Female.

From the second-floor windows of the Drake Hotel on Walton, a few gilded steps from Michigan Avenue, greedy flames licked the glass-jagged edges. Nine engines and trucks from firehouses far and wide were already on site. Well-heeled guests and revelers stood around, most appearing dazed, several receiving attention for smoke inhalation from EMTs. Alex’s crew, Engine Company 6, ancestral seat of the Firefightin’ Dempseys, had been last to arrive, a supplementary measure, because hotel fires could get out of control quickly.

But probably not this one. Three of the engines were involved in fire suppression, putting wet stuff on the red stuff, which meant rescue was done and dusted. The water generally only came out after the grabs were complete. Disappointment chilled her gut. Coming up on her one-year anniversary as a candidate firefighter, a rookie, and still no rescues to call her own. Pulling Sam Cochrane from that car last summer didn’t count.

Not that a certain quota of rescues was a requirement to pass from candidate to full-fledged firefighter. No, Goal No. 1 on every shift was to do her job the best she could and bring herself and her platoon home safe. (Goal No. 2 was to not end up on YouTube.) But all her foster brothers were in the service, filling her dad’s giant work boots—Wyatt, Luke, and Beck older, Gage her baby bro by fourteen months—and each of them had numerous grabs from infernos and mangled car wrecks on their heroic résumés. As an adoptee instead of a foster kid, Alex was the only one of her sibs with “Dempsey” as her legal last name. A double-edged sword perhaps, as she acutely felt both a special sense of belonging and the burden of carrying on the Dempsey family legacy of service and heroism. To say she felt competitive might have been the under-freaking-statement of the century.

Her captain, Matt “Venti” Ventimiglia, strode back from Incident Command, a big truck parked in the middle of the street.

“Fox, Dempsey, they need another round of civilian checks on the first floor. Meet the lieutenant from fifty-nine at the southeast entrance.”

Alex squinted at the sight over Venti’s shoulder. Battalion chief Lonny Morgan was over at IC talking to CFD’s Commissioner Laurence Freeman, better known to the Dempseys as Uncle Larry, her dad’s best pal and godfather to them all. Big fire, sure, but what the hell was Larry doing here?

“Dempsey, you waitin’ on a special invitation from the Commish?” Venti barked, because her curiosity had frozen her to the spot.

“No, Cap. On it.”

She caught up with her eldest brother, Wyatt Fox, who was already moving to the hotel’s entrance.

“Hey, you see Larry over at IC?”

Wy nodded. “Cooper’s here.”

Her heart thudded at the mention of his name. Nothing new there. “But he’s out, right?”

Her brother grumbled his disdain for that ridiculous question. “There was some charity shindig hosted by Cooper for the Wounded Warrior Project. Fire started in the kitchen, but didn’t reach the grand ballroom. One percenters probably trampled the minimum wagers on their way out.”

Not so far off the mark, she imagined. She could see it as clearly as if she’d been there. He would have been seated at one of those five-zillion-dollar-a-plate tables, hand resting casually on the back of his date’s chair, showing just enough of his bespoke tailored shirt to reveal gold—no, platinum—cuff links. His other hand would have been midrake through his dark, wavy, overproduced hair that could do with some serious mussing. A member of his security detail would have leaned over and whispered in his ear. We have a situation, Mr. Mayor. Then full throttle to get the most powerful man in the city to safety.

Wy pushed through the main door of the hotel. The extravagantly furnished lobby was empty and unscarred except for muddied carpets and a few gabbing firemen. The smell of smoke scented the air. The smell of death to most people, but not to a firefighter. This was what they trained, lived, breathed for.

After checking in with the 59 LT, Wy and Alex headed to their assigned sweep area: staff offices on the first floor. Looking in, calling out, closing doors, assuring themselves that no one remained on site.

No doubt the mayor was chin wagging with Uncle Larry at Incident Command right about now, getting an update on the situation. The commissioner would assure him they had it under control, but Mr. Mayor would probably insist on staying so he could project his much-vaunted “leadership qualities” and preference for “the buck stops here.” Whatever looked good for the cameras with the election just six weeks off.

“So what’s goin’ on with you lately?” Wy asked.

“Whatcha mean?”

“You seem a bit less—” He stopped and did the Wy Fox patented sniff ’n’ squint. “Alex than usual.”

“Nothing’s going on.” In truth, she was still reeling from Michael Martinez’s unceremonious dumping three days ago in the middle of dinner at Smith & Jones, using of all things the work excuse. She knew all about the work excuse to slip out middate. She had invented it. But she’d thought it was going reasonably well until he practically ran from that restaurant like his nut sac was on fire.

“Just can’t find a decent date.”

Wy huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, I heard Martinez was a blowout. What are we going to do with you?”

“You’d think having two brothers who are former Marines, another who’s the best boxer in the CFD, and one more who’s intimately familiar with all of the gay and most of the straight men in Chicago, I’d be covered. But, oh no, my own family of he-men are useless.”

“I introduced you to someone.” He pushed open a door, scanned the room, and pulled it shut again. She mirrored his actions on the opposite side of the corridor.

“You mean the former Navy SEAL who kept insisting there would always be secrets between us because”—she gave it air quotes, the effect somewhat lost in her thick CFD-issue gloves—“ ‘that’s the way I roll, babe’?”

“He was a solid guy.”

“Brother mine, I would like to meet someone who doesn’t sleep with a knife under his pillow in case his loose lips force him to make a choice between his duty and my need to know. I’d have to wear earplugs in case he blurts out old mission details in his sleep!”

“Damn, you’re fussy.”

Maybe she was. Maybe she gave off a vibe of “not worth the trouble” that condemned every date from the outset. But surely there was someone out there for her. After the Sam Cochrane “rescue” incident, she had spent months fending off weasels propositioning her on Facebook to come rescue them, or more particularly their dicks from the confines of their pants. And those were the A pile.

Then she’d made the classic mistake of falling for the smooth talk of a bona fide charmer, a customer at her family’s bar in Wicker Park, Dempsey’s on Damen. One of those Board of Trade suits who got his kicks slumming it with firefighters and cops on the weekends. Three—okay, five—shots of tequila later and she’d dropped her panties faster than a hooker’s on payday at the mine. She hadn’t even gotten dinner out of it (or an orgasm). The shame of what happened later . . . the hot flush that stole over her body was a heart-sickening reminder of just how hard it was on the dating battlefield.

Yet she persevered because she truly believed that in a city of millions there had to be a guy who could see all she had to offer. Putting herself out there would eventually reap its reward.

“We done here?”

“All good.” Wy closed the last door in the staff offices area just as his radio crackled to life. Venti’s voice echoed in the empty hallway.

“Fox, reports of a civilian trapped on level two, southeast corner. You and Dempsey are closest to the stairwell.”

“Copy that,” Wy said. “You hear that, sis? Time to earn your rescue merit badge.”