He cheated i chose two firefighters novel Chapter 12

Chapter 12

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Scar’s POV

Dear Diary,

I’ve been on the road for two straight days, and I’ve finally made it to Hollywood, Florida.

The place is gorgeous–sunny, bright, and somehow still warm even though Fall is starting.

I didn’t see that coming.

This is it, though. The spot where I’m trying to reroute my whole life.

Tomorrow is Monday, and I’m praying my lawyer calls with something good. If Brennan has

signed what he needs to sign, I’ll be one step closer to reclaiming my maiden name. Soon I won’t be Scarlett Graysen anymore.

I’ll be Scarlett Joseph again.

And I can’t wait.

***

“Yes, Mrs. Graysen–he signed,” Mrs. Whitaker told me. “I’ve just finished filing everything

with the court. I was about to reach out.”

I swear my heart tripped over itself.

“Oh my God–yes. Thank you,” I blurted. “As soon as I find somewhere to live, I’ll send you

the address so you can mail the papers. Thank you. Seriously, thank you so much.”

We ended the call, and I broke into an actual little victory dance right there in the room.

I changed into a pink tank and white linen capris, shoved my feet into white Converse, and grabbed my purse and keys before heading downstairs.

Breakfast was the typical hotel spread: waffles, those suspicious scrambled eggs, bacon, and cranberry juice. And again–fuck the calories.

After that, I picked up a newspaper and opened a housing app on my phone. Houses only. I didn’t want an apartment.

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I ducked into a cute café, ordered an iced green tea, and took a seat outside. I dug a hair tie

out of my purse, twisted my hair into a messy bun, and opened the paper to the classifieds

with a pen ready.

For the next two hours, I called numbers, messaged people, and talked to realtors until my

voice started to feel borrowed.

I already had a meeting scheduled with a realtor named Summer Dovell. I was waiting on her to show up at the café, and I’d told her what I was wearing. She’d told me she’d be in a

silver Bentley Continental GT.

A silver Bentley slid up to the curb beside me like it belonged in a music video.

A perky blonde about my height hopped out, all energy and confidence, scanned the tables,

and locked onto me.

“Helloooo! Scar? I’m Summer,” she sang out with a smile bright enough to be a warning

label.

Instantly, I liked her.

She had the kind of curvy figure that looked sculpted on purpose. If I were into women,

she’d be exactly my type. She was dressed in a gray pencil skirt, a white flowy tank, and

stilettos so high my feet ached in sympathy.

She sat across from me and leaned in like we were old friends.

“Nice to meet you,” she said, and her blue eyes actually sparkled as she offered her hand.

I shook it. “Hi.”

She didn’t waste time. “Okay. Two to three bedrooms, and you want a pool. Would you

consider a condo?”

“Yes. I would.”

“Price range?”

“Three hundred to five–fifty,” I said. “My dad gave me money for a rainy day–wedding gift.

And then my husband cheated, so I’m rebuilding from scratch.”

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Her eyebrows shot up. “Oh.”

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“Sorry,” I rushed on. “I do that. I meet someone and immediately spew my whole life.”

She waved it off. “You’re fine. Can I ask how old you are? You look super young.”

“Twenty–five.”

“Seriously? You’ve got great genetics. I would’ve guessed twenty.” She grinned. “I’m twenty- six. And since you’re here… I’m guessing divorce?”

“Divorced,” I corrected. “I just got the good news this morning.”

“Then congratulations.” Her smile turned mischievous. “Let’s celebrate by getting you into a

new place.”

We took her car and left mine where it was. She said she always drove clients anyway. She

talked the entire time, and weirdly, it was comforting. I answered whatever she asked.

She told me she’d grown up here, didn’t have a boyfriend, and kept her circle small.

“I know this is random,” she said, glancing at me, “but I want us to be friends, Scar. I think

you’d click with my two best friends. If you’re down, I’ll take you out this weekend. You can

meet them, and we can toast your divorce.”

“I’d really like that,” I admitted. “I need friends. I miss my soul sister. I’m hoping I fall in love

with it here enough that she visits… and decides to stay.”

Summer giggled.

The first place was a three–bedroom, two–bath single–family home–way under my budget.

It was sweet, but there wasn’t a pool. The yard was huge, though, and I could easily imagine

adding one.

“I’m telling you up front,” Summer said, “it’s been sitting for a while. An older woman died

here–natural causes. I have to disclose it. Some people get weird about that.” She

shrugged. “I call it good luck.”

I laughed at her sunny logic, but the house still wasn’t it.

Next was a two–bedroom, two–bath place around 1,200 square feet–squarely in the middle

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of my range. The kitchen was nice. There was even a small pool.

It almost worked.

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Then the neighbors made the decision for me: loud music blasting like it was a party on

loop, barely masking kids shrieking nonstop.

Hard pass.

After that, she took me to a condo–and I melted.

Everything was crisp black and white. White floors. Black trim. A bright white kitchen with black marble counters, and silver appliances that looked brand new. Two bedrooms, two

bathrooms.

There wasn’t a private pool, but there was a community one, and Summer said the building was mostly singles in their twenties and thirties.

Then she dropped the best part.

“I live on the floor right under this unit,” she added casually.

I squealed. Actually squealed.

“I’ll take it,” I told her immediately.

We went through the paperwork, and she said I could move in within two weeks.

And then she hit me with something I wasn’t prepared for.

“Until then, you can stay with me,” Summer said.

I stared at her. “What? We barely know each other. Why are you being this nice? For all you know, I could be a crack whore.”

She doubled over laughing, full–body, no shame. “Okay, first of all, we’ve been together for three hours and you haven’t wandered off once to shoot up or smoke anything–whatever crack people do. Second, I’m getting a good vibe. My dad always told me to trust my gut.‘ She sobered just enough to meet my eyes. “You’re good people, Scarlett.”

My throat tightened. “Oh God, you’re going to make me cry.”

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“I mean it,” she said, and pressed a key into my hand. “Go grab your things and come back.

Take a bath. There’s wine in the fridge. Eat whatever you want. I’ll be home in about three

hours.” She paused. “Do you cook, or should I pick up dinner?”

“I cook,” I said, “and I cook damn good.”

“Perfect. I live for home–cooked food. Come on–let’s get you back to your car.”

We returned to the café, and I hugged her goodbye like we’d been friends for years.

I stopped at a grocery store for supplies: spicy sausage penne with three cheeses. I added

French bread, garlic, and butter–just in case.

I was hunting for the pasta when my cart rammed into someone.

“Oh no–I’m so sorry,” I said automatically.

Then I looked up.

And up.

Holy hell.

The man I’d just assaulted with my shopping cart was enormous.

He smiled, showing perfect white teeth. Plush lips. A tidy beard that framed his face like it belonged there. Straight nose, sharp jaw, and green eyes that caught the light.

He wore white board shorts and a yellow T–shirt that made his tan look almost unreal. His arms were solid muscle–so solid that when he shifted, he actually flexed.

He flexed.

I giggled like an idiot.

“No damage,” he said easily. “I’m Milo.”

“Scar,” I replied. “Sorry again. I was trying to find penne.”

He glanced to the side, reached out, and pulled a box from the shelf like it was nothing.

“This one,” he said, handing it to me. “The protein kind is amazing.”

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The way he said amazing–and the way his eyes tracked down my body at the same time- sent heat straight to my face.

His smile widened like he’d noticed.

“I haven’t seen you around,” he said. “Are you visiting?”

“No.” And then, because I apparently can’t stop myself, I kept going. “I just moved here. I divorced my husband because he’s a cheating bastard. I bought a condo down the street, but I’m staying with a friend for now, and I’m making her dinner tonight.”

God, Scar. Shut up. Maybe hand him your autobiography while you’re at it.

His expression softened. “I’m sorry he did that to you. But hey–fresh start, right?”

“Exactly,” I said too quickly. “I should check out and get going. Nice to meet you.”

I backed away like I was fleeing the scene of a crime.

“Nice meeting you too, Scar,” he called.

I tossed him a smile over my shoulder–and the second I turned the corner, I literally smacked my own forehead.

I really, really need to learn when to stop talking.