January On Fire: A Firefighter Fake Marriage Romance

by Chase Jackson

  I opened the fridge again and dug around in the back, this time pulling out a bottle that I had buried all the way in the back. It was nothing too fancy… I wasn’t the kind of guy who could justify drinking a bottle of champagne that cost more than a monthly utility bill. It was just a bottle of Bollinger that the chief had given me a few months back to celebrate my six-year anniversary at Firehouse 56. The guys had taken me out for drinks that same night, so I had never gotten around to popping the bottle. And I hadn’t had an occasion to open since, or a person worth sharing it with. Until now.

  “An occasion like this calls for champagne,” I said.

  “Wait a sec,” Cassidy blinked up at me as I unscrewed the metal cap that secured the cork. “Does that mean… are we… you’re saying yes?”

  I pressed my thumb under the cork and it dislodged with a loud POP.

  “Well technically,” I said, “You’re the one who’s supposed to answer that question.”

  “Oh my God!” she cried, and for a second I thought she might actually break down in tears.

  She flung her arms around my neck, and I felt her bare chest press against mine. I forgot all about the bottle of champagne that was spilling a curtain of foam over my hand and forearm. All I could think about was how Cassidy’s bare chest felt against mine; her soft breasts squished against my ab and her pointed nipples poked into my flesh. I bent down, wrapping my arm around her waist. I had never held her like that, and I felt an electric charge jolt straight to my cock.

  I wanted nothing more than to grip my hands around her tiny waist and wrap her thick thighs around my pelvis, so I could feel her soft curves pressed against every damn inch of me. But I didn’t.

  “I owe you big time,” Cassidy whispered, her face pressed into my bare chest.

  “Don’t worry,” I smiled. “You can make it up to me on our wedding night.”

  I expected her to roll her eyes, but this time she didn’t. Instead, I swear she pressed herself a little bit closer to me. I had to fill my head with visions of burning buildings and engine parts and whatever else distracted me from envisioning Cassidy’s bare flesh pressed against mine.

  “So, you tell me, Ladybug,” I said, breaking the embrace so I could pour out two glasses of champagne. “Are we getting married, or what?”

  She gnawed on her bottom lip, and then she nodded.

  “I never thought I’d be saying this, but… let’s get married.”

  CHAPTER SIX | CASSIDY

  “Mom, Dad… I need to tell you something.”

  My heart raced in my chest, my stomach was in knots, and a dull ache still throbbed through my temples from last night’s champagne. I took a deep shaky breath, then I forced my chin up and opened my eyes.

  My own reflection stared back at me from the bathroom mirror.

  I released the tense breath that I had been holding in my lungs, then I slumped forward on the sink vanity and buried my face in my hands.

  “I’m so fucked,” I groaned.

  I had practiced delivering my big announcement to the bathroom mirror for over an hour, but I still hadn’t figured out the part that was supposed to come after the words, “I need to tell you something…”

  If I couldn’t even manage to tell my own reflection that I was engaged to Brady Hudson, how was I supposed to deliver the news to Mom and Dad? And more importantly: how was I supposed to convince them that I was madly in love and ready to walk down the aisle when, less than forty-eight hours earlier, I couldn’t even have a conversation about dating without cringing in disgust?

  I rolled my head up and blinked at my reflection through the curtain of black curls that had gotten dislodged from the messy bun on top of my head.

  “Why the hell did I think I could pull this off?”

  I sighed, then I tugged at the loose hair elastic that held up the remainder of my messy bun. Soft waves of dark hair spilled down over my shoulders and I combed my fingers through the liberated strands.

  Before I could stop myself, I imagined how it would feel to have Brady’s strong hands tangled through my tresses. I imagined his fingers slipping up the base of my neck and digging into my dark forest of curls, then gripping onto a fistful and tugging...

  A hot tingle sizzled through my scalp and all the way down to my pussy. The sensation caught me off guard and I inhaled sharply, sucking my bottom lip between my teeth and biting down.

  My mind raced, and I wondered if Brady had meant any of those jokes he made about wedding night sex and blow jobs…

  Had he ever thought about me as more than just a childhood friend? Or did he still just see me as the girl next door, who collected ladybugs in her pockets and kept the training wheels on her bike until she was nine years old?

  Focus, Cassidy! I scolded myself.

  I took a deep breath, then I forced my attention back to the mirror.

  “Hey Mom and Dad,” I tried again. “There’s something I need to tell you both…”

  Before I got any further with my umpteenth attempt at announcing my engagement, I was startled by a knock on the bathroom door.

  “Hurry up, honey,” my dad’s muffled voice called through the door. “Breakfast is getting cold!”

  I sighed in defeat.

  “I’ll be down in a sec!”

  I pulled my hair back up into a messy bun, then I splashed some cold water over my flushed cheeks and patted my face dry with a clean towel.

  “Here goes nothing…” I grimaced at my reflection, then I forced myself out of the bathroom and down the carpeted stairs towards the kitchen.

  My parents were waiting for me at the breakfast table. Dad sat at the head of the table, his face hidden behind an open newspaper. Mom was by his side, thumbing through the stack of weekly sales sheets and clipping coupons. The cinnamony scent of french toast and fresh coffee wafted through the air.

  The scene immediately triggered a sense of deja vu; ever since I was a kid, Sunday morning breakfast had been a Laurent family tradition.

  When Mom got sick, Sunday morning breakfast had been replaced with Sunday morning chemo treatments at the hospital. I couldn’t even remember the last Sunday breakfast the three of us had shared together as a family.

  “There she is!” my dad said as I took a seat across from Mom at the kitchen table. He folded his newspaper and glanced up. There was a wide smile on his face, but he wasn’t looking at me.

  I followed his gaze over my shoulder and across the kitchen, and I was nearly knocked out of my chair and onto my ass from the shock of what -- or rather who -- I saw, standing over the kitchen sink.

  “Hey you,” Brady winked at me casually, as if there was nothing out of the ordinary about him standing in my parents’ kitchen on a Sunday morning, elbows-deep in suds as he scrubbed our dirty breakfast dishes.

  I was pretty sure the last time Brady Hudson had been in my parents’ kitchen, I had still been wearing tube socks and a training bra...

  “What is he doing here?” I squeaked to my dad.

  “Don’t be silly!” Dad said. “Brady’s part of the family, he’s always welcome to join us!”

  Brady grinned, keeping his eyes on me as he twisted off the sink faucet and flung the dish towel over his shoulder.

  He looks so… domesticated. I felt a warm tingle of excitement spread through my chest.

  “Besides,” Dad added as he passed the newspaper across the kitchen table towards me, “As far as I’m concerned, there’s always a spot at our table for anyone who is willing to risk their life to protect and serve this community.”

  I glanced down at the newspaper. It was folded to the front page, where a bold headline read:

  ‘Heroic Hartford Fireman Saves Woman from Five-Alarm Fire’

  Underneath the headline there was a photograph of Brady. He was outfitted in his black fire gear, and he was holding a woman’s lifeless body in his arms as he ran from a burning building. Bright orange flames roared behind him, and his face was darkened with black ash.r />
  That warm tingle of excitement turned into a sudden surge of heat, pulsing through my veins and pooling between my thighs.

  “So, you’re making the town hero wash the dishes?” I croaked. It was my lame attempt at a joke to detract from the pink flush that was quickly spreading over my chest and cheeks.

  “He insisted,” Dad said. “He’s a good kid. His old man would be proud.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Laurent,” Brady said. “That means a lot.”

  “Cassidy,” Mom peeped up, “Brady said that you had something important to tell us, and he thought he should be here for it.”

  “Uhh… really?” My anxiety instantly flooded back, and I shot a quick glare over my shoulder at Brady, but he just kept on smiling.

  I turned back around to face my Mom. I was desperate to change the subject, so I asked:

  “How does your stomach feel today? Does that new medicine that Doctor Burke prescribed seem to be working? Have you tried eating anything yet?”

  “I can’t get her to eat,” Dad sighed. “This is the first time your mother has ever refused a plate of my famous french toast casserole!”

  I smiled and rolled my eyes. Once upon a time, my dad had made the happy accident of preparing french toast in a casserole dish instead of a skillet. When the snafu was success, he credited himself for inventing a new breakfast delicacy, and he had bragged about his “famous” french toast casserole ever since.

  “Maybe you can convince her, Cass,” Dad said to me, throwing up his hands in defeat. “She doesn’t want to hear it from me.”

  I knew it was pointless. Mom always got annoyed when I reminded her to eat or take her medicine, and she was always quick to point out that she was the mother and I was the daughter; not the other way around.

  Still, I had to try.

  “Mom,” I said, glancing down at the untouched serving of french toast on her plate. “Dad’s right. You do need to eat. Can you just try taking a few bites?”

  “I’m not really feeling up to it, Cass,” my mom said wearily, pushing the plate away.

  Before I could object, I felt a pair of sturdy hands land on the back of my chair; Brady. I made the mistake of inhaling, and I was flooded by the smell of his aftershave; woodsy, deep, undeniably masculine… the kind of scent that made me tingle from head to toe.

  “I think I might be able to help your appetite, Mrs. Laurent.”

  “You do?” Mom asked. There was a faint twinkle in her eyes.

  Brady glanced down at me: “Should we tell them?”

  My heart was pounding in my throat and my mouth felt completely dry. This wasn’t the scenario I had spent the morning rehearsing for in my bathroom mirror, but I knew there was no backing down now…

  “Tell us what?” Mom asked.

  Brady took a seat in the chair next to me at the table and scooted closer. Then he did something that caught me by surprise: he opened his palm and took my hand in his, then wrapped his fingers around mine and squeezed. His skin was warm and so much softer than I had expected, and I felt thousands of tiny sparks ignite everywhere that his skin touched mine.

  I gulped and my eyes locked onto his, getting lost in the swirls of stormy grey. Then he leaned close to me, pressing the warmth of his firm chest against my shoulder, and in a voice so soft that only I could hear it, he whispered:

  “Let’s do this, Ladybug.”

  I took a deep breath and turned to my parents, who were blinking back expectantly. Then, in one breath, I managed to finally blurt out the words I had been trying to say all morning:

  “Brady and I are getting married.”

  Silence.

  Dad cocked his head and frowned in confusion. Mom blinked several times, then folded her hands together thoughtfully and leaned forward on the kitchen table.

  “Are you sure?” Dad asked finally, breaking the silence.

  “Umm…” my voice trailed off. I started to panic, and my eyes shot to Brady in desperation.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Laurent,” Brady said calmly, “I know this must seem very unexpected--”

  “You can say that again!” Dad huffed. “I didn’t even know you two were an item.”

  An ‘item.’ Even though my chest felt like a pinball machine of nerves, I still managed to be amused by my dad’s vintage vocabulary.

  “Oh, Hank,” my mom rolled her eyes in exasperation.

  “What? Did you know?”

  “Well, I always had a feeling there was something between the two of you...” she admitted, her eyes flitting between Brady and me. “I just thought you were both still too stubborn to see it for yourselves.”

  My cheeks burned bright red.

  “Nobody told me!” Dad’s voice sounded hurt, and he folded his arms over his chest.

  “We didn’t tell anybody,” I said quickly.

  “Why?” Mom asked. “You know how much we love Brady. We would have welcomed him with open arms!”

  I wasn’t sure how to answer that. All I knew was that this conversation wasn’t anything like the script I had planned in my head.

  “Cassidy was trying to look out for you, Mrs. Laurent,” Brady took over. “She knew how much you wanted to see her settle down and get married, but she didn’t want to get your hopes up until she knew that this… crazy thing between us was real.”

  Brady’s eyes met mine, and there was something so sincere about his steady voice that even I found myself believing him.

  “Is that true, Cass?” Mom asked.

  “I didn’t want you to worry,” I said. “You had enough to think about, with the cancer and treatment…”

  Mom sighed, looking down at her folded hands on the table. I wondered what she was thinking...

  “How long has this been going on?” Dad asked.

  Brady and I both tried to answer at the same time:

  “About ten months--”

  “A year and a half--”

  Shit. I couldn’t bring myself to look anyone in the eye. My heart was pounding and my brain was scrambling, trying to come up with an explanation.

  Did we just blow it?!

  But Brady played it off perfectly. He flashed an easy smile and shrugged: “We can never agree on the exact timeline. I say a year and a half, because that’s how long it’s been since our first date. I knew that very night that I wanted to marry Cassidy. But I guess it took a little longer for me to convince her to really give me a chance, because she only thinks we’ve been together for ten months.”

  He winked at me.

  Clever save, I thought. But… why am I the bad guy?

  Mom narrowed her eyes and studied me for a few seconds. Then she nodded at my left hand:

  “No ring?”

  I glanced down at my bare ring-finger.

  “It didn’t fit,” I said quickly.

  “We had to send it back to be resized,” Brady added.

  He was much better at this than I was. Hell, he was even started to have me convinced. But Mom still kept her eyes locked on me.

  “You’re really getting married?” she asked.

  I swallowed heavily, trying to ward off the nagging sense of guilt that was swelling in my heart. I didn’t like lying to my mom, even if that lie was for her own sake.

  “Yes,” I nodded.

  She took a deep breath, and I braced myself for the next round of questions. But instead, her entire face suddenly lit up and she jumped out of her chair.

  “Finally!” she cried, throwing up her hands in victory. “My baby girl is getting married!”

  My mom’s overjoyed reaction was enough to soften the frown on my dad’s face, and they both pulled us in for a group hug. Then Mom scurried to grab her iPad and her glasses.

  “We need to start planning right away!” she gushed. “Especially if you want a summer wedding! Oh gosh, there’s so much to do… we need to pick a date and a venue, order flowers, find you a dress…”

  The four of us spent the r
est of the morning sat around the kitchen table talking about frilly dresses and tiered cakes and wedding marches. The whole time, I kept glancing anxiously at Brady. I was worried that all of the wedding talk might give him second thoughts about our crazy plan. But he just smiled back at me every time, and there wasn’t a shred of hesitation on his face.

  I had no idea what I had gotten myself into, but I did know one thing: my mom was happier than I had seen her in a long time. And by the time we had wrapped up our impromptu wedding-planning session, Mom had devoured every last bite of french toast on her plate.

  CHAPTER SEVEN | BRADY

  “Gather ‘round, boys!” my brother’s voice boomed through the brick walls of the empty vehicle bay. “It’s poker night!”

  Poker night: a weekly Firehouse 56 tradition. At least it had been, back in the day, when our old man was still on the crew.

  When we were growing up, Josh and I had always looked forward to Monday nights. It was the only night out of the week that our stiff-lipped, straight-laced father would undo the top button of his Firehouse 56 polo shirt, throw back a bottle of beer, and relax with the rest of the guys.

  It was also one of the few occasions when Josh and I were allowed to enter the firehouse; as a reward for good behavior, our father would occasionally agree to let us tag along for Monday night poker.

  Josh and I barely had hair on our upper lips, but the guys at the station treated us like we were bonafide members of the crew. We would squeeze in around a cramped makeshift poker table, and we would watch through a haze of cigar smoke and whiskey as they worked through the deck and traded wild stories.

  We got a hell of an education… the kind you couldn’t get from books, or school, or even the Army. We learned about sex, love, lust, women, heartbreak, jealousy, revenge… and we also learned how to play a damn good game of poker.

  Josh and I only got to tag along a handful of times, but those nights were some of the best memories I had of my father.

  By the time I joined the ranks at Firehouse 56, Monday night poker had been replaced with a 65” flat-screen TV and a shiny new XBox. I guess the long-standing tradition had died out with our father’s generation. And if Josh hadn’t stepped in, it probably would have stayed that way.