THE HEAT OF THE MOMENT

A neighbors to lovers, friends to lovers, single mom, firefighter romance 

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.

What I love most about this book: Josh is just so swoony… usually my books are happy, happy but this one made me cry a lot while writing it. And I love it for it❤️‍🔥

     

All tropes: NEIGHBORS TO LOVERS, FIREFIGHTER ROMANCE, SINGLE MOM

Part of a series? Yes, but can be read as a standalone.

I’ve written a lot of love stories. But this one broke me open in ways I didn’t expect.

I cried while writing The Heat of the Moment. Sometimes I had to step away from my laptop because I couldn’t see the screen anymore. And then, somehow, I’d find myself laughing out loud at Josh being a total golden retriever stuck in the friend zone, at the banter, at the moments of lightness that Lily desperately needed.

Do you remember the mustache scene from You Rock My World? The one where Josie shows up to a meeting with a curly mustache drawn on her face in permanent marker because she stepped in to play Penny’s “dad” for Bring Your Dad to School Day. Her niece needed someone to fill an impossible void, and Josie showed up, ridiculous fake facial hair and all.

When I wrote that scene, something cracked open in my chest. Behind that absurd, laugh-out-loud moment was heartbreak—a little girl missing her father, and a woman carrying not just her grief, but her child’s too.

That woman was Lily.

Lily haunted me after I finished writing Josie’s book. I couldn’t stop thinking about what it takes to wake up every day after losing the person you built your life with. To raise a daughter alone. To be strong enough to hold space for a child’s sadness while your own threatens to swallow you whole. I knew I had to give her a story. A second chance. A happily ever after.

Early reviews have been coming in, and I’m also receiving more private messages about how this story has touched people than I ever have before. And I’ve been crying all over again. Some of you have shared pieces of your own stories with me. One reader reached out to say she’d lost someone close to her a few years back, and the way I wrote those hard moments of single parenthood and grief felt deeply personal to her experience.

Another message came from someone in a fallen firefighter’s family. All she could say was that she wasn’t ready to process her emotions yet, but the book was brilliant.

I’ve never had a book where readers sent me voice notes because they couldn’t type through their tears. Where someone messaged me at 2am saying “I wasn’t supposed to stay up but I couldn’t put it down.” These messages gutted me in the best possible way. This is why I write: not just for the happily ever after, but for the messy, devastating, beautiful journey of getting there.

Here’s what I’ve learned from Lily: sometimes the bravest thing you can do is let yourself want something again.

Josh doesn’t show up with grand declarations or promises to fix everything. He doesn’t rescue Lily. He shows up with dinner when Lily’s had a brutal shift. He makes her daughter laugh. He’s patient when Lily pushes him away, and he doesn’t flinch when she finally lets him in. He just refuses to let her keep pretending she doesn’t deserve good things. He’s the kind of love that doesn’t ask you to forget your past—it asks if there’s room for a future too.

And watching her fight him on it, then slowly—painfully—let herself hope again? That’s the love story I needed to write.

Maybe it’s because Lily’s journey—from survival mode to actually living again—is one so many of us understand, whether we’ve lost a partner or not.

We all know what it’s like to protect ourselves. To say “I’m fine with how things are” when we’re actually just terrified of wanting more and losing it.

But this book is not all tears and banter; there’s action, too. Wildfires. Emergency rooms at full tilt. Pulse-pounding moments that have early reviewers saying things like: “Since I started watching 9-1-1 a month ago my brain has been all on firefighters so this book came at such a good time for me.” and “It felt like I was reading an episode of Chicago Fire in the best way possible!” and “If you love Grey’s Anatomy or Station 19 or Chicago Med—this is for you.”

If you love the tension, the heroism, the romance woven between emergency room chaos and fireground danger—if you’ve been on the fence about reading it, here’s what I’ll say: this book will make you feel everything. The wildfire scenes will have your heart racing. The banter will make you smile. And yes, you’ll probably cry. But you’ll also close the last page believing that broken hearts can heal without erasing what came before. Lily and Josh’s story will feel like coming home.

The Heat of the Moment is available everywhere today.

And if you haven’t read book one yet, you’ve got the perfect excuse to dive into Josie’s story. You Rock My World is free in Kindle Unlimited and Kobo Plus (also in Kobo Plus in Audiobook).

Thank you for being here. For trusting me with your time, your hearts, and your stories. For showing up for Lily’s story. For Josh. For me.

Thank you for reading.

Camilla, x

THE HEAT OF THE MOMENT – CHAPTER ONE

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.”

     

BOOKS IN THE SERIES