Emma Hart

What do a wrong number text, a burning building, and a quirky florist have in common? A hunky firefighter with an extra-large…hosepipe. In hindsight, I never should have opened that text message. The last thing I needed first thing on a Monday was a picture of some stranger’s, um, eggplant, in my inbox. I also should have replaced the batteries in my fire alarm, because my Friday night did not need to end with my apartment building going up in flames. But it’s fine. It’s fine. Everything is fine. I’m only lying in a hospital bed with more split ends than I’ve ever had, almost all my Earthly possessions have turned to ash, and apparently, they don’t serve wine to patients in this place. But like I said, it’s fine. Until he walks in. The guy who saved my life. My hero. Noah Jacobs. And the universe is amusing itself at my expense, because the dirty photo I woke up to on Monday? It’s his.

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