I wanted to shake myself.

Shake the thoughts right out.

Shake her right out.

What were the chances of all this happening? Me accidentally texting her. Her being fine with it. Us striking up somewhat of—

Could you call it a friendship? The beginning of one? We’d joked together, but I never considered that I’d ever meet her. For all I knew, she lived in freaking Canada.

What were the chances that, in a country as big as the United States, she lived in the same small town as I did?

I rubbed my temples.

What were the chances I’d rescue her from a fire?

All the people in this town. In this county. In this state.

And it was her.

Reagan with the purple hair and the apparently great tits.

I’m sure someone somewhere could figure out the statistics, but I wasn’t that person.

How the fuck did this happen? It was a complete and utter coincidence. If I believed in destiny and fate and all that shit, I’d say it was that.

Hell, I didn’t believe in it, and a part of me was thinking it.

Of all the people I could have sent that text to—of all the numbers that irritating person on the dating app sent me, it was Reagan’s.

I’d sent her a picture of my dick.

Four days later, I’d saved her life.

I shook my head and dropped onto my couch. I was supposed to meet the guys for a beer tonight, but I didn’t think I could. Physical exhaustion was setting in now, but that was probably because I’d thought myself into it.

I wanted to text her.

I wanted to text Reagan and see how she was, if she was home yet, if she was in disbelief like I was.

I knew it wasn’t a good idea. She already had people fawning over her, but she struck me as the kind of person who considered that their worst nightmare. One glimpse at her and you knew she was an independent soul.

She didn’t need me bothering her, too.

I grabbed the remote and turned on the television. Poosh, my chihuahua, jumped onto the sofa next to me. I glared at her, but she simply circled like a cat until she was comfortable and stuck her ass in my direction.

All the people in my family, and I was the one who’d gotten stuck with the little diva when my grandma died.

“You comfy there, Poosh?”

She wagged her little tail in response.

I took that as a yes.

Apparently, six years of sleeping on the sofa negated six months of being told ‘get off the furniture.’

Yes, I’d given up, and no, I wasn’t proud.

I was also wondering when my mom was going to take the dog like she’d promised she would when she moved. Considering it’d been three months since then and she hadn’t mentioned it once, I had to stop and ask myself why I was still wondering.