Read Chapter One of The Heat of the Moment

February 10, 2026Leave a comment

THE HEAT OF THE MOMENT

Chapter one – lily

The toaster emits a death rattle and spews a plume of smoke while the morning news hums chipper lies about the day’s “upward momentum.” It’s Tuesday, smack in the middle of a heatwave that’s turned Los Angeles into a convection oven. No one is moving up here, only the temperatures.

I lunge to yank the plug from the wall, startling when Penny yells behind me.

“Mom! I can’t find my gym shirt!” My daughter’s voice ricochets down the hallway, pitched at a decibel level perfect for shattering what remains of my early morning sanity.

“Check your drawer!” I shout back, fanning the smoke with a dish towel and scraping the charred remnants of wheat bread into the trash. I open the window to let the burning smell out before the smoke detectors activate and sprinkle more misery on me.

“It’s not there!” Penny shouts. The frustration in her voice suggests I’ve hidden her gym shirt in some diabolical plan to ruin her life.

I abandon the toaster crime scene and stride down the hall to her room, where my daughter is standing in front of her open dresser, wearing her gym shirt inside out with the tag peeking out at the back.

“Penny.” I point to her chest. “You have it on.”

She looks down, brows knitting together in confusion before the realization hits. “Oh.” Her hazel eyes, mirrors of mine, squint at me without an ounce of embarrassment. “Well, you could have just said that.”

I blink at her. “Right. My bad. I should have noticed you were wearing your shirt before you did.”

“Exactly.” She nods with complete seriousness. “And my hair’s weird.”

I glance at the clock—7.22 a.m.—and then at Penny’s honey-blonde curls, a tangled mass so wild it looks like a family of industrious sparrows left mid-nesting.

“If you want neat hair in the morning, let me braid it at night.” I grab the hairbrush on her nightstand.

Penny narrows her eyes as I approach and backs away like I’m wielding a chainsaw.

“Sweetie, we don’t have time for—”

“You always pull too hard.”

“I don’t.”

“Daddy never pulled.” Her voice drops to a mumble that hits me square in the chest.

I lower the brush, my throat tight. Daniel was the hair whisperer. He could detangle even the most stubborn knots without a single complaint. One of his many superpowers I can’t replicate.

“How about a ponytail?” I offer. “Quick and easy.”

She considers the proposal with the gravity of a Supreme Court justice before nodding once. “Fine. But not too tight.”

Crisis averted, I tame her curls while she fidgets and provides a running commentary on how her teacher warned too-snug ponytails cause headaches and brain damage. I’m pretty sure Ms. Meyers said no such thing, but I don’t have time to dispute fake neurological facts.

Back in the kitchen, I discover the coffee machine gurgling pathetically, a dry wheezing sound that can only mean I forgot to fill the tank.

I pick up the empty water reservoir. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The blinking red light mocks me as if to say, You thought you’d get caffeine today? That’s adorable.

I fill it, knowing full well that the coffee won’t be ready before we need to leave. But at least the same won’t happen tomorrow.

“MOM!” Penny’s shriek from the living room has me nearly splashing myself. “Something exploded in my backpack!”

I close my eyes and count to three, which is two more counts than I have. When I round the corner, Penny is holding her backpack, showing how yesterday’s forgotten chocolate bar has melted, staining her homework and the inside of the bag with brown goop that looks like a different substance but smells better.

“I think it’s still good,” Penny says, poking at a glob with her finger.

“Don’t—” I start, but she’s already licked it off. I sigh. “Well, at least your immune system is getting a workout.”

While my daughter wipes down her notepads—using way too many paper towels—I clean the backpack as best as I can without a tumble in the washer and throw her lunchbox inside.

I zip it up and walk back into the living room, my gaze snagging on the framed photo at the end of the wall lineup. Daniel, in his firefighter uniform, helmet tucked under one arm while he holds a four-year-old Penny with the other as they stand in front of a fiery-red firetruck. His dazzling, lopsided smile shines back at me across the four years he’s been gone. That’s the last picture I have of them together. My heart splinters against my ribcage, pounding like a fist on a locked door. It searches for a handle that isn’t there. An escape that never comes. I rub at the spot over my left breast where I tattooed Daniel’s name after he passed, missing him more than ever.

Mornings were his specialty. He’d surprise us with chocolate chip pancakes arranged into smiley faces for Penny. Coffee waiting for me when I dragged myself out of bed after a late hospital shift. He’d put my sunglasses next to my keys, so I wouldn’t forget them and squint the entire drive to work. The memories hit with such force that I have to grip the couch to steady myself.

When was the last time I made pancakes? Not those frozen, chewable impostors that taste like cardboard, but real ones, from scratch? I can’t remember. Another item on the long list of my parental failures.

Daniel would have never let weeks go by without a special breakfast treat. He would’ve remembered to check the backpack for forgotten chocolate bars. Even if he died before Penny started grade school, I’m sure he would’ve been on top of it. Her dad would have known how to do the hair thing without causing a national incident.

“Mom, we’re gonna be late.” Penny’s voice jolts me back to our smoke-scented apartment and the menace of impending LA traffic.

“Shoes,” I say, pointing to her sock-clad feet.

She hops around like a tipsy flamingo as she jams her feet into sneakers, and I scoop my bag and keys.

Three minutes later, we’re in the car. I honk along with the rest of the city’s frustrated drivers as I weave through side streets toward Penny’s school. My daughter sits in the back, unruffled despite our morning hurricane, chewing her breakfast as she hums one of Dorian’s songs—my sister’s rockstar boyfriend has become her male role model. And while I’m glad we finally have another man in the family, I’m also aware that a cool uncle will never replace a father.

We screech into the drop-off lane with a minute to spare before the late bell. Penny unbuckles herself, grabs her backpack, and leans forward to plant a quick kiss on my cheek.

“Bye, Mom. Love you!”

“Love you too, honey. Have a great—” But she’s already halfway out the car. “—day.”

Penny darts toward the entrance, ponytail swinging, shirt still inside-out, her backpack bouncing against her slight frame. She turns back once to wave, and I’m struck by how much she resembles Daniel. It’s the angle of her smile, the way her nose crinkles.

Another frenzied parent honks behind me, ripping me out of the grief spiral I was about to drop into. I drive on, mouthing “sorry” at them through the rearview mirror.

As I merge back into traffic, I catalog our morning’s victories and defeats: toaster, murdered. Coffee, unmade. One chocolate bar casualty. Breakfast… do oatmeal muffins consumed in the car count? But Penny made it to school before the final bell. In the single-parenting Olympics, I’d score a solid 5.3 out of 10—points deducted for technical execution, but a bonus awarded for difficulty. It’s only August, the second week back to school. We’ll get the hang of it.

By the time I make it to the hospital twenty minutes later, I’ve stopped at a drive-through for the saddest excuse for coffee known to humankind and transitioned into work mode. The moment I step through the staff entrance of the ER, I’m no longer Struggling Single Mom Lily. I’m Practicing Nurse Finnigan—competent, unshakeable, if not a little bleary-eyed, but nothing quality caffeine can’t fix.

“Morning, Lily,” our triage nurse calls as I stride toward the locker room. “We saved you the good stethoscope.”

“You’re a saint, Mark,” I reply, looping it around my neck. “What’s the damage today?”

“Two broken bones, one stomach bug with impressive projectile capabilities, and a guy with severe hemorrhoids.”

“Please tell me the rectal exam is already assigned.”

Mark winks. “Gave it to Dr. Maddox.”

I beam back because nurses have long memories, and nothing screams payback more than assigning bodily extractions to residents who treat us like waitstaff.

The morning passes in the choreographed madness that defines emergency medicine. The kind of entropy I’m good at, unlike the domestic variety. Blood, I can deal with. Vomit, no problem. Hypochondriacs convinced their seasonal allergies are bubonic plague? Piece of cake. It’s the emotional stuff, the photos of dead husbands and the guilt about pancakes, that leaves me floundering.

During my lunch break, I find a quiet corner in the cafeteria and call Josie to confirm Penny’s weekend plans. My sister answers on the third ring.

“If you’re calling to make sure Auntie JoJo’s special babysitting services are a go, the answer is yes. Dorian’s planning a movie night with enough sweets to ensure she never sleeps again.”

“Hello to you, too,” I reply, unwrapping my turkey sandwich. “I won’t say a word about the excess sugar. But don’t come crying when she’s duct-taping you to the couch.”

“I’ll take tape over unfiltered child honesty any day. Dorian’s still recovering from her last review.”

“Why? Penny was singing his new song in the car this morning.”

“Really?” Josie snorts. “She told Dorian his new album is ‘trying too hard to be edgy’ and then asked if he was having a midlife crisis.”

I choke on my sandwich. “She did not.”

“Oh, she did. He promised he’ll have her approve the lyrics of his next song.”

The mental image of my eight-year-old daughter critiquing the world’s biggest rockstar makes me smile for the first time today. “Can’t wait to hear it.”

“Anyway, yes, we’re still on for this weekend. Penny can swim in Dorian’s obscenely large pool and judge his musical choices to her heart’s content.”

“You’re sure it’s not too much? I know you guys probably prefer alone time, and you’ve been traveling—”

“Lily,” Josie interrupts. “We want her here. Dorian adores her, and I miss my favorite niece.”

“She’s your only niece.”

“Semantics. Plus, you need a break. When was the last thing you did just for you?”

I open my mouth to answer and realize I have nothing. Going to the grocery store alone doesn’t count, does it?

“That’s what I thought,” Josie says into my silence. “I’ll pick her up Friday after school. You go home, take a bath with those fancy salt bombs I got you for Christmas that are probably still in their wrapper, and maybe consider talking to an adult who isn’t bleeding or related to you.”

“I talk to adults,” I protest weakly.

“Uh-huh. Name the last non-work, non-family conversation you had.”

“Mmm… I had a stimulating discussion about rising milk prices with the cashier at Trader Joe’s yesterday.”

“I rest my case.” Josie sighs. “Look, I gotta go. Dorian is pacing around shirtless to ‘find his creative flow,’ and while it’s definitely working for me, I need to make sure he doesn’t wander past the hotel windows again. The paparazzi are staked out by the valet stand and will never leave if they catch him half naked.”

I’ve stopped keeping track of where in the country my sister is sleeping one month into her relationship. “Go contain your rockstar. I’ll text you Friday about pick-up details.”

After lunch, the ER kicks into high gear. A minor traffic accident brings in several patients with cuts and bruises. Next is an elderly man with chest pains that turn out to be just severe heartburn, and a teenager who superglued her fingers together while making a YouTube video.

“Finnigan,” Dr. Reynolds calls as I finish entering the vitals for the superglue victim. “Room three needs sutures for an arm laceration. Nothing major, but make sure it’s cleaned properly. Looks like he came straight from a fire.”

A metallic tang pools at the back of my tongue at the word “fire,” the way it always does. Four years, and I still reach for my ring finger, ready to twist the wedding band I finally removed a few months ago.

“On it,” I say, grabbing a suture kit and heading toward room three.

I pause outside, checking the chart. Male, thirty-two, laceration to the right forearm. I push the door open and step inside, my gaze colliding with a pair of deep blue eyes set in a face that’s unfairly handsome even smudged with soot.

He’s tall, dwarfing the exam bed with broad shoulders and long limbs. His firefighter gear is slung over a nearby chair. The sleeve of his navy uniform shirt rolled high to expose the injured forearm.

My throat goes dry as memories flash like strobes. Daniel in that same uniform. Daniel coming home smelling of smoke. The way he’d kiss me before he did anything else. His helmet on top of his casket.

But this isn’t my husband. This man’s hair is lighter, his jaw more angular, and his eyes are not the rich brown of spiced rum. And yet the uniform, the smoke tang that clings to him, and the way he holds himself with that understated confidence that’s standard issue for firefighters are so familiar my heart crashes and burns.

But as I steal another glance at him, it’s not the sharp reminder of my loss that blindsides me. It’s the unexpected jolt of attraction that zips through me. It’s insignificant, like getting zapped after touching the wrong metal surface.

My body responds to him before my brain can intervene, and for a breathless moment, I’m just a woman looking at an attractive man.

Then a cold, suffocating wave of guilt crashes over me. How dare I feel attraction? How dare my body betray Daniel’s memory? The rational part of my brain knows it’s been a long time, that Daniel would want me to move on, but reason has never been a match for my grief.

I set my lips in a thin line and slam the door on whatever inappropriate physical response I’m having. I straighten my spine as I shift into the clinical, detached mode untainted by emotion that best serves my patients.

“Good afternoon.” I greet the man sterilely, setting down the suture kit. When our eyes meet again, I have my professional mask in place. “I’m practicing Nurse Finnigan and I’ll be taking care of your arm today.”

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firefighter Romantic Comedy

When a slow-burn attraction finally catches fire…

Four years after losing her husband in the line of duty, ER nurse Lily Finnigan has one goal: raise her daughter and keep her heart safely locked away. Romance—even a simple fling—isn’t on the agenda. Until Josh Collins walks into her emergency room.

Gorgeous, charming, and infuriatingly kind, he is everything Lily doesn’t want—but can’t seem to stay away from. When her apartment floods, her new helpful neighbor turns out to be the sexy firefighter she’s been dreaming of. Now he’s everywhere—offering help, stealing smiles, and slowly breaking down her walls.

Lily insists they can only be friends. She swore she would never fall for another firefighter. But the more time she spends with Josh, the more impossible that promise becomes. And when Josh risks his life fighting a wildfire, Lily’s heart shatters with the truth she’s been avoiding: she’s already fallen. The moment he walks back through her door battered and bruised but safe, Lily’s instinct is to run from her past and her future… But Josh won’t let her go that easily.

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Books in the Series

YOU MAY KISS THE BRIDESMAID – CHAPTER FOUR

July 21, 2020

← Read Chapter Three

Four

Summer

Archie’s breath is a warm caress down my neck. I swallow, trying to keep it together. No man has touched me in months, and my skin is singing at the unexpected attention. Tingles shoot up my arm from where our hands are joined, and having his mouth so close to my ear is making my entire body heat.

With such proximity, besides touching, I can smell Archie’s scent. A mix of clean soap, an expensive citrusy perfume, and bare masculinity.

I swallow and meet his stare made of icy blue eyes now crinkled with mischief.

Another whispered word, another touch, and I’ll beg him to bring me to his room and make me forget my name. But thank goodness, he doesn’t add anything. The best man nods in farewell as he lets go of my hand and walks away toward the elevators, looking unfairly hot for someone wearing sweatpants.

Yeah, staring at his round behind bobbing down the hall doesn’t help me stick to smart choices, so I look away.

My gaze lands on the entrance’s revolving doors where, to my horror, two of my ex-friends, Susan and Daria, are walking into the hotel, carry-on luggage in tow behind them.

The first ghosts from my past have arrived.

I turn my face away, wishing I had an invisibility cloak under which to disappear. Or, to be more pragmatic, that I had at least a beanie to conceal my hair. I love my long, white-blonde locks, but the mane is hard to miss. In a panic, I hastily get up and ask the bartender where the restrooms are. The man points me to a hall to the right with a toilet sign above it. I hop off the stool and follow his directions. I’ve already signed the receipt and won’t need to come back to the bar. And to go back to my room, I can find another set of elevators or take the stairs, steering clear of the lobby.

Down the hall, I push the bathroom door open and hide in a stall for good measure. Gosh, this is terrible. How am I going to survive a week trapped in a hotel with all these people I never want to see again? Avoiding two of them for an evening won’t solve the problem, and I can’t be a bitch and ditch all the events. I’d be spoiling the celebrations for Winter. Before coming, I was aware I’d have to face people, but the real-life experience is worse than I expected. I’m not ready for the panic and shame assailing me even without a face to face. What about when I’ll be forced to really confront them?

I close my hands in tight fists, digging my fingernails into my palms, and sag against the metal door to stare at the ceiling. Two glasses of wine should’ve helped me relax, but no, I’m still a bundle of nerves. And if a little liquid courage can’t even help me chill out, this week is going to be truly horrible.

The bathroom door swings open, and Susan’s voice drifts in. “Couldn’t you wait until we got up to our room?”

“Sorry,” Daria’s voice replies, getting closer. A door bangs next to me; she must’ve occupied the stall to my left. “It was a long drive, and you’ve seen the line at the check-in.”

On alert, I push away from the stall’s door and backtrack to the rear of the tiny space, hoping my feet won’t show underneath. Could they recognize me from my shoes? I doubt it.

“Whatever,” Susan says, her voice closer now. I can picture her staring in the mirror while bouncing up the edges of her short bob of brown hair. “Are we going out tonight, or are you tired?”

“I don’t know,” Daria says. “You?”

“I texted Winter; they’re downtown at a French brasserie.”

“Who’s ‘they?’ Is the Scarlet Woman going to be there?”

Blood turns to ice in my veins; she’s talking about me.

“Probably.”

“Yuck.” After the longest time, Daria flushes and comes out of the stall. “Then it’s a pass for me.”

“You’re still that mad at Summer?” Susan asks. “If Lana could move past—”

“Lana is an angel fallen from heaven,” Daria interrupts, turning on the water to presumably wash her hands. “I’m not.”

Susan must make a face, because Daria says, “Susy, drop it.”

“Okay, I will, if…” A pregnant pause follows. “If you explain why, just once.”

The sound of paper towels being yanked from their container on the wall is the only noise that fills the room for a few unbearably long seconds. In the ringing silence, I’m scared they’ll hear the pounding of my heart against my rib cage.

“What difference does it make?” Daria asks.

“I hate that our group fell apart and disintegrated. We were so close, the six of us, and now it’s just you and me most of the time. And I’m not saying I don’t love hanging out with you, but it isn’t like before.”

When Susan says the six of us, she’s talking about them, plus me, my sister, Lana, and Ingrid, who’s the wife of Johnathan’s best friend, Mike. The moment the affair became public, Johnathan and I were sort of cast out and Mike stuck to his buddy, leaving the group as well and pulling Ingrid along. But I had no idea that even Winter and Lana didn’t hang out as much with Susan and Daria anymore. I’d just assumed I’d dropped off the invite list to their nights out.

“Sorry, sweetheart, but the group will never be the same,” Daria says. “That ship sank when little Miss I’ll Go and Screw My Best Friend’s Boyfriend torpedoed it by having an affair with Johnathan. I still don’t understand how Lana found the strength to forgive her, but I never will.”

Daria’s last words cut through my heart like a blade.

“But why? Summer didn’t steal your boyfriend.”

“Susy, she was my best friend. Summer supported me when Tom had the affair, and then Gabriel. She witnessed firsthand what being cheated on did to me, how destroyed I was. Now, tell me, what kind of cold-hearted bitch would consciously unleash all that pain on another woman, let alone her supposed best friend?”

The blade slices through my already-injured heart, fileting it to shreds. What I did to Lana was wrong, inexcusable. And Daria’s right: I didn’t deserve Lana’s forgiveness.

“No, no, you’re right,” Susan says. “She’s a total bitch.”

I cringe in my corner, flushing in shame.

“Lana got lucky she fell into a new relationship straight away, but she could’ve been broken to the point of no return,” Daria continues. “I’ve learned my lesson, and Summer Knowles is the kind of toxic person I don’t need in my life, thank you very much. And besides, she hasn’t had the guts to send me a single text since she was outed.”

“Yeah, me neither,” Susan says. “Honestly, I don’t know how she’s going to show her face around this week. I mean, everyone knows.”

Thank you, Susan, for pointing that out. As if I wasn’t worrying enough already. Susy is one of the most good-hearted people in our group, and if this is what she thinks of me… Anxiety twists in my stomach, and I fight hard to choke a sob in my throat. They can’t find out I’m in here, hiding and eavesdropping on everything they say.

“Serves her right,” Daria snaps. “Let’s go.”

Wheels roll on the floor, and the washroom door is pulled open.

“Speaking of Lana’s new relationship,” Susan says, her voice moving away. “I have it on good authority Christian Slade will come to the ceremony. He should arrive by Thursday or Fri—”

The door slams shut, and Susan’s voice gets cut off.

After they’ve left, I wait another ten minutes before coming out of the stall, in case they forgot something and bounced back in. When I exit, I’m half-stumbling and need to steady myself by bracing my arms on the marble sink. Their words hit me worse than if they’d taken turns punching me. They loathe me. Despise me. And I deserve every ounce of their hatred. Everything they said is true.

I take a hard, long stare in the mirror. My eyes are bloodshot, but I managed to keep the tears in. Still, my skin looks pasty, except for the bluish bags under my eyes. At this moment, I’d give anything to be anyone but myself. And I know just the person who can grant me that wish.

I storm out of the bathroom and head for the bar.

Archie is no longer at the counter, of course, but I need a little extra liquid courage before taking him up on his offer.

Not bothering to sit again, I wave at the bartender to attract his attention.

He comes my way at once. “You wanted something else?”

“A shot, please.”

The bartender eyes me slightly too long before asking, “Any preferences?”

“Whatever,” I say. “Make it strong.”

He nods and gets mixing.

When he puts a tiny glass in front of me five minutes later, I don’t even ask what’s in it. I raise the glass to my lips and tip my head backward, downing the liquid in one swallow. Vodka, mostly, with some lemon soda and sugar. The alcohol burns my throat and makes my eyes water. I do my best not to let it show, and drop the empty shot glass back on the counter.

An annoying smirk stamped on his lips, the bartender asks, “Another one?”

“No, thanks,” I say. “One is fine. Put it on room 452.”

I don’t wait for the bartender’s response, but head straight for the elevators. The best man is about to get lucky; the least he can do is buy me a drink first.

The ride up to the fourth floor is short enough to prevent any second-guessing, and in no time, I’m standing in front of room 452 knocking on the door.