I check the rearview mirror and spot a small cut above my eye where my head hit the steering wheel. I try to wipe up the blood with my hand, but it’s no use; the cut is a gusher.

Without a stock of napkins in my new car, I have no choice but to utilize the only other source of absorbent material available. I quickly take off my T-shirt, revealing my new black bralette—stupid impulse purchase—and ball up the fabric right above my eye, applying pressure.

Okay, I just need to take some deep breaths, let the initial adrenaline wear off for a few minutes.

Deep breaths in and out. In and out. Everything is going to be okay.

Once I find that I’m calm and ready to face the damages, I grab my phone and purse and go to open my car door—only to find it’s stuck.

“What the. . . ?” I pull the lever and push again, but it doesn’t move.

Looking out the window for the first time, past the T-shirt hanging over half of my face, I focus and take in a very tall tree blocking my door.

“Oh crap, that’s not good,” I huff. “Thank God for two doors.” I turn toward the passenger-side door and blow the sleeve off my face just in time to see an identical tree blocking in the passenger side as well.

Like a ping-pong ball, my head bounces back and forth between the two doors, taking in my only two exits. I’m completely blocked off.

Crap.

The car hisses.

Steam billows out from under the hood.

Something is dripping. Is something dripping? I swear I can hear something dripping.

Oh God.

Okay, remember when I said I was calm and collected?

Not anymore.

Nope, pure hysteria consumes me in a nanosecond as I fumble for my phone and dial 911.

Shirt pressed to my forehead, my bra on display for the wildlife to see, I bounce my foot up and down, waiting for someone to answer.

On the second ring, a voice comes on the phone.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“I’m going to die!” I scream into the phone, spit shooting out of my mouth, hands flying to the roof of my car. I’ve morphed into a frenzied, neurotic person on the verge of a mental breakdown—oh God, I’ve become my mother.

CHAPTER THREE

GRIFFIN

I sit on the edge of my seat, ready to pounce out of the truck, the suspenders connected to my pants pulling on my shoulders with every hill and pothole the truck runs over.

The break from a very busy day at the Lobster Landing is needed, but after listening to the recorded 911 call, I’m feeling a little anxious. The call was choppy, but from what we could hear, a woman was about to die in her car on the side of Route 1 near mile marker 183, just outside of town.

I’ve been a volunteer firefighter for years now, and even though I’ve been trained in everything under the sun and I’ve seen more tragedy than I’d prefer, I still get a stomach full of nerves every time I’m sent out on a call. The uncertainty of what we’re going to be driving up to—that doesn’t go away.

And whenever a car is involved, I always think the worst.

“Are you ready?” Greg, one of my fellow firefighters, asks. “Keep your eyes peeled.”

Dave, the driver, slows down as we hit the mile marker where the respondent directed us.

“Over there,” Greg calls out, pointing out evident tire marks in the wild, grassy slope off to the side.

Dave parks the truck. Greg and I hop out immediately, jogging down the hill to find a small red car wedged between two pine trees and suspended about half a foot above the ground, branches resting on top of the car like a blanket. Steam filters from under the hood, and from a first assessment, I’m thinking this can’t be good.

“Oh shit,” Greg mutters, echoing my exact thought.

Not sparing a second, I race through the overgrown grass, my boots sinking into the ground, muddy from the rain showers the night before, as I make my way to the driver’s side door.

I lean forward, trying to get a good look in the car, and spot a figure lying across the center console of the vehicle.

Shit.

Please don’t be dead.

“Greg, radio the EMT; make sure they’re on their way,” I yell over my shoulder.

“On it,” he calls out.

Nerves building up at the base of my spine, I knock on the window with the knuckle of my index finger. “Emergency responders—are you okay?” I shout, trying to get the woman’s attention.

She doesn’t move. My heart sinks, my instincts kicking in. There’s no getting the car door open, which means I’m going to have to break open the window.

I pull out my rescue tool, a gadget built for breaking windows, from my holster and peek in the window again. I knock on it once more for good measure, my eyes trained on the woman, my pulse thudding, pounding, rocking my body—just as she shoots forward and presses her face against the window, bloody forehead smearing across the glass, pure hysteria on her face, scaring the ever-living crap out of me.

“Get me out of here!” she screams, pounding on the window.

Jesus Christ.

I catch my breath, trying not to show how startled I am by this jack-in-the-box victim popping up.

“Ma’am, no need to worry. I’m going to get you out of there. Everything will be okay.”

“Am I going to die?” she asks, pushing what looks like a bloody T-shirt against her forehead. “The car is going to explode any minute, isn’t it?”

I shake my head. “No, the car should be fine, but I’m going to have to break your window to get you out. Are you able to scoot to the other side?”

“Yes, I can scoot over. Just be careful with that ax. I’m young and still have so much life to live.”

This isn’t my first time helping someone as terrified as this woman, but it might be the first time someone has looked this crazed. And is that her . . . bra?

Forgetting about her clothing, I focus in on the job. “You’ll be just fine. I’m going to use this tool to break the glass.” I raise it up. “Not an ax. EMTs are on their way.”

“You won’t let me die?”

“No, ma’am. I won’t let you die. Now just scoot over—”

“It was a moose,” she yells, pressing her spare hand against the window. “A moose did this to me.”

I nod. Why the hell hasn’t she scooted to the side? And why are we still yelling at each other through the glass? “Okay, ma’am. We can discuss that after I get you out. Please move to the other side of the car.”

Cautiously she looks at me and then points her finger. “Don’t slash me.”

“I won’t slash you, I promise.”

Finally, she scoots over to the other side of the vehicle and curls up against the far door. I grip my rescue tool in hand, and with a quick punch to the window, I crack it and start pulling the glass toward me so I don’t get it all over her seat.

Once the window is cleared, I lean in and smile at the brown-haired, olive-skinned beauty inside. She’s wearing only a bra and jeans and is pressing a bloody, wadded-up T-shirt to her head. The green in her eyes reads scared, as does the slight tremble in her small body.

“Are you okay?” I dust off the seat of the chair, clearing out the glass shards.

“Did you punch the window and break it with your fist?”

I chuckle and shake my head. “No, I used my tool, but your confidence in my strength is gratifying.” I extend my gloved hand. “Come on, let’s get you out of here and get you to the EMTs. Looks like you have a nasty gash above your eye.”

“No thanks to my airbag,” she mutters as she crawls over the console.

When she gets to the window, I help her thread through the broken glass and take her into my arms, scooping her up easily.

Once she’s fully out, I ask her, “Think you can walk up the hill yourself, or do you need me to keep carrying you?”

She stares up at me, her eyes traveling back and forth over my features, almost as if she’s absorbing every line and indent. “I want to say I can walk myself, but I think I might be a little too out of it. For the life of me, I keep seeing two of you.”

Yeah, she’s not walking.

“Not a problem. I’ll carry you.”

Greg comes back down the hill and meets me halfway. “EMTs are here.”

“Great. I’ll take her up there. Hook up the truck and see if you can yank the car loose from between the trees.”

“Will do.”

“My clothes,” the girl in my arms shouts. “My clothes are in there, my suitcases! I don’t have anything to wear. I’m new to town and don’t know anyone. This is my first day; I need clothes!”

Not hard to believe, given that she’s wearing just a bra right now, and even though I’m the upstanding volunteer fireman, I can’t help but notice the swell of her breasts and the valley of her cleavage framed by the black lacy fabric.

“Greg, grab her suitcases from the back of the trunk and bring them up to me.” I speak to the lady. “Don’t worry; you’ll have clothes.”

“Thank you, kind sir.” She rests her head against my shoulder and sinks into my hold, and despite myself, the familiar feel of a woman in my arms is alluring.

You’re rescuing someone, not picking up a woman, Griffin. Christ.

The hill is pretty steep, and I’m knee deep in grass and mud, struggling more than I would have liked at being the knight in shining armor.