Hell, I didn’t believe in it, and a part of me was thinking it.
Of all the people I could have sent that text to—of all the numbers that irritating person on the dating app sent me, it was Reagan’s.
I’d sent her a picture of my dick.
Four days later, I’d saved her life.
I shook my head and dropped onto my couch. I was supposed to meet the guys for a beer tonight, but I didn’t think I could. Physical exhaustion was setting in now, but that was probably because I’d thought myself into it.
I wanted to text her.
I wanted to text Reagan and see how she was, if she was home yet, if she was in disbelief like I was.
I knew it wasn’t a good idea. She already had people fawning over her, but she struck me as the kind of person who considered that their worst nightmare. One glimpse at her and you knew she was an independent soul.
She didn’t need me bothering her, too.
I grabbed the remote and turned on the television. Poosh, my chihuahua, jumped onto the sofa next to me. I glared at her, but she simply circled like a cat until she was comfortable and stuck her ass in my direction.
All the people in my family, and I was the one who’d gotten stuck with the little diva when my grandma died.
“You comfy there, Poosh?”
She wagged her little tail in response.
I took that as a yes.
Apparently, six years of sleeping on the sofa negated six months of being told ‘get off the furniture.’
Yes, I’d given up, and no, I wasn’t proud.
I was also wondering when my mom was going to take the dog like she’d promised she would when she moved. Considering it’d been three months since then and she hadn’t mentioned it once, I had to stop and ask myself why I was still wondering.
Poosh was mine now.
I still lived in hope that me, a six-foot-three firefighter with tattoos and muscles would one day get something a little more… masculine… than an eight-inch tall purse poodle.
I flicked through the channels until I found the sports news. There was a rundown of the football scores from last weekend and a look at the division standings, but that was as far as I made it before I zoned out.
Scratching Poosh behind the ear, I found my gaze falling down to my phone on the coffee table.
It was fucking ridiculous.
I didn’t even know Reagan. Why the hell was I here, fawning over her as if she was my ex-girlfriend who’d just broken up with me?
I knew why.
Sadly, I did.
I was used to texting her. When I wasn’t at work, all this week, I’d been talking to her. It’d filled my time and passed the minutes until we either had to work or sleep. A few days ago, this very time would have been filled with the back and forth of our banter.
“Ah, fuck it, Poosh,” I muttered, leaning forward and grabbing my phone. She yipped at the disturbance of the sofa cushion and then, for my insolence, farted.
Being a dog dad was not the way I’d imagined it to be.
I unlocked my phone and opened my text messages. Just as I did, a new message came through, and my chat with Reagan showed up bold.
She’d beaten me to it.
REAGAN: They finally let me home. I want to go back. My great-aunt is driving me insane.
ME: How are you feeling?
REAGAN: Like I almost died.
REAGAN: Then got thrown into the nuthouse when the hospital let me out.
ME: That bad, huh?
REAGAN: She won’t leave me alone. I’m in my old bedroom and there’s a poster of Justin Timberlake with noodle hair.
ME: Noodle hair?
REAGAN: *attachment*
I clicked the image to open it. A picture of Justin circa… God, sometime in the damn Noughties filled my phone screen. His hair was jelled to within an inch of its life and colored a yellowish-blonde.
Yep.
Noodle hair.
ME: That’s a little scary. Why is he looking at you like that?
REAGAN: 10 years ago, it was because he wanted to marry me. Now, he looks like he wants to kill me.
ME: Why not just take it down?
REAGAN: My aunt won’t let me get out of bed. I think she thinks I was in the ICU.
ME: It’s nice that she cares.
REAGAN: If she escorts me to the bathroom again, she’ll be the one in ICU.
ME: That’s probably a jailable offense. Two emergency services in one week is enough.
REAGAN: I like to do things properly. A round three seems like the way to finish the weekend.
ME: Reagan. No.
REAGAN: Fine.
REAGAN: But if Great-Aunt Bethel is found dead under the bed, I’m holding you personally responsible.
ME: DNA will prove otherwise.
REAGAN: I watch the ID channel. They can try.
ME: I’d like to see YOU try.
REAGAN: It can be arranged.
ME: Don’t murder your aunt. Seriously. A firefighter and a hospital bed are enough for one weekend. Besides, the police might want to talk to you anyway when the cause of the fire is determined.
REAGAN: You can’t hear me, but I’m sighing.
ME: I imagine you are.
Poosh jumped off the sofa and went to the door, whining to be let out. I dropped my phone on the coffee table and whistled for her to follow me to the back door. She trotted along after me, her nails scratching against the tiled kitchen floor, and ran outside the second I opened the door.
I left her for a few minutes so she could do her business. When she was done, she came back in and headed straight for her water bowl. A few licks later and she bounded into her bed with her favorite stuffed animal and curled up to go to sleep.
I left her to it, shutting off the light on my way back through. My phone was flashing with another text message, and I scooped it up on my way to the stairs.
REAGAN: This is weird, isn’t it.
It wasn’t a question. It was weird.
ME: Yep. Totally weird.
CHAPTER SIX
* * *
REAGAN
Crazy Is As Crazy Does
It was always good to know you were on the same page as someone.
For me, it was the hurried goodnight last night after me and Noah both acknowledged it was a weird situation.
It’d been funny in the hospital. I was tired and maybe still ever-so-slightly in shock, but now, a day later, it was just plain weird.
I was attracted to him. Like, attracted, attracted. I didn’t need those panties the girls brought me attracted.
He was hot.
Really. Fucking. Hot.
And my literal dream. I’d once told Halley and Ava that I was holding out for a hot, tattooed firefighter with a rescue chihuahua. I knew Noah had a dog, and if it was a rescue chihuahua…
Well, I’d probably come in my pants.
Actually, there was no probably about it.
I’d come in my pants, then knock the guy out and drug him so he’d marry me.
All right. That was a little extreme.
My attraction to him was purely sexual. I wanted to jump his bones. He was the kind of guy you took home—and he met your mom the next morning.
Ahh.
This was just like me. My life was in pieces, and here I was, thinking about a hot guy.
At least he took my mind off the fact I was lying in bed, not allowed to move, totally fine.
Homeless, yes.
Clothes-less? Pretty much.
Already dreading the inevitable call with my insurance company? Abso-freaking-lutely.