Chapter 3

I remembered his name, Liam Sullivan. And from the news reports in my previous life, I remembered he was a Smokejumper. A special unit of elite firefighters based in Montana. A quick search on my phone confirmed it. The West Yellowstone Smokejumper Base.

I didn' t call. I didn' t send an email. I packed a bag, walked past my shiny tour bus, and got into my old Ford Bronco. The one I bought before the fame, before Chase. It felt real.

I drove for two days straight, the Nashville skyline shrinking in my rearview mirror. The rolling green hills of Tennessee gave way to the flat plains, and then, finally, the vast, majestic mountains of Montana. The air changed. It was cleaner, sharper.

I stopped at a local store in Bozeman and filled the entire truck bed. Cases of craft beer from a local brewery, thick-cut ribeye steaks, sausages, and a dozen bags of charcoal. If I was going to show up unannounced, I was going to come with a peace offering.

The base was remote, a collection of functional buildings at the edge of an airfield, surrounded by dense pine forest. A young guy in a uniform stopped me at the gate.

"Can I help you, ma' am?"

"Hi, I' m here to make a donation," I said, gesturing to the back of my truck with my thumb. "For the team. A thank you for what you guys do."

He peered into the truck bed, his eyes widening. "Whoa. Okay. Let me get my supervisor."

A few minutes later, a burly, older man with a friendly face and a name tag that read 'Johnson' walked out. He took one look at me, then at the truck, and broke into a wide grin.

"Well, I' ll be damned. Ava Monroe. My daughter is going to lose her mind. What' s all this?"

"Just a little something to show my appreciation," I said, trying to sound casual.

"Appreciation? We' ll take it!" he boomed, waving a few guys over. "Boys! Look what Santa brought us! Get this unloaded!"

A group of smokejumpers, all lean and fit in their work gear, started hauling the beer and steaks out of my Bronco, laughing and joking. I scanned their faces, my heart pounding. I didn' t know what he looked like up close, not really. Just a fleeting impression on a dark bridge.

Then I saw him.

He was walking out of the main building, wiping grease from his hands with a rag. He was taller than the others, with the same quiet, solid presence I remembered. His dark hair was short, and his face was stoic, all sharp angles and a strong jaw. When he saw me, he froze mid-stride.

Recognition dawned in his eyes, followed by utter shock.

One of his buddies, a redhead with a mischievous grin, slapped him on the back. "Sully! Look who it is! Your girlfriend' s here!"

Liam-Sully, they called him-shot the guy a death glare that could have melted steel.

Another one chimed in, "No joke, man! She' s really here! You gonna introduce us or what?"

The redhead wasn' t done. He snatched Liam' s phone from his pocket, holding it up for me to see. "Ma' am, you have no idea. This guy' s obsessed. Look at his lock screen!"

He turned the phone around. It was a picture of my latest album cover.

A hot blush crept up Liam' s neck, a fascinating contrast to his otherwise stern expression. He snatched his phone back, his movements stiff and angry.

"Knock it off, Miller," he growled, his voice a low rumble. He wouldn' t look at me. He just stood there, mortified, while his team hooted with laughter.

Johnson, the supervisor, just chuckled. "Don' t mind them, Miss Monroe. They' re a bunch of animals. Sully' s a good man. Just a little shy." He turned to Liam. "Sullivan! Where are your manners? Say hello to our guest."

Liam finally looked at me. His eyes, the same kind eyes from the bridge, were wide with a mix of embarrassment and something else I couldn' t quite read. He cleared his throat.

"Miss Monroe," he said, his voice formal and tight. "Welcome to the base. Thank you for the... donation."

He was even more handsome than I remembered. And seeing him alive, healthy, and so flustered, made a real, genuine smile spread across my face.

This was going to be fun.