Engulfing Emma

Book 3: The Men on Fire

by Samantha Christy

Genres: Romance Anthologies & Collections; Contemporary Romance; Firefighters Romance; New Adult Romance

Synopsis

On the heels of divorce, Lt. Brett Cash never expected to meet the woman of his dreams. Especially not during a robbery gone bad.

But just because she's the woman of his dreams does not mean he's the man of hers.

Emma is a child of a 9/11 hero taken far too soon. And she's not about to let her own daughter go through the same hell she did.

Not even for ... well, let's face it--the man of her dreams. The last thing Emma Lockhart needs, or wants, is a hero. 

Get this sexy romance now.


Engulfing Emma can be read as a standalone romance. It is book three in a series that follows a group of firefighters.

Samantha Christy's collections:

The Mitchell Sisters Series
Purple Orchids
White Lilies
Black Roses

The Stone Brothers Series
Stone Rules
Stone Promises
Stone Vows

The Perfect Game Series
Catching Caden
Benching Brady
Stealing Sawyer

The Men on Fire Series
Igniting Ivy
Sparking Sara
Engulfing Emma 

Standalones
Be My Reason
Abstract Love
Finding Mikayla

***Amazon named Samantha Christy an All-Star Author for being one of the most popular authors in Kindle Unlimited throughout 2018 and 2019 to date.***

Her books are recommended for fans of authors such as L.J. Shen, Helen Hardt, Marie Force, J.S. Scott, Corinne Michaels, Lauren Landish, Vi Keeland, Nicole Snow, Nora Roberts, and E.L. James.

About the Author
Samantha Christy writes contemporary and new adult romance novels. She loves to write about hot alpha-males, sports stars, second-chance love, and deeply emotional issues. She enjoys interacting with readers so please look her up on social media.

Release date: November 21, 2019

Publisher: Independently published

Print pages: 396

Sample

Chapter One

Brett 

“Mommy,” Leo exclaims, carrying a picture of Amanda over to the table where I’m enjoying my morning coffee.

I pull him up on my lap, briefly looking at the smiling face of the woman who is now technically my ex-wife. I glance at the thick packet of legal papers that was delivered yesterday. I’m torn between wanting to think of the first six blissful years we spent together, and the two miserable ones that came after. The two that started the day our son was born—the day she checked out. Checked out of our marriage. Checked out as Leo’s mom. Just checked out.

Our marriage might have just legally ended, but it’s been over since the day Leo came into our lives twenty-five months ago.

Leo puts down the picture of Amanda and picks a crayon up off the table. He begins to color in the book I place in front of him. I watch him as he colors, thinking how much he looks like her, with his blond, slightly wavy hair, green eyes, and pouty lips. Sometimes I wonder if he really understands that Amanda is his mother or if he’s just repeating what I say. Or what Bonnie, his nanny, tells him.

He hasn’t even seen Amanda since his birthday six weeks ago. She comes around every once in a while for what seems more like an obligatory visit than a wanted one.

I rest my chin on top of his head, inhaling the fresh scent of his clean hair. “We’re good, aren’t we? I mean, it’s pretty much been us for a long time now. Nothing’s different. Those papers haven’t really changed anything.”

“Pony,” Leo says, showing me the picture he colored.

I laugh, looking at the haphazard way he tried to stay inside the lines of the drawing using his purple crayon. “That’s right. Pony. Good job, son.” I ruffle his hair.

The floorboard behind me creaks as Bonnie comes into the room. “How are my two favorite boys?” She walks over to give us each a kiss.

Over the past two years, Bonnie has become like a grandmother to Leo and a mother to me. When Leo was only a few months old, Amanda decided that not only did Leo need a nanny, but a live-in one. I thought we were perfectly capable of raising a child without full-time help. I was more than willing to parent him when I wasn’t working my two weekly twenty-four-hour shifts. Amanda basically had a nine-to-five job at the department store. Between the two of us, we only needed help a few days a week.

It became evident early on, however, even before we brought Leo home from the hospital, that Amanda didn’t want to be a mother. She thought she did. For years before she got pregnant, we fantasized about how we’d be a perfect family. But when it happened, every dream I had about us being the family in the Norman Rockwell paintings went right out the window. We thought it was post-partum depression at first. But it soon became clear that Amanda didn’t want Leo. And since Leo and I are a package deal, she didn’t want me either.

“Oh, that’s a lovely pony,” Bonnie says in a grandmotherly tone. “What’ve you boys got planned today?”

“I thought I’d take him to the park,” I say.

“Swing! Swing! Swing!” Leo says excitedly.

I laugh. “Yes. You can go on the swing and the slide and the horsey.”

He wiggles off my lap and runs around the table, pretending to gallop.

“Should we play with Joey today?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer but nods gleefully.

Joey is a few months younger than Leo. I work with Joey’s dad, Denver, at the firehouse. Well, Denver is not technically Joey’s dad yet, but he will be soon.

“Do you have any big plans today, Bonnie?” I ask.

“You know me. I’ll take my usual walk to the market, stopping to feed the birds along the way. I think I’ll help out at the soup kitchen tonight before I make our dinner.”

“Why don’t you let me cook for once?” I ask.

“Brett, sweetie, you know how much I like to cook. Any requests for dinner?”

“We’ll eat whatever you want to prepare, Bonnie. You really are too good to us.”

She waves off my comment. “Taking care of the two of you gives my life purpose.”

Bonnie lost her husband five years ago, having never had children of her own. It was awkward at first, a stranger living in our house. Someone who heard every fight. Every squeak of our bed when we occasionally made love. Every silent dinner when Amanda stayed late at work. But now, I can’t imagine life without her. She truly has become like family.

I get up and put my coffee cup in the sink. Then I tuck the thick envelope, signifying the end of an era, behind my laptop on the counter. I’ll deal with it later.

“Come on, buddy.” I scoop Leo into my arms. “Let’s go.”

On our way to the park, we duck into the corner market for a few bottles of water. While I’m paying, I hear sirens and then a fire truck goes past us. Leo bounces in my arms. “Daddy truck. Daddy truck.”

“That’s just like Daddy’s truck, isn’t it?”

I like to think he’s proud of me, or at least that he will be someday. It took a lot of training to get where I am, the lieutenant of Squad 13. I’ve taken every single course and gotten every certification, being both a trained paramedic and a hazmat responder. I made the decision years ago, on the fateful day I lost my mother, that I would become someone who would make a difference, just as she did.

“He’s soooooo cute,” someone says behind us.

I turn around and see a young girl staring at Leo. “Thanks. I think so too.”

The girl places a bottle of iced cappuccino and a Pop-Tart on the counter. I raise my eyebrows at her. “Aren’t you a little young to be drinking coffee?”

“I’m twelve,” she says, like that explains everything.

I laugh. “Okay then. Have a nice day, uh…” I wait for her to offer her name.

“Evie.” She extends her hand confidently, like we’re in a business meeting.

“Evie—that’s an unusual name. But it’s great.”

“I have an unusual but great mom.”

“Well, Evie, I’m Brett, and this is Leo, and it’s been nice meeting you.”

“You too,” she says, swiping a debit card through the machine like she’s done it a thousand times.

I look at her as we leave the store. This twelve-year-old acts more like she’s twenty-five. I glance around, hoping she’s not alone. Although I’ve always considered our neighborhood safe, we are in Brooklyn, and unfortunately, I’ve seen more than once what can happen to kids who are left unattended.

When I look back through the window, I see a woman join her, an older sister perhaps, and feel a sense of relief. Evie hands the lady the cappuccino and then she takes a big bite of her Pop-Tart. I chuckle at my thought that the coffee was for her.

The lady with Evie gazes out the window and looks at the passersby, her eyes stopping on Leo as she smiles at him. Then her attention returns to Evie and she gestures toward the door.

“Come on, buddy, let’s go find those swings.” I put Leo down and grab his hand as we turn the corner and go to his favorite place.

 

Chapter Two

Emma

  

“I’m going to miss you.” Lisa pulls me in for a hug.

I laugh as she squeezes me hard. “It’s not like we’re never going to see each other. We’re still doing Taco Tuesday’s this summer.”

“I know. But not seeing you every day will take the wind out of my sails.”

“You’re crazy,” I tell her. “Go enjoy your ten weeks off. Stay out late. Sleep in. Rejuvenate.”

She gives me a sideways look. “Oh, like you won’t long to be back here in a matter of weeks. I’ll bet you’ve already cried because you’re missing your students.”

I shrug. I don’t need her to know I’ve shed tears more than once. I miss every single one of them. Even little Bobby Riggs, who was a thorn in my side all year.

I love my job more than anything. A lot of teachers can’t wait for the last day of school. In fact, they are worse than the students, counting down those last few weeks before summer. Not me. I wish we had year-round school. I dread the last days of school, and I look forward to the first day like an excited kid on Christmas Eve.

Lisa picks up the rest of her bags and looks around my classroom. “As usual you’re dragging this out. How come you’re always one of the last to leave?”

I take a moment to admire the drawings made by my students that are still pinned on the wall. I can’t bear to get rid of them. I swear I’ll soon need to rent a storage unit large enough to hold everything I take home.

I unpin some of the drawings and start a pile. “I’ll bet Becca and Kelly are still here.”

“You’re probably right. Maybe I’ll stop by the fifth-grade hallway and say goodbye.”

“You’d better,” I say sarcastically. “It’s not like you won’t be seeing them every Tuesday this summer.”

“I know. I’m just going to miss you guys so much. And I’m not going to see you every Tuesday.”

“That’s right. You’ll be busy traveling the world with that hot husband of yours. Where is he taking you this time? Paris? Rome? Morocco?”

She looks embarrassed. “Yeah.”

My jaw drops. “All three?”

“And Dubai.”

I push her toward the door. “What are you waiting for, girl? Start packing.”

She leans in for one more hug. “Have a great summer, Emma.”

“I plan on it.”

After watching Lisa walk down the first-grade hallway, I duck back into my classroom and pack up the rest of my stuff. We’re not allowed to leave anything. The school provides us with boxes, and they have people to haul them down to the basement for storage. The school is leased out for other purposes during the summer, and they don’t want our belongings cluttering up the classrooms.

I think about the coming summer. I don’t travel much, like some of the other teachers. I don’t like to fly. My summers are flexible, as I teach an online English class for high school students, so I could travel if I wanted to. I even got my passport a few years ago, intending to take a vacation to Bermuda. But I chickened out at the last minute, refusing to get on the plane. My daughter, Evelyn, doesn’t seem to mind that we don’t travel, however. She hates leaving her friends for too long, and she loves her summer camps—both the sleep-away and the one here in the city. And then there’s Mom, who probably has a thousand vacation days saved up, but she never takes them except at Thanksgiving and Christmas. So, when we do travel, it’s usually limited to long weekends.

Last summer we spent a few days at Niagara Falls. The summer before that, we rented a little cottage in Vermont for five days. The one before that, we took Evelyn to a few amusement parks along the East Coast so she could ride roller coasters.

Not exactly world travelers. But I like my life. I like the way the three of us support each other. Evelyn and my mother have always been my best friends.

I hold back more tears as I tuck the last of the drawings into my bag. My first-graders colored pictures of what they will miss the most about school. Bobby Riggs drew the jungle gym in the courtyard behind the school. Of course he did. He hates school.

Karly Hilliard drew a picture of Bobby Riggs. Poor girl has a thing for bad boys, and she’s only six years old.

Most of the other students drew pictures of a woman with long brown hair and hazel eyes. Me. They drew pictures of me when I asked them to draw what they would miss the most.

I scan the room once more before I turn off the light and shuffle slowly down the hallway.

The school is almost deserted, most of the other teachers having already cleared out their things over the past few days. I think about heading around the corner to see if Becca and Kelly are still in their classrooms, but I know that would just be prolonging the inevitable. I have to leave my favorite place on earth eventually. I might as well do it now.

When I reach the front, I look back at the long empty hallway. “Goodbye,” I say loudly, my voice echoing off the cement floor and walls. Nobody says it back, and that makes me sad.

I struggle to get my rolling cart through the front door, being careful nothing falls off inside because the doors will lock behind me and there’s nobody left to open them. It gets hung up on the floor mat. I’m leaning down to free it when I hear a commotion in the street.

Sirens are coming from both directions, and people are yelling and running. I leave the rolling cart where it is and walk down the front steps.

That turns out to be the worst decision of my life.

A guy wielding a gun walks around the corner. A few people surround him. People who look terrified.

“Do what I say, motherfucker, or I’ll shoot you,” the gunman says.

The thin man on the other end of his words holds up his hands in surrender.

The sirens get closer and the guy with the gun panics. I turn to run back up the stairs into the safety of the school. But it’s too late.

“Stop right there, lady!” he shouts.

I turn around to see him dragging his entourage of hostages closer to me. I say a silent prayer, hoping my daughter will not have to go through what I did when I was a child.

I hold my hands up, showing him I have no intention of fighting. “W-what do you w-want?”

He waves his gun at the door that’s still propped open by my cart. “Is there anyone in there?”

“Uh … uh …” I’m trying to think clearly, but all I see are the faces of Evelyn and Mom.

“Answer me, lady!” he shouts. “Is there anyone in the fucking building?”

I don’t know what to say. If I tell him it’s almost empty, will I be endangering the lives of the few people still inside? If I lie and say there are a lot of people in there, will he hurt me?

“Maybe a few,” I say. “The school year is over.”

“Hold the door open!” he screams. “Do it now!”

My legs almost fail me as I climb the last steps to the front door and attempt to nudge my cart aside and hold the door open like he told me. The whole time I’m thanking God that school is out and there are no kids inside.

I can’t get the cart fully out of the way, and the gunman isn’t happy about it. “Are you completely useless?” he asks, violently pushing it inside.

Then the loudest noise I’ve ever heard echoes off the walls, hurting my ears. A young man—a hostage—drops to the floor, yelling in agony.

The gunman looks stunned that his weapon went off. “Shit,” he says, looking nervously out at the street. Then he tries to open the door that leads behind the front counter, but it’s locked. He kicks it in, breaking the doorframe. He points to me and the guy standing next to me. “You two, pull the kid over behind that counter.”

I look down at the injured man, who is barely more than a boy. He can’t be over eighteen. His hands are covered in blood, and I cringe.

“My leg,” he cries.

As we drag him behind the front desk, we leave a trail of bright-red blood. It runs all the way from the front door, around the corner, and over the threshold of the admin door. We settle him against the wall, and blood pools under his leg. The kid’s face is going ashen, and I’m not sure if it’s from blood loss or because he’s terrified.

My eyes dart to the door that leads back into the classroom hallways and I wonder if Becca and Kelly are still here. If so, did they hear the gunshot? Will they come investigate?

The gunman paces around as if trying to figure out what to do. I take a moment to study him, wondering if I’ll need to describe him to the police if he escapes. His complexion is dark, Hispanic perhaps, though he doesn’t speak with an accent. He’s young, maybe the same age as the kid he shot, and he’s got black hair. He’s tall and lanky. He doesn’t seem high, just mad. And a little scared.

While he’s distracted, I pull out my phone to text my friends and warn them to stay put or exit out the back, but the phone is slapped out of my hand. It cracks as it hits the floor ten feet away.

“Everyone gimmie your phones,” our captor says.

The three other people in the room—a woman and two men—show varying degrees of compliance.

The thin man looks like he wants to jump the guy with the gun. The black-haired woman puts a hand on his arm. “Do what he says. He’s already shot one of us.”

 The gunman runs his hands through his hair, pounding the weapon repeatedly against his head. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“Doesn’t matter,” the thin man says, handing over his cell phone. “You’re going to get charged with a lot more than robbing that store.”

“What store?” I ask.

“Shettleman’s Grocery.”

My hand covers my mouth, stifling my gasp as I picture the nice old couple who run the small corner store next to the school. “Oh my gosh, are they okay?”

“Will the two of you shut up?” the gunman says. He looks down at the man he shot, who is screaming in pain. “And shut him up too. I need to think.” He points to me. “You were coming out of the school. How many ways in and out of here are there?”

I gesture to the door at the rear of the administration office. “There are several emergency exits beyond that door, but they are locked from the outside.”

Red and blue lights flash in front of the building. We are corralled into the back corner of the office, out of sight of the windows.

The gun is pointed at the thin man. “You, go around the counter and barricade the front doors with that couch and chairs. Try anything, and I’ll shoot you too.”

The man pales and does what he’s told.

The kid with the gunshot wound is still screaming.

“I told you to shut him the fuck up,” the gunman says to no one in particular.

I look at all the blood on the floor. The woman with black hair is pressing her hands against the wound, trying to stop the bleeding, but it’s not doing much good.

I ask, “Does anyone here have medical training?” I get blank stares. “The blood is bright red. I think that’s bad. The bullet must have hit an artery.”

 “How do you know that shit?” the guy with the gun asks.

“I, uh … watch a lot of TV.”

The kid cries out again.

“I can’t think with him screaming like that.” He walks over and kicks the kid’s leg, making him bellow even louder.

I position myself between the gun and the injured kid. I feel the need to protect him. It wasn’t so long ago that he was a student. Maybe even in a school like this one.

I take a deep breath and confront our assailant. “Did you kill anyone at Shettleman’s?”

The guy looks pissed off. “I didn’t kill no one,” he says, patting a pocket in his coat. “I was just there for the cash. I ain’t no murderer.”

I gesture to the kid on the floor. “Not yet, but if he dies, you will be.”

He looks at the screaming kid and then at me. “Well why don’t you make it your job to make sure he don’t die?”

“My job?”

He points his gun to the door on my right. “What’s in there?”

“It’s a storage room.”

“Open it.”

I step over and open the door. He keeps me in his peripheral vision as he pops his head in and looks around. “Perfect. No windows. Take him in there. That way I don’t have to hear him.”

“Take him in there?” I ask.

“Yeah, and you damn well better make sure he don’t die. If he does, there won’t be no reason to keep you or anyone else around. Got it?”

“You want me to put him in a closet and try to help him? I’m not a doctor. I teach first grade.”

“You knew about the blood,” he says. “You’re the best chance he’s got. Now get the fuck in the closet.” He turns to the thin man. “Move the kid inside.”

The door to the back hallway opens, and Becca and Kelly walk in.

“Run!” I scream.

Horror crosses their faces as they see the blood on the floor, the barricade at the front door, and the man with the gun.

Kelly, who is behind Becca, manages to turn around and run back into the hallway. She tries to grab Becca, but Becca is frozen in place and doesn’t move. The gunman hustles over and pulls her inside.

“Becca!” Kelly screams from down the hall.

“Sit your pretty ass down over there with the rest of them,” he says. He turns to the man who just put the kid in the storage room. “Find some shit to block off that door.”

“Like what?” the man asks.

“Teacher,” the gunman says to me. “Suggestions?”

“Um … there are some desks in the storage closet. And boxes of paper—those are pretty heavy.”

He waves the gun at the man doing all his heavy lifting. “Do it.”

Becca tries to ask what’s going on, but he shuts her up. I stare at Becca. Becca stares at me. We’re both wondering how this is going to play out.

When the gunman is busy making sure the door is securely blocked, the man who moved the stuff whispers to me, “I saw a box of phones in that room.”

The kid moans in pain, drawing our assailant’s attention back to us. “What are you waiting for, teacher? Get in there.”

I step inside the room, already feeling claustrophobic and wondering if this storage room will become my tomb.

I look at Becca. Tears roll down her cheeks as the door closes. And then it’s quiet. The large storage room door muffles the sounds on the other side.

The kid cries out again, reminding me I have an important job to do. I grab a few shirts from the lost and found box, drop to my knees, and press them to his wound. When he screams, I try to calm him. “I’m Emma. What’s your name?”

“C-carter. Goddamn, it hurts.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. But we have to control the bleeding. How old are you, Carter?”

“Nineteen.”

“You look strong,” I tell him. “That’s good. Can you hold these on your leg while I look around for anything that can help us?”

He puts a shaky hand on the blood-soaked shirts, not able to keep much pressure on it. “I don’t feel so good.”

“Hang in there, Carter.”

I riffle through the boxes, looking for anything I can use, when I remember the man said he saw phones. If I can call 911, surely they will tell me how to help Carter. Maybe they can help all of us. But there may not be anywhere to plug a phone in, and even if there is, we’re stuck in a storage room. It’s not like I can stitch up his leg or remove a bullet with hole punches and staplers.

“Here they are,” I say, finding the box.

I move other boxes out of the way, examining the lower walls in my search for a phone jack. I find one behind the leg of a shelf. “Thank God,” I say.

I pull out one of the phones, watching the door the entire time. What if the gunman opens the door and sees me with the phone? Will he shoot me?

Knowing I don’t have a choice, I plug it in and pull out another shirt from the lost and found, figuring I can use it to camouflage the phone on the floor. Then I pick up the handset, never happier to hear a dial tone in all my twenty-seven years.