Tragedy is the kind of thing people avoid—until it finds them. Then it becomes an obsession.

I spent most of my life as a smokejumper, leaping from planes at 15,000 feet into infernos that could swallow a man whole. My job was simple: land intact, fight hard, and bring my crew home.

Ainsley was a town firefighter.

The kind who rode trucks, wielded hoses, and saved homes.

We were opposites in the field, but kindred spirits in the chaos. Adrenaline junkies. Lovers. Soulmates.

Or so I thought.

One brutal summer day, the fire won.

Ainsley didn't make it out, and I didn't make it back—not really.

Her death broke me in ways no blaze ever could.

Now, I live in the quiet. No friends. No parties. No damn sympathy.

I read books, avoid people, and keep my head down. But in this town, silence breeds enemies—and some of them don't care if you're ready to die.

Which is how I ended up in a corner at a masked ball, hiding behind anonymity and a whiskey glass.

Then she walks in.

Rosy cheeks. Killer curves. A gown that makes my pulse race. And a mouth sharp enough to cut through my grief.

One night.

No names.

No faces.

No promises.

Just heat, shadows, and the kind of trouble I swore I'd never chase again.

What could possibly go wrong?