The Fireman I Loved to Hate by Jenna Gunn

Chapter 1

“Step away from that rogue!”

No.

“Get away from that rapscallion!”

Definitely not.

He took her delicate wrist in his hand and pulled her away from the Duke, causing her to swoon.

Maybe. I shift my legs around again under my desk, then sit back to re-read the last few pages. I’m so close to finishing this book, but I keep slowing down when I think about the fact that I don’t know what I’ll write for my next book. The anxiety is giving me W.B. It’s like erectile dysfunction; you can’t say it without getting it. So, I can’t even think about writer’s rhymes-with-lock.

I’ve written about practically every historical period to explore romance through the ages. Every era except contemporary. Modern men do nothing for me, so I have the best job.

My three-legged tabby hops onto my desk, and I sigh. “Monroe. You’re the perfect man for me.” I pull him onto my lap, and he purrs at me. Then he snuggles against me. “Why aren’t more men like you?”

Monroe was a rescue. I found him as a kitten on Monroe Boulevard, and I was near the end of a book, so I couldn’t think of any more names.

He lets me pet him for a minute longer, before he leaps from my lap and wanders away. It’s still warm in here, even without the furry heater on my lap. I stand up and stretch, then open the window. The breeze comes through and I close my eyes to enjoy it fully.

Also, to avoid the view. I haven’t unpacked yet, and I’m surrounded by cardboard boxes. It’s only been a few weeks, but the boxes haunt me. I’m a few days away from just accepting them as permanent furniture.

I lean out the window and let the wind tug at my blonde hair. I feel like a regency heroine, standing on a balcony, waiting for her future husband to return from a war. No, not a war…waiting for him to return from breaking up with his fiancé, the woman that his parents pressured him into. Because they are business partners with her parents. Oh, I’ve got to write that down.

I grab a sticky note and scribble it all, then add the notes to my Kanban board. I look over the board and cock my head to the side. Does it make sense that he would have a fiancé, if he’s only 21?

I need to age him up. But if I age him up, then I have to age my female main character up, too, because she’s only 17, and there are far too many regency novels with some super old guy with a young girl, which is just gross. Plus, my readers would hate it. I have the best readers and I won’t let them down like that.

I walk across the room to turn on the ceiling fan. It changes the feel of the room almost instantly. I didn’t want to turn on the air conditioning just yet. Settling into my desk chair, I try to clear my head of the next story. It’s hard-I don’t have the end of this book in my mind yet. But I’m obsessing over my next book.

Like I always do.

“Keep it together, Raina.” I write that onto a sticky note, then smoosh it onto the corner of my monitor. A little motivation is always welcome. I readjust my posture, forcing my shoulders down. Then, I take a deep breath and write.

-

I’m not done, but I’ve made some good progress. Another 3,000 words, which is a high rate for me. I lean back and stretch, while I look over the last paragraph. I’ve figured out how to reunite Mary and Frederick. Probably.

I pat my lap and read, while I wait for Monroe to show up. If the carriage ride to her birthday party isn’t enough time for them to talk it out, then maybe he can take her for a walk after the party. I glance around and realize Monroe is not in my office. That’s odd. He usually hangs out when I write. He likes to cuddle near my feet under the desk. Where the heck is he?

Then I see the time and I’m agape. 3:30 in the afternoon. The last time I looked at the clock was five hours ago. I sigh. Skipped lunch again. Trisha would be so disappointed in me. My best friend is always on me to take better care of myself.

I stand up and hear the old lady joint cracks in my feet and knees. I’ve been skipping my morning yoga, too. I need to get back at it. I think my yoga mat must still be packed away somewhere. Seeing it in my old living room used to be my visual cue to use it while I watched TV.

I leave my office to look for Monroe and my yoga mat in the living room, but neither is in sight. He’s not on his bed or the couch. I go to the dining room and find he’s not eating the flowers from the vase on the table, either. Where else would he go?

“Monroe? Where are you, buddy?” In the kitchen, I shake his treat bag and wait. He always comes running for them. But no Monroe this time. I take a deep, cleansing breath, and in spite of that, I begin to panic.

Time to retrace my steps. I shake the bag of treats as I walk through the house, turning over boxes, lifting towels, anywhere I can think of that he might be hiding from me. He’s not behind the shower curtain, or between my pillows. When I get to my office, I realize my mistake.

The window is open.

I rush outside in my bare feet and call for him. Monroe has been an indoor cat for all the years I’ve had him. He doesn’t know what to do in the outside world. I search the bushes, calling his name.

I can’t start my life in Rockville without my little man. What do you do when your indoor cat has escaped? Staple flyers to the trees and power poles? Go door to door, asking neighbors if they’ve seen a confused orange cat roaming the streets?

Then, I hear a panicked yowl overhead. My feet become lead and I look up. There’s an enormous pine tree in my front yard, with a trunk I could fit in and branches all out of my reach.

Which is, of course, where Monroe sits, screaming and pleading for my help.

I don’t have a ladder and I feel like the worst cat mom in the world for it. Should I bother my neighbors? What if they don’t have a ladder either? Aside from that, I don’t want to leave him alone to go ask. Oh hell, I’m going to be one of those stereotypical crazy cat ladies, calling the fire department to rescue her baby, aren’t I? I whip out my phone and dial them up. It’s the only solution.

The lady on the phone picks up fast. I imagine there’s no action for them in such a small town. I try to keep my voice calm so Monroe doesn’t freak out worse, but as I explain my situation, I’m talking faster, and my throat is tight. I hate hearing him so afraid. It just breaks my heart.

The woman on the phone says, “Someone will be there soon. Give Monroe some pets for me when he’s safe, okay, dear?”

I smile at her kind words. “I will, thank you.” I drop my phone back into my pocket and relay the message, “Monroe, someone will be here soon, okay, little man? I promise you’ll be fine.”

But he doesn’t seem to believe me.

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