Table of Contents
Dedication
Content Warning
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Discover more Amara titles… The Wedding Date Disaster
Like a Boss
Rachel, Out of Office
The Burbs and the Bees
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 by Mariah Ankenman. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
10940 S Parker Rd
Suite 327
Parker, CO 80134
[email protected]
Amara is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
Edited by Stacy Abrams and Wendy Chen
Cover design by Bree Archer
Cover photography by The Killion Group Images
ISBN 978-1-64937-169-0
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition May 2021
To all the artists out there.
Life would be very dark and lonely without the beauty art brings into it. Keep creating, keep shining, keep spreading joy.
Content Warning
The Wedding Dilemma is a fun, red-hot rom-com with a happy ending, but there are a few elements that might be triggering to some readers. Images of peril in a burning building, death of a parent in a character’s back story, and open-door sex are within the novel. For readers who may be sensitive to these elements, please take note.
Chapter One
“Ma’am, the fire department is on the way. Remain calm and stay on the line with me.”
Tamsen Hayes clutched the cell phone tight to her ear, wincing as the movement pulled her sensitive skin.
“Thank you,” she spoke into the phone, trying her best to remain as still as possible. Every slight movement caused the plaster paste that had hardened to a cement-like substance on her body to pull and tug at the skin and fine hairs covering her chest and stomach. She stared down at the offensively bright white cast covering the front of her from just below her clavicle all the way down to her belly button.
How dare it look so innocent when it was literally baking her skin as she stared? She’d forgotten how hot casting made the skin…among other things she forgot. Thank goodness she’d only done a front casting and hadn’t wrapped the damn thing all the way around her torso.
At least the 911 operator didn’t laugh when she explained her predicament. This stranger on the other end of the call was her lifeline right now, because Tamsen was about five seconds away from a major freak out. How could she have forgotten to put the oil on her skin before starting? She’d learned all the nuances of plaster casting in Art 101 her freshman year of undergrad. She’d never forgotten the oil before.
It puts the lotion on the skin or else it gets the hose again.
The inside joke she and her classmates used to chant so they remembered to lubricate their subjects for safety’s sake had flown right out of her head.
Must be all the stress she’d been under lately. Tamsen had what her dad liked to call “scattered artist brain” on the best of days, but over the past few weeks, her focus had been stretched even thinner. Her father was about to get married, she was up for the day shift manager position at work, and she needed to complete a showcase of pieces to present to one of the city’s premier art galleries.
Hephaestus was one of the most popular art galleries in the Santa Fe street art district of Denver. The ten hours a week she worked there learning about the art world more than made up for the crappy pay.
At least this internship was paid. Winston, the owner of the gallery, loved supporting up-and-coming artists and had promised her once she got enough presentable pieces, he’d host a show for her. He even already approved her theme, The Human Form. An exhibit could be her big break into the art world—if she didn’t first break her ribs trying to get out of this failed body-casting piece.
She wondered if George Segal ever had setbacks like this.
“Is the front door unlocked?” the operator asked, his voice calm and steady, the complete opposite to how Tamsen felt at the moment.
She turned her head to glance at her front door, swearing as the slight shift of movement caused her skin to pull again against the hardened cast stuck to her chest. “Shit, that hurts!”
“Ma’am?” The operator’s voice rose an octave. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” As fine as one could be in her situation. Luckily, she hadn’t locked her front door. No way could she get up and move the twenty feet to unlock the deadbolt. The emergency personnel would have had to break down her door, and since she didn’t have the money to fix it, she was glad she’d ignored her father’s “always lock your door even if you’re home” advice today.
“The door is unlocked, so they can just come right in. I can’t really…it hurts too much to move.” One of the reasons she called 911. After ten minutes of trying to pry the thing off with her putty knife, tossing water on it to soften it, and smacking it with her fists—which did nothing to the cast but left painful red marks on her knuckles—the plaster had hardened to the point that even a tiny movement shot bolts of pain all along her chest. She couldn’t get off the couch to drive to the ER. She wished her roommate, Cora, was home. Cora was a NICU nurse and would probably know what to do, but her roomie was at work. At the hospital—how was that for irony? She’d been too embarrassed to call anyone else for help. Besides, what could her friends or her dad do that she hadn’t already tried?
“Okay,” the operator said, his voice back down to a calming tone. “Don’t worry, the firefighters will announce who they are, so just tell them they’re allowed to enter. They should be there any—”
A sharp knock on the door took her attention away from what the man on the phone was saying. Then a voice shouted from the other side: “Hello? Ms. Hayes? Denver Fire Department.”
“Oh, they’re here.” She let out a deep sigh of relief before shouting, “Yes, come in. The door’s unlocked.” Finally, this would all be over soon. Every moment this stupid white brick of a failed art project sat stuck to her chest, she felt it getting tighter and tighter. Might be a figment of her panicked imagination, but she wanted it off all the same.
She thanked the operator and ended the call as her front door opened and three of the biggest men she’d ever seen filed into her tiny apartment. They each wore those tan firefighter pants things with the n
eon stripes around the ankles, but they didn’t have the matching coats on. No, these men had deliciously tight gray T-shirts hugging their every muscle like a second skin. Even the big red suspenders connected to their pants were sexy.
Only a firefighter could make suspenders sexy.
They swallowed up all the available space, looking like one of those calendars the department sold every year as a fundraiser. Big, strong. And sexy. Maybe it was the tight-fitting T-shirts that read Denver County Fire Department. Or maybe it was the fact that they were here to set her free.
One of them, the tallest one standing in the back, had a large case in his hand that looked like some kind of medical kit. The guy next to him was a bit shorter and had sandy blond hair, but it was the firefighter in front, the one who opened the door, who drew her attention.
He stepped forward. “Ms. Hayes?”
Hello, handsome! The firefighter knelt in front of her. She nodded, because she couldn’t form words at the moment. She stared into the most beautiful brown eyes she’d ever seen, so pale they almost looked golden. His brown hair was short and slightly mussed. Not in an unkempt way, but in that charming roguish way men managed to pull off. He had a long blade of a nose and a sharply cut jawline, but his lips were curved in the most charming smile. A smile that made her heart race while at the same time putting her nerves at ease. It would be just her luck to have the sexiest firefighter in all of Colorado see her at her most embarrassing moment.
Fan-freaking-tastic.
“I’m Kincaid. How are you doing?”
“I’ve been better,” she said, finally regaining her composure and finding her voice.
Kincaid let out a small laugh, the sound enveloping her like a warm, cozy blanket. Wow. If firefighting ever fell through, the guy could make a fortune with his own ASMR channel.
“Why don’t you tell us what happened?”
Did she have to? She really, really didn’t want to admit to her own foolishness. Especially not in front of her personal fantasy come to life. Scratch that. If this were her fantasy, she and Kincaid would be on a private beach with cold drinks in their hands and nothing but the warmth of the sun on their skin.
“Um,” she began, knowing she had to give them the facts so they could help her. That was why she called, after all. “I’m working on a project for a possible upcoming art installation. It’s a show entitled The Human Form. I’m doing a bunch of paintings, sculpture, and mixed media art pieces on the various parts of the human body and how each one represents a stage of human development and emotions. It’s really a fascinating…” She trailed off, noticing the other two men still standing just beyond her open doorway duck their heads together and murmur something. Probably talking about the weirdo art lady who got herself stuck in a ridiculous plaster cast.
“Sorry.” She shrugged then winced when the movement caused her skin to pull against the plaster. “I tend to ramble when I get stressed.”
Kincaid nodded. “Completely understandable. So you were making a…”
“Molding,” she answered when he gestured to the cast on her chest. “I was doing a plaster cast, and then I was going to make a molding from the cast. I’ve done it before, but this time I…I guess I’ve just been a little scattered or something, because I forgot to put oil on my skin before I put the plaster on and, um, now it’s stuck.”
“Ward,” Kincaid said, turning his head to his fellow firefighters.
The man holding the case came forward, kneeling beside Kincaid and placing the large plastic case on the floor between them. Kincaid reached out, placing one large, warm hand behind her neck and his other on her lower back.
“Okay,” he said, his voice as calming as the 911 operator’s had been. “I’m just going to help you lay back on the couch so we can get a better idea of what we’re dealing with here.”
Goose bumps broke out all along her skin, which was weird because the moment Kincaid touched her, it felt like her body lit on fire…
Hmmm, good thing she had three sexy firefighters in her house.
“There you go,” Kincaid said as he gently helped position her flat on her back on her couch. “Now I’m just going to take a look.”
She winced when his hands moved to ever so slightly wiggle the plaster stuck to her body.
“Sorry.” He gave her an apologetic smile. “Okay, this thing is stuck on there pretty solidly. We have a cast saw, but I don’t want to use it if the plaster is stuck to your skin. We need to loosen the cast first.”
“Soak it?” Ward asked.
“I tried that,” she answered before Kincaid could respond. “I tried getting it wet, prying it off, breaking it apart with my fists, but nothing has worked.”
Kincaid sat back on his heels. The other firefighter came over, closing her front door before joining his buddies. The three men crouched down around her couch. Tamsen didn’t think she’d ever been surrounded by this much testosterone. It was a bit intimidating, but in a good way. She wanted to paint each and every one of these muscle-bound heroes. Preferably in the buff.
For artistic reasons, of course. It would go great with the theme of her show.
“We need something to loosen the adhesive from the skin,” said the firefighter whose name she hadn’t discovered yet, the blond one.
He was just as built and good looking as the other two. Tamsen had always had a thing for blonds, but as handsome as he and all the firefighters were, she found her gaze coming back to Kincaid. Something about him just…called to her muse. Oh, the things she could sculpt staring at this man.
Kincaid nodded in agreement. “Good idea, O’Neil.”
He turned his gaze back to her, those golden eyes capturing her, stealing the very breath from her body. Or maybe that was the tightening of the cast. She really needed to get this thing off.
“Do you have any lubricant we can use?”
Tamsen’s face flamed. Logically, she knew Kincaid meant grease or oil, but her lust-crazed hormones that had been sent into a frenzy the moment she laid eyes on her sexy firefighter hero, heard the word lube, and went to a very naughty place.
“Yeah.” The word squeaked out of her. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Yes. I have the oil I was supposed to use on my skin before applying the bandages. It’s on the counter over there.” She indicated with a nudge of her chin, too worried her hands would be shaking from embarrassed lust if she lifted her fingers to point. “I already tried to pour oil down the cast. But I wrapped it in a way that there isn’t any place for the oil to slip into.”
Because even though she was a scatterbrain, she was a very thorough scatterbrain.
“Hmmmm.” Kincaid rubbed his chin in thought, and Tamsen had to clench her thighs together to relieve some of the tension that deep, delicious sound created in her body.
“We could drill some holes in it?” Ward suggested. “Pour the oil in that way?”
Drill holes? Into the cast that was completely adhered to her skin? Her very puncturable skin? That sounded like the worst idea ever.
“It’ll be okay, Ms. Hayes,” Kincaid said, grabbing her hand and squeezing.
She glanced down to see her fingers shaking. Who could blame her? That Ward guy had suggested taking a power tool to her chest. Anyone would freak over that idea.
“It’s Tamsen,” she said, because if these guys were going to drill into her, they better use her first name.
Kincaid smiled. “Hi, Tamsen, I’m Parker Kincaid.”
Kincaid? Why did that name sound familiar? She had no idea, but damned if that smile didn’t ease some of the panic rising in her throat. Right until Ward opened the case by his feet and pulled out a small handheld drill. She sucked in a sharp breath, heart pounding so hard she hoped it would break the cast right off. Unfortunately, it didn’t.
“Tamsen.”
Parker’s deep voice brought her out
of her fog of panic. She glanced up to see his steady gaze on her.
“Everything is going to be fine. I promise.”
Easy for him to say. He wasn’t the one about to have a deadly instrument used in high school shop classes drilling into a very vulnerable part of his body.
“Squeeze my hand,” he commanded.
Worried any movement would increase her pain, she tentatively gave his hand a small squeeze. No pain. His presence must have calmed the pain receptors in her brain or something. Ward turned on the drill, pumping the trigger a few times while he inspected it, the high-pitched whirring sound catching her off-guard. Panicking, she sucked in a sharp breath, gripping Parker’s hand tightly, positive she was crushing the poor man’s fingers, but he just smiled. As if this was a completely normal thing. Who knew? For him it might be. She bet first responders got all kinds of strange calls.
“Now,” Parker continued, “breathe with me. Ward is going to go extra slow, and if you ever feel uncomfortable or scared, just squeeze my hand and I’ll tell him to stop, okay?”
She nodded, afraid if she opened her mouth, nothing but sobs would escape. Parker gave a subtle tip of his chin, and Ward placed the drill against the cast on her chest, directly in the middle, right below her breastbone, then slowly pressed the trigger. The bit whirled around and around at a snail’s pace, tiny chunks of white plaster spinning around the bit and flying off in all directions.
“Good, Ward,” Parker said, his eyes on his buddy but his hand firmly clasped to hers. “Now ease off a bit. Let’s take a look.”
Ward removed the drill, and the two men glanced into the fresh hole.
“Tamsen.” Parker glanced at her. “I’m going to stick my finger in and see how close we are, okay?”
Good grief, could the man stop saying inadvertently dirty things? Her mind was having a heyday between freaking out and horning up.
She shut her eyes tight, muttering, “Okay.”
“All right, just another half inch or so,” she heard Parker say. Then the drill was back, the slow hum of the power tool wreaking havoc on her nerves.
The Wedding Dilemma (Mile High Firefighters) Page 1