pulls it out and sees the name on the screen is only one of a man truly in love.

  “Hey babe,” he says by way of answering before turning around and walking back towards the door.

  I’m the only guy in the firehouse that doesn’t have a girl. And for a while, I liked the idea of being untethered. Having complete control of the remote to watch whatever I want or not needing to ask if I can hang out with the guys on a Tuesday night for poker was just a few of the reasons that came to mind when one of the girlfriends of the other firefighters tried to set me up with one of their friends. But after being surrounded by a firehouse full of guys in love has started to make me think I’m missing out on something.

  I glance back down at the envelope in my lap, and I’m about to tear it open but stop when I hear some voices arguing on the sidewalk below.

  “I can’t believe you,” I hear a woman say.

  I peek over the edge of the roof and glance down. There are two women standing near the closed doors of the firehouse. One is a blonde in a flowing dress that looks more suitable for the humid North Carolina summer. While the brunette is dressed in long pants and a long-sleeved shirt. It’s as if she didn’t get the memo that it's summer and the humidity levels make it feel like you are breathing underwater.

  “I said I was sorry.” The blonde throws her hands up in frustration. “I thought I was doing you a favor. You weren’t going to have the guts to send the letter, so I did it for you.”

  “How did you even know who to send it to? I can’t remember who saved me that night.”

  "I called the firehouse and asked who was working that night, and he was the only one that has light blue eyes. You are always talking about the guy with light blue eyes.”

  Is she talking about me? I shouldn’t be listening to this conversation, but it’s the most excitement we’ve had around here since the rain started. And to be honest, I’m curious what this is all about.

  The brunette holds her hand over her eyes and presses her face close to the glass window. I doubt anyone is working on the truck at this moment to see her.

  “What are you planning on doing?” the blonde asks.

  “I’m going to get the letter back.”

  “And you think they are just going to hand it over to you?”

  “Maybe. If I ask nicely,” the brunette responds but doesn’t sound like even she’s convinced of her plan.

  I look down at the white envelope in my hand. I should give it back to her, but the curiosity about what she wrote is very tempting. Although I can’t imagine it’s too good if she’s going to all this trouble to get it back from me.

  Who even writes letters anymore? I don’t know anyone who would go to all the trouble to write a letter and mail it out when an email or text message is just as effective.

  "Now, where are you going?"

  I glance back down to the street below. The brunette is walking away from the firehouse door but stops and turns around.

  “Unless you put my name on it, then I didn’t sign the letter. Whoever that guy is, he’ll never know I wrote it. Besides, there’s not much I can do about it now. It was a stupid idea to come down here and think that I would get it back without someone asking a lot of questions that I’m not ready to answer.”

  The blonde walks over to her. “Before you go to work, can I buy you a coffee to say I’m sorry?”

  The brunette says something, but I can’t quite make it out—something something market.

  I lean over the edge to try and hear what she’s saying but notice the Harper’s Market logo on her shirt. She must work there. I’ve been there a bunch of times since I moved to Knight’s Ridge last year. How have I never noticed her? Who is she? Why is she sending me a letter that now she doesn’t want me to read? I have so many questions, but I can’t exactly call down to the women and ask them what is going on.

  I watch them walk away towards the center of town and with them the chance for me to do the right thing and return the letter. I flip the sealed envelope in my hands a few times. Even as I’m thinking about the fact that I shouldn’t open this, my finger slips beneath the folded flap and tears the envelope open.

  Dear To Whom It May Concern,

  I know that it sounds so formal addressing this letter the way I did, but I don’t know whose name to put because I never saw your face. I was one of the people you saved in the apartment fire on Wescott Avenue over a year ago. There are only a few things that I remember about that night, and you are one of them. It’s like my brain, through all the fiery chaos, found your blue eyes to focus on. You were the anchor that held me from losing myself to the overwhelming pain that nearly consumed me. How do you express your gratitude to someone who literally ran into a burning building to pull you out to safety? Simply saying thank you doesn’t feel like it’s enough, so until now, I've put off saying anything at all. I’ve focused a lot of the past year on healing my body, but it’s time to work on the mental and emotional journey of healing. It starts by taking the first steps in acknowledging my survival, but it's hard to move past it without asking the question of why I was survived, and others didn’t? It’s not fair to expect you to try and answer something more significant than the both of us, but the question still hangs over my head every day—and I still haven’t found an answer. I suppose I'll always be looking. But in the meantime, I want to say thank you.

  Sincerely Yours,

  Fire Girl

  3

  LOUISA

  Jobs in Knight’s Ridge are few and far between for someone like me. I need the flexibility in my schedule for a multitude of doctor appointments and accommodations for my limitations after my accident.

  For a while, I couldn’t find anyone willing to hire me. They never said it outright, but I knew the real reason that they didn’t want me working the reception desk at their dental practice or law office. The fire left a hole in this community, and the sight of my burn scars would be a daily reminder that this happened.

  Mr. Harper, the owner of Harper’s Market, lost his son in the fire. You’d think he was the last person who would want to be reminded every day of his loss, but he hired me on the spot when I walked in. I asked him once why it didn’t bother him to see me nearly every day. He told me that he didn't see me as a reminder of his loss but a reminder of the hope that even in the darkest moments, there are still glimmers of hope.

  I couldn’t see the hope. I was still mourning all that I felt I lost.

  But today is the first time I’ve woken up and felt the hope that Mr. Harper’s been talking about all this time—that is until I found out my roommate mailed the letter I wrote but couldn’t bring myself send.

  “Good afternoon, Louisa,” Mr. Harper greets me when I walk into the backroom of Harper's Market.

  “How’s it going, Mr. H?”

  He smiles at my little nickname for him. “Just working through the inventory receipts.”

  "Do you need any help with those?" I ask as I put my purse in my cubby and slip on my apron.

  “No need. I’ve got it all handled back here. Besides, I need your smiling face out front.”

  I’m not the bubbly employee that Mr. Harper likes to claim I am. He thinks that the influx of customer traffic into the market in the last few months is a result of him hiring me. I think it has more to do with the lack of grocery
options in our small mountain town, but I would never say that to him.

  "Well, you let me know if you need any help with that paperwork," I tell Mr. Harper as I take out the till that he’s prepped for me.

  “Will do, dear!” he calls after me.

  I love working the numbers for inventory—checking the figures and verifying them down to the penny. Math was my favorite subject in school. Numbers always made sense to me; there were no gray areas.

  I head out front and open the second checkout lane next to Sheryl.

  “Oh, there you are!” she says, slipping off the stool behind her register and waddling away in the direction of the restrooms. Sheryl’s seven months pregnant with twins and has to pee all the time. “I’ll be back in a moment!”

  I open my register and put the till in the drawer before clicking on my open register light.

  I check out a handful of customers before Sheryl gets back.

  “I swear, if one of these two isn’t a soccer star when they grow up, then my bladder is getting its ass kicked every day for no other reason than these two hate me.

  I chuckle. “I’m not sure fetuses can hate someone.”

  “You try having your already squished bladder kick boxed multiple times a day and see if what I’m saying doesn’t make sense.” She sighs and tries to push herself back up onto the stool. “And don’t even get me started on the stretch marks.”

  I look up in time to see her lift the bottom of her shirt to show me part of her protruding baby belly. There are angry red lines going up and down the tight skin over her belly.

  "My body will never bounce back from this. Can you imagine what it feels like to have your body disfigured—” Sheryl’s eyes widen like she can’t believe she just said that. “Oh honey, I wasn’t thinking.”