Fully Involved

I spot my first mistake at the same time I spot the smoke.

Not building-on-fire smoke. Not even “someone murdered the kettle” smoke.

No—this is the kind of smoke that comes from a grill the size of a small car, staffed by a man in a red sequin suspender situation, waving a spatula like an orchestra conductor while a line of townspeople chants his name.

“Kai! Kai! Kai!”

I double-blink. The grill is parked where my ambulance should be. Correction: where my ambulance would be, if a certain sequin menace hadn’t stolen the only marked spot behind the parade route first-aid tent.

“Of course,” I mutter, tightening my ponytail and checking my watch. 8:03 a.m. I’m three minutes late to my first shift in Willow Creek—because I listened to GPS instead of my better judgment and took Scenic Sycamore Lane, which is apparently code for “two old women power-walking in the center of the street while discussing pesto.”

I slide into reverse, nose the rig between a balloon arch and a pickup full of hay bales, and kill the engine. Our medical post is a square of folding tables, hand sanitizer, and one sad plastic cooler sweating Gatorade into a puddle. The parade staging area is already chaos—kids in cowboy hats, a marching band tuning up like dying geese, and the smell of kettle corn doing crimes to my willpower.

I hop out and there he is: the human fire hazard himself.

Sequin Suspenders is not just wearing suspenders, he’s wearing sequin suspenders attached to nothing but a pair of bunker pants slung so low I can see a V of tanned hip that should be illegal before noon.

No shirt. No shame.

A plastic firefighter helmet labeled MR. JULY sits cockily on his head. And because reality is broken, there’s a baby goat on a leash next to him wearing a bandana that says “Stop, Drop, and Bleat.”

The man is a firefighter calendar fever dream. And he has my parking spot.

“Hey!” I call, striding over. “Are you kidding me?”

He turns, all six-foot-something and carved sin, blinking lazy brown eyes at me like he’s the cat and I’m the laser pointer. He grins, and the chanting tilts into applause like he planned it.

“I’m often accused of kidding,” he says, voice warm and gravelly, “but today I’m fundraising.”

“By stealing EMS staging?” I gesture at the faded curb stencil that says AMBULANCE ONLY like I’m two seconds from citing him under the Geneva Conventions. “This is my spot.”

“Ah.” He taps his plastic helmet with the spatula. “Terrible news, new girl. Your spot is now the Kai Hart Memorial Cookout for Charity.”

“Memorial?” I glance at the goat. It sneezes. “Is there something I should know about your current life expectancy?”

“Only that I’m in excellent condition.” He flexes, casually, like a man who knows exactly where all his muscles live and has named them. “I’ll be memorialized later. For now, I’m Mr. July.”

“I can read,” I say. “Unfortunately for me.”

“Unfortunately,” he echoes, laughing low and easy. “You must be Violet Sinclair.”

I blink. “How—”

“New paramedic. From the city. Likes rules the way old ladies like coupons.” He winks, and the line behind him giggles like synchronized cheerleaders. “Hi. I’m Kai. Kai Hart,” he adds, like I asked for the full problem set.

I was not prepared for the way his name fits in my mouth like a spark. I also wasn’t prepared for how my gaze is refusing to rise above his collarbones.

Pull it together, Sinclair.

“Nice to meet you,” I lie, and produce my Sharpie and clipboard because paperwork is both my love language and my weapon. “I need this spot to be clear for incoming emergencies. Move the grill.”

“Can’t,” he says, flipping a burger with an obscene hip-pop. “Town council wants me visible for the calendar booth—get your Mr. July photos, all proceeds go to the firehouse therapy dog fund.” He gestures to a table stacked with glossy headshots of him and other firefighters posed on ladders, hoses, and various shiny phallic objects. “Today’s special is the Sizzle Package. Fifteen dollars for a signed poster and a selfie where I pretend to be in love with you.”

A middle-aged woman squeals. “Pretend? Rude.”

“Sorry, Debbie. Deeply in love,” he amends, blowing her a kiss.

Oh my God. This town. This man.

“Look,” I say, keeping my voice even. “I get that this is your natural habitat—shirtless and surrounded by women, one named Debbie—but we have protocols. The ambulance needs quick access to the route. If someone passes out—”

“They always do,” he says cheerfully. “Heat, excitement, or because Mr. March has his shirt off. He’s a single dad. People can’t cope.”

I inhale, slow. “Move. The. Grill.”

He finally takes the spatula out of play and rests his forearms on the lid, a smirk settling in like he’s thought about it and decided teasing me is better than oxygen. “Or what?”

Oh, that does it.

“Or I call dispatch,” I say sweetly, “and report an obstruction at EMS staging. Then the PD and the parade marshal will show up, and you’ll get the trifecta: paperwork, fees, and a meeting where you have to wear a shirt.”

The line ooohs. The goat bleats like a judge.

He lifts one eyebrow. “You think I don’t like shirts? Violet, I’m literally in a calendar. My relationship with fabric is complicated.”

“Can confirm!” someone shouts from the back.

I look him dead in the eye. “Move it.”

He smiles, slow and sharky. “Define ‘it.’”

I exhale through my nose because if I say “your grill,” my mouth will betray me and say “your entire stupid perfect body.” “The grill, Mr. July.”

“Mr. July was my father,” he says solemnly. “You can call me Kai.”

I squint. “Metaphorically?”

“Painfully.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Every second we’re arguing is a second a child could be choking on a parade Tootsie Roll.”

“Then we should do it efficiently.” He straightens, gaze flicking down my body—practical navy pants, EMS tee, heavy belt—and back up with an appreciative heat I pretend not to feel. “Tell you what, Sir Yes Ma’am. If you can arm wrestle me for it, you can have the spot.”

I laugh. Loud. “I’m not arm wrestling you.”

“Afraid you’ll lose?”

“Afraid I’ll break your wrist and we’ll have to call in Mr. March.” I glance at the table of glossy posters. June has a motorcycle. February is biting a rose. July is wearing... less than what he’s got on now. Oh, for the love of God.

He leans closer. A dusting of powdered sugar from the funnel cake stand frecks his shoulders like evidence of a crime of dessert. “C’mon. Make a memory. First day in town, don’t you want a story?”

I step into his space so he has to look me in the eyes and not at my mouth, which is unhelpful considering the structural integrity of his lower lip. Up close, he smells like smoke and sugar—the fairground funnel cake stand must be nearby—and something clean beneath, soap and heat. My pulse does a rude, traitorous thing.

“Here’s the story,” I say softly. “You moved your grill because the paramedic told you to. You were a hero about it. People clapped.”

He laughs, and it drops like a stone into my stomach. “You’re fun.”

“I’m not,” I insist. “I’m responsible.”

“That’s very sexy of you.”

The women behind him murmur in agreement. Someone fans herself with a Mr. July.

I fold my arms, clipboard braced against my ribs like a riot shield. “Move it or I’m calling it in.”

He studies me for a long second, something thoughtful slipping into the mischief. Then he sighs, melodramatically. “Fine. For the therapy dogs.” He whistles to a guy in a ball cap, and they start rolling the grill three feet forward, leaving just enough clearance for an ambulance to nose in and out.

The crowd cheers. I refuse to smile. The goat headbutts my shin. I don’t melt. I’m a glacier.

Kai sets the brake and swings back to me, wiping his hands on a towel. “See? Teamwork.”

“Basic compliance,” I correct.

“Strong start to our relationship.”

My mouth sputters. “We don’t have a relationship.”

“Not with that attitude.”

I open my mouth to give him a piece of my mind, but the parade marshal blows a whistle and the marching band belts something that might be “Sweet Caroline” if “Sweet Caroline” got hit by a truck and reassembled by raccoons. A kid in a dinosaur costume trips, recovers, and waves at me like I’m famous. The town is officially vibrating.

“Sinclair!” calls my supervisor, Jude, from the first aid tent. He’s six-three, built like a refrigerator, and wearing a neon fanny pack that either contains trauma supplies or snacks. “Can you triage the pretzel lady? She’s looking faint.”

“On it,” I call, and pivot—only to have Kai fall into step beside me like we’re a team.

“Just observing,” he says when I glare. “Mr. July cares about public safety.”

“You care about public adoration.”

He shrugs. “Why not both?”

We hit the tent. A silver-haired woman clutches a pretzel the size of a toddler and fans herself. I run through my questions, quick and steady. Vitals. Allergies. Meds. She’s fine. I give her water and a cool pack for the back of her neck and tell her to sit in the shade for a bit.

“Thank you, dear,” she says, eyes crinkling. “You must be the new paramedic everyone’s talking about.”

“That depends on what they’re saying,” I reply, smiling despite myself.

“That you’re very capable,” she says, patting my hand. “And very pretty in a no-nonsense way. Like a librarian who would absolutely shut down a bar fight.”

I glance at Kai. He’s pretending to cough to hide a laugh.

“Drink your water, ma’am,” I say, and retreat to the edge of the tent where the cooler sulks.

Kai leans his shoulder against the pole, the plastic helmet tipped back, grin lazy. “Librarian who would shut down a bar fight. Accurate?”

“Only if I started it.”

He beams. “I knew we’d be friends.”

“Stop saying that.”

There’s a commotion near the float line. A teenage baton twirler drops her baton and snuffles like the world is over. I start heading toward her, but before I can reach the edge of the tent, a guy in a foam corn costume faceplants into the curb and stays there, unmoving.

“Yep,” I say, already moving. “This is why I needed the spot.”

“Go,” Kai says, suddenly all business. The Playboy spark dims; the professional clicks on. “I’ll clear a path for you.”

We move like we’ve done this for years, which is deeply annoying. He’s already rolling the grill farther, waving people back, putting his big body between the crowd and the corn. I’m kneeling beside Corn Man, checking airway, breathing, circulation. Airway patent. Breathing shallow, fast. Pulse rapid. Heat exhaustion or costume-induced stupidity, unclear.

“Sir?” I say, snapping open my shears. “I’m going to loosen the costume, okay? Breathe with me—slow in, slow out.”

“Help,” he wheezes. “It’s... buttered in here.”

“Okay,” I say, cutting through foam like a Thanksgiving miracle. “We’re going to de-butter you.”

Kai kneels opposite me, handing me whatever I ask for without me asking for it. Water. Towels. A gloved hand to support Corn Man’s head when I lift his shoulders. He doesn’t speak unless it’s useful. He doesn’t showboat. He’s steady, warm, and so focused that my earlier irritation stutters against my sternum.

Damn it.

We stabilize Corn Man and load him onto a folding cot in the tent shade. He’ll be fine with fluids and the absence of his personal oven. The baton girl cheers up when I give her a neon bandage and tell her it’s a championship stripe. People drift back to their floats, and the gossipers are satisfied.

“Nice work, Sir Yes Ma’am,” Kai says softly as I strip my gloves and toss them.

“Nice work, Mr. Sizzle Package,” I mutter, and then, because we’re adults and I don’t need to go to horny jail over a man who probably signs boobs for charity, I add, “You’re good at crowd control.”

He tips his helmet. “I’m decent at a few things.”

“Like not wearing shirts?”

“Like knowing when to move the grill.”

We stand there for a beat, the parade noise slipping into a softer hum. He’s closer than I realized. Confetti somewhere sticks to the sweat on his temple. A faint scar under his rib. The precise shadow of stubble along his jaw that would probably burn in the best way if—

Nope.

I step back. “Well. Don’t block my access again.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And put on sunscreen. You’re going to fry.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And stop calling me ma’am.”

His smile kicks back up. “Yes, Violet.”

I hate the way my name sounds like a promise in his mouth. I also hate that my brain supplies the image of my hand in his hair, pulling, while he—

Jude appears like a guardian angel with a clipboard, interrupting my thoughts. Thank God. “Sinclair, good work. Keep that lane clear and hydrate—it’s only getting hotter.” He flicks a look at Kai. “Hart, stop hovering and let EMS work.”

Kai salutes with the spatula he shouldn’t still be holding. “Public safety is my love language.”

“Try boundaries,” Jude says, already moving.

We treat a heat headache, a scraped knee, and a toddler who ate a purple crayon and is now violently purple around the mouth and very proud. By the time the last float rolls past—a tractor pulling a giant papier-mâché pie labeled Blue Ribbon or Bust—I’ve sweated through my shirt and my patience. The town, however, is high on sugar and civic pride.

Jude claps me on the back. “Hell of a first morning, Sinclair. You didn’t run away screaming.”

“I tried,” I say. “But a goat blocked me.”

Jude snorts. “You’ll fit right in. Also, the Gazette wants a quick ‘Parade Safety’ photo for tomorrow’s front page. You and Hart. Smile nicely. It sells papers.”

“No,” I say, at the exact second Kai reappears at my side with two bottles of water. “Absolutely not.”

“Absolutely yes,” Jude says, pointing at the local photographer, who’s already jogging over, lens gleaming like a hungry eye.

Kai offers me a bottle, shoulder nudging mine. “C’mon, Sinclair. Truce for thirty seconds. Smile pretty for the nice paper.”

I take the water because dehydration is how people make poor life choices, and I’ve already almost made three involving his mouth. “Fine. But if you touch me, I will Tase you with my eyes.”

“Can’t wait,” he says, and turns to the camera with a grin that could turn saints into sinners. He loops an arm around my waist, not grabbing, just resting there, warm and heavy and—Jesus—possessive.

“Closer,” the photographer says.

“Professional distance,” I counter.

“Public service,” Kai counters back, and somehow I’m snug to his side. I smell smoke and sugar, and him, and my brain makes a dangerous purring noise.

“On three,” the photographer calls. “One... two...”

“Don’t,” I whisper, without knowing what I’m warning him not to do.

“Three!”

He kisses my cheek.

The crowd explodes. The goat bleats like a foghorn. Confetti from somewhere rains down like the universe is mocking me. And against my will, a laugh slips out. My mouth betrays me, my eyes crinkle, and I tip toward him like an idiot in heat.

The shutter clicks a dozen times.

The photographer lowers her camera, giddy. “That was perfect. Parade heroes! You two just sold every copy.”

Kai steps back, hands up like he hasn’t just detonated my sanity. “What can I say? I’m a public servant.”

I wipe confetti off my face, deadpan. “I hope you get a sunburn shaped like your ego.”

“Already have one,” he says, unbothered. “SPF-50 won’t save me. You want lunch? I’ve got a line on a funnel cake that will change your life.”

“I have paperwork,” I say, because I’m not letting him feed me like we’re friends, or worse, the beginning of a slow-motion disaster.

“Another time,” he says, and it sounds like a promise again. He taps the brim of his dumb helmet. “Try not to miss me.”

“I will endeavor to fail.”

He laughs, easy, and peels away, swooped up by a tide of people who love him with the force of a thousand PTA bake sales.

I stand there, confetti on my cheek and heat in my bones, and tell myself the truth: he is objectively, infuriatingly attractive. He is also a walking HR incident in sequin suspenders. He’s every kind of trouble I promised myself I’d never touch when I moved here.

Ugh. No.

Across the street, he turns, as if he felt me thinking about him, and catches my gaze. He mouths something—two silent words I read without effort.

Game on.

My mouth curves, slow.

Game on.