She stared into his gorgeous, sleepy face and remembered his warning not to fall in love with him. “You’re fine.” She scrambled up, glanced at the clock again on the off chance it had miraculously changed in her favor. “Where the hell are my panties?”

Zach came up on an elbow and surveyed the room. “There.”

On his lamp. Perfect. Her bra was draped over a bedpost like a trophy. Snatching it up, she glared at him, just lying there looking like sin on a stick. “I’m late,” she said more to herself. Very late. Late for the rest of her life, which was right around the corner. In fact, she was meeting the real estate agent today to discuss an offer she’d received on the house yesterday. With a sigh, she headed toward the door.

“Brooke?”

She turned back. “Yes?”

“Be careful out there.”

“I always am.”

“I know. But…”

But now one of them was a possible arsonist and had hurt Zach. Anyone could get hurt. She got that. “I can take care of myself.”

“But—”

“And after next week, I’ll be on my own.” Because that brought a lump to her throat, she had to swallow hard to continue. “I realize that last night was mostly my doing, but you should know, I got an offer on the house. Three more shifts, and I’m gone.”

He closed his eyes, but not before she saw a flash of emotion much deeper than affection. “I know.”

“Goodbye, Zach.”

Now he opened those eyes again, and let her see his sadness. “Is that it? Goodbye, the end?”

“What else is there?”

When he opened his mouth and then shut it, she shook her head. “Exactly. Goodbye, Zach.”

WELL, WHAT HAD she expected, a marriage proposal? She’d only met him five and a half weeks ago, and he wasn’t exactly known for being a commitment king. Brooke drove to work, not acknowledging the burning in her eyes, doing her damnedest not to think about the fact that he’d let her walk away.

He’d let her say goodbye.

She pulled into the parking lot. With Zach and Blake both still out, plus several others hit by a flu bug, she was on the B shift for the first time, with a whole new gang, and she found herself working with an EMT named Isobel. Adding to her stress, Brooke was the scheduled driver for the day, which began the moment she got out of her car and the bell rang.

“Watch your speed,” was Isobel’s most common refrain, uttered every two seconds on every one of their many, many calls. Isobel had a cap of dark hair and darker eyes, both her expression and demeanor screaming, I know I’m a woman in a man’s world, but hear me roar. “Watch that turn—”

“I’m watching.”

“Watch—”