“So … not a good time?”

“I don’t want to talk about it. Oatmeal. No fruit. Cinnamon.” I was determined to eat, not knowing when I would have a non-instant-noodle meal next. “Please.”

“You got it,” Tyler said, ordering for me when Chelsea returned with our waters. He didn’t talk much, and I didn’t complain. There was already too much movement and light and sound and breathing going on. Clanking of dishes, talking, some damn kids laughing, car doors slamming shut—everyone needed to die.

“You look like you hate everything,” Tyler said.

“Pretty much.” I pulled my hoodie over my head, supporting my face with my hands.

“Is this one of those things we’ll laugh about later?”

I sunk down in my seat. The sunglasses weren’t helping. It felt like the sun was piercing my brain. “Probably not. I’m so sorry.”

Chelsea slid my bowl of oatmeal in front of me, the cinnamon wafting to my nose. It actually smelled appetizing until Tyler’s stack of pancakes with blueberries, chocolate, whipped cream, and maple syrup hit my nose.

“Christ,” I said, recoiling. “Has anyone ever told you that you eat like a toddler?”

“Many, many times,” he said, digging at the stack with his fork and shoveling in a bite.

“How do you look like that,” I said, pointing at him, “if you eat like that?” I pointed to his plate.

“We have a lot of downtime at the station, as opposed to the dormitory during fire season. I don’t like sitting still, so I work out a lot.”

He had to. He was a mammoth.

I picked up a spoon and dug into the bowl, scooping up a small bite first, just to test the waters. So far, so good. Plain toast, cinnamon, bland oatmeal. I could still party like a rock star but apparently couldn’t recover like one.

I finished off my water with the pair of ibuprofen I’d brought from home, and then looked at my watch.

“In a hurry?” Tyler asked.

“I just want to make sure that I get to the office on time if your superintendent doesn’t let you talk him into this absurd plan.”

Tyler had already nearly put away half of the pancakes. I wasn’t sure when. “Photographers follow us out all the time. Not sure how you’re going to keep up in your condition, if we get called out, though. The hikes are pretty brutal.”

“Shut up.”

“Uphill.”

“Why are you torturing me?”

“…in the snow.”

“You worry about your job, I’ll worry about mine.”

Tyler laughed once. “How did a billionaire’s daughter wind up taking action shots for a magazine? That’s kind of random, isn’t it?”

“I’ve told you about my parents, and I know you remember. You told Paige over drinks or whatever.”

“Does that bother you?” Tyler asked, amused.

“That you’re talking about my business? Or that you were with Paige?”

“Either.”

“That was personal. That’s not exactly bar talk.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I just figured she was your friend … and I was a little worried about you. I figured she’d know more than I did.”

“Paige is a sweet girl. She’s not my friend.”

“Friends with benefits?”

I glared at him, and he held up his hands, chuckling.

“Are you finished stuffing your face? It’s making me nauseous,” I said.

He stood, put a few bills on the table, and helped me up. He held me to his side, supporting my weight with ease and looking fairly sympathetic. “You okay?”

I blew an errant long bang from my face, even more pissed at myself than I already was, and if I was honest, pissed at Paige. She didn’t know how hard I’d been working, though. She wasn’t responsible for my new path; that was all me.

Tyler guided me to his truck and helped me inside. I tried to face forward and keep my eyes on the road, because riding in the back of the Audi on the way to Winona’s an hour before was rather brutal.

Less than fifteen minutes later, we turned onto Mills Drive. His truck bounced over the uneven asphalt and ice as he parked in a lot south of the station.

“Sorry,” he said. “We’ve got a short walk.”

A vent was bleeding white mist out of the side of the brown building, and I stepped down and looked across the street, squinting my eyes to try to see if the lights were on yet at the MountainEar.

“If you need to throw up, now is the time,” Tyler said, walking around the front to stand next to me. His thick arm hooked around my shoulders, but I shrugged away.

“I’m fine. Don’t baby me. I did this to myself.”

“Yes. Yes, you did.” Tyler stepped through the blanket of snow covering the broad gap between his truck and the station. We reached the back door, and with a quick twist of the knob, it was open. Tyler swept his arm toward the hallway ahead. “After you.”

I crossed my arms to ward off the cold as I walked inside. It was much harder to keep warm when I was hungover for some reason—another thing to be pissed about.

Tyler stomped his boots on a large industrial mat, and I did the same. He gestured for me to follow him down a hallway lined with cheap frames holding pictures of former superintendents and a few fallen fire fighters. The last picture was from the late nineties, and the guy couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. I paused, staring at his freckles and sweet smile.

We passed an open doorway that led to a brightly lit garage full of pumper trucks, engines, and equipment. Packs and helmets hung from hooks on the walls, and extra hoses were squared away on large shelves.

“I’ll let you get some shots in here after we get the okay from the superintendent,” Tyler said. “My squad boss said he’s in today, sorting through applications.”

After a few closed doors, we crossed the threshold of another doorway. Tyler pointed behind us. “That’s the squad boss’s office. The superintendent is in there now, cussing at the computer. His name is Chief.”

“Is he the chief or superintendent?”

“His name is Chief. His position is superintendent. He’s the one who has to clear you to stay at the dorms.”

“Gotcha. Wait. I’m staying at the dorms? Where are the dorms?”