Firebreak: Caribou River, #1

By Alexa Gregory

A stubborn business owner, a volunteer firefighter, a forgotten past, and an arsonist. Is it a recipe for love or disaster?

 

Élodie Paradis won't let two devastating fires and a theft stand in her way. She's set on keeping her family's Sugar Bush running like it has for one hundred years. She needs to hire a contractor to rebuild the cabin. The only available builder is a man she refuses to trust. He's burned her twice before, and she's fresh out of forgiveness.

 

Bastian Roy is fighting hard to leave his philandering reputation behind. As a volunteer firefighter, he strives to be a respected Eastwood resident. The perfect opportunity comes knocking when the town's jewel needs to be rebuilt. If he can figure out what grudge Élodie holds against him, it will be the best job to solidify his family legacy.

 

Tensions run hot between them, slipping from prejudice to friendship. Together, they'll build something new. But relationships are fragile when they're built on a shaky past. Especially when tragedy lurks just around the corner.

 

This small-town enemies-to-lovers slow burn is the first book in the Caribou River series but can be read as a standalone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alexa Gregory
• Release date: Mar 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9781999192488

Book preview

Firebreak

Contents

Acknowledgments

Author's Note

1. Élodie

2. Bastian

3. Bastian

4. Élodie

5. Bastian

6. Élodie

7. Bastian

8. Élodie

9. Bastian

10. Élodie

11. Bastian

12. Bastian

13. Élodie

14. Bastian

15. Élodie

16. Bastian

17. Élodie

18. Bastian

19. Élodie

20. Bastian

21. Élodie

22. Bastian

23. Élodie

24. Bastian

25. Élodie

26. Bastian

27. Élodie

28. Bastian

29. Élodie

30. Bastian

31. Élodie

32. Bastian

33. Élodie

34. Bastian

Epilogue - Élodie

Mémère Gregory’s Sucre à la crème Recipe

About the Author

Also by Alexa Gregory

Sugar Bushes

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Copyright © 2021 by Alexa Gregory

Cover Art © 2021 by Madhat Studios

Formatted by  Madhat Studios

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All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by an, including electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of the publisher.

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, companies, places, events, and incidents are either used in a fictitious manner or are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places, or events is purely coincidental.

Élodie Paradis won't let two devastating fires and a theft stand in her way. She's set on keeping her family's Sugar Bush running like it has for one hundred years. She needs to hire a contractor to rebuild the cabin. The only available builder is a man she refuses to trust. He's burned her twice before, and she's fresh out of forgiveness.

Bastian Roy is fighting hard to leave his philandering reputation behind. As a volunteer firefighter, he strives to be a respected Eastwood resident. The perfect opportunity comes knocking when the town's jewel needs to be rebuilt. If he can figure out what grudge Élodie holds against him, it will be the best job to solidify his family legacy.

Tensions run hot between them, slipping from prejudice to friendship. Together, they'll build something new. But relationships are fragile when they're built on a shaky past. Especially when tragedy lurks just around the corner.

This small-town enemies-to-lovers slow burn is the first book in the Caribou River series but can be read as a standalone.

Acknowledgments

For Mr. Fire,

I couldn't write without the love and support of my amazing husband, Mr. Fire. My stop-making-sense hero, thanks for reminding me to eat and sleep. Thanks for holding me when I cry because of something a character did or said. Oh, and thanks for never getting annoyed with all of my firefighting questions. (I get some stuff wrong, but that's on me! Either I misinterpreted it, or I wove my fiction wand around and made it fit the story.)

A giant thank you to my wonderful editor, Devin Govaere. Her comments and encouragements mean so much to me. With her in my corner, I know my book babies are the best they can be.

Thank you to Shari from Madhat Studios for giving Firebreak such a wonderful cover.

A huge, massive enormous thanks to Linda from Foreword PR & Marketing for all of her help and guidance. Her patience with a nutso bananas lady like me is impressive and also very appreciated.

To my dear friend Jessica, I offer a massive thanks for all the talks and support. You're a shiny soul, and I'm lucky to know you. I’m so grateful for your understanding and compassion. (Hopefully, sometime soon, we'll be able to do road trip sprints again!)

Thanks to all of the small Ontarian towns I smooshed together to make the fictional Eastwood, Haxby, and Saint-Canton. The landscape of my youth has turned into the scenery of my career. Je n'aurais jamais deviné votre importance à mon coeur.

And then there's you, dear reader. Thank you for reading Élodie and Bastian's story. I hope you enjoy your time on the banks of the Caribou River.

Author's Note

The Paradis family’s century-old Sugar Bush is fictional, but such family-operated businesses do exist in Canada. Érablières are a quintessential part of Canadian culture.

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These Sugar Bushes produce maple syrup, but the maple season (roughly February through April) is a whole experience. Families gather by the hundreds in sugar shacks during this time to feast on pancakes, oreilles de crisse, and all kinds of delicious foods. There are horse-drawn rides through the snowy forests, and sometimes, you can even get a bit of fresh maple taffy.

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These businesses have been hit hard by the global pandemic. Some may have to close their doors after generations of operation. It's a great loss for all. If you can, support these businesses by buying some of their products online. I’ve added a list of Érablières’ at the end of the book.

1

Élodie

The scorched remains of the cabin made it hard to breathe. The acrid scent lingering on the wind brought with it a tide of nausea.

The only thing left of the once proud and beautiful log cabin was twisted and gnarled wood seared black by fire. My eyes prickled with tears I refused to shed.

I wouldn't cry. No matter how devastating it was. I suffocated my grief, stuffing it deep inside of an impenetrable box in the furthest recesses of my mind. There was no time to feel. There was just too much to do. I couldn't be reactive to the loss, to the destruction. I had to be action. I needed to be function.

I had to be a lot of things.

With the overwhelming thought, a sharp pain jabbed at my chest. I pushed my fist against the ache, willing it back and away, rubbing at my skin vigorously like I would with a stubborn stain.

My boots pounded against the charred ground, kicking up the burned dust of a hundred years of family history. The back of my throat burned, but I reminded my brain that we were too tired to cry. Too busy to break down. Too strong to give in.

I'd already wept and raged enough to last me a damn lifetime – or twenty – in the privacy of my home like a responsible adult. Now wasn't the time to bawl, anyway. There was work to be done—just a regular Wednesday.

I added six tasks to my ever-growing to-do list. I'd need a second brain to remember everything that had to get done. My phone's screen aggravated my concussion, so it was sheer determination and a steel-trap memory that would fuel Paradis Sugar Bush and Farm's rebuild.

Standing by the calcified cabin wasn't going to bring back the history that had been lost. Nor would it help restoration.

That was why Bastian Roy was on his way.

I hoped he wouldn't be alone. That he would bring an architect or some other qualified person with him. Bastian had a reputation that spanned from Eastwood to Haxby to Saint-Canton. It had nothing to do with his family's construction business and everything to do with the man's other exploits.

It was hard to tell if Bastian Roy was a badge bunny chaser or if women simply knew where to find him.

Did I want to trust Eastwood's resident fuckboy with my family's legacy? No. Absolutely not. Yet there his shiny black pickup was, pulling into the singed laneway. I turned away, preferring to keep my eyes locked on the wrecked cabin. It hadn't gotten easier to see the ravages caused by the fire. The surrounding field would need to be cleared of debris—another call I needed to make.

All because a psycho had purposefully set the cabin ablaze to exact revenge.

My older sister, Béatrice, had made an enemy of Joseph Kerrigan. The deranged man had been her client at the law firm where she worked.

Kerrigan hadn't just burned down the Sugar Bush's main cabin.

We'd lost our greenhouses and a field to the flames. On his rampage, he had tried to stab Béatrice to death after beating the crap out of me. I'd gotten a minor concussion and an ugly gash on my left temple. I'd already gotten bangs to hide the angry red gash before it scarred over.

My sleep would be plagued by nightmares for the next little while. I was almost used to waking up in a panic, covered in sweat.

It was challenging to look in the mirror. It had nothing to do with the glare of the reflective surface and everything to do with the fact that I had almost died. My sister had almost died. We had come very close to losing the entire farm.

Thankfully, the Eastwood Fire Department, including Bastian, had managed to save the maple syrup storehouse and the forest that made up most of our business.

My beloved trees. The lush greens of their leaves swayed in the rejuvenating spring wind, reminding me that not all was lost. The gentle rustle of the foliage soothed me, giving me strength.

Bastian was practically from Eastwood. He knew what this Sugar Bush and farm meant to the town and to my family. Hell, to the whole province. If he didn't take this contract seriously, I would go nuclear on his ass. I'd put every other inferno he'd battled to shame. No turnouts, no amount of water would temper my wrath if he messed with my business.

Paradis Sugar Bush and Farm wasn't a badge bunny he could take for a roll in the hay then forget.

This was my family's legacy. It was my past, my future. I'd been working on this farm since I was old enough to walk, and I'd work it until my legs gave out.

Élodie. Bastian's voice was deep and smooth.

I hated the way he spoke my name. EH-lo-die. The right way, the French way. I fought hard to suppress the shiver that ran up my spine.

Bastian's smile was wide, accentuating his dimples and square jaw. His black hair was effortlessly tousled, down to the damp tips at the base of his muscular neck. I balled my fists to keep from reaching out to touch a droplet of water. Instead, I watched it fall on his dark T-shirt. The Roy Construction emblem was stretched over his strong, powerful chest.

Really, I felt bad for the shirt. It was working hard, strained to the limits of its capacity. Bastian's long, impressive legs, encased in worn denim, ate the distance between us as he came to stand beside me.

I didn't want to find him attractive. So he was hot. Plenty of men were. Though Bastian was unrivaled in the sex-appeal department, I didn't like him. At all.

His looks and charm wouldn't win me over.

We could have met in your office. Bastian crossed his arms, grinning down at me from his six-foot-something frame. It's only been three days…

Was he passing judgment? Because there was no way I'd allow that. Yes, both fires had been devastating, but I wasn't going to sit on my laurels. I was going to fix this. Then I'd feel better.

Then I'll regain control.

My office had been in the cabin. Thankfully, almost everything was backed up on the cloud. My precious laptop had been tucked away in my living room, away from the blaze. For now, I'd set up a makeshift office at my dining room table. Not that I could sit at my computer for too long while my brain healed from the concussion.

That wasn't why we were meeting here.

I'd never let Bastian Roy into my home.

I narrowed my eyes and crossed my arms, mimicking his posture. It made me look angry, while he stood there, seemingly at peace and nonchalant. Yeah, hell would have to freeze over before I put myself in an enclosed space with this man. His ego wouldn't have fit into my house, anyway.

This is fine, I assured him, using a tone I reserved for slacking farmhands.

His smirk widened. I wanted to hate the shine in his deep royal-blue gaze. Sure. Whatever you think is best.

Is your father joining us? It would be much easier to have this meeting with Al. I didn't have any qualms with the elder Roy. In fact, he'd built my house and done an amazing job.

Bastian's thick brow arched up. His amused demeanor slipped for a millisecond. No. He's retired, Élodie. Just like I told you over the phone.

Hmm. Well, this is an important job. Are you sure you're ready for something of this magnitude?

It’s just a cabin, Élodie. Besides, I’ve built ten houses in the new development near Saint-Canton. If you don’t trust my crew and me with this, I can give you a few numbers. Builders from Ottawa are more expensive, though. They’re all backlogged, too. But hey, it’s up to you if you want to wait a couple years.

I pursed my lips, giving him the full force of the Paradis pout. Would this man ever take me seriously? Here he was, wanting to be hired to rebuild my cabin. Did he even remember that he’d once laughed right in my face when I’d asked him to build something for me?

"It’s not just a cabin." Just like it hadn’t been just a sleigh, all those years ago.

Bastian held up his hands, shaking his stupidly handsome head. Sorry. You’re right. He slid his phone from his back pocket. You’re hoping for a two-story cabin with a state-of-the-art kitchen and a cathedral ceiling.

Right.

He was reading the email I’d sent his father. That meant Bastian had seen the rest of the message where I’d pleaded with Al to take this project on himself. I specifically requested that Bastian not be in charge of this building endeavor.

Wanna tell me why you sent this? A smirk tugged at his full lips.

I don’t think you have the experience—or the attention span—to complete this build.

Bastian nodded as he shrugged. If I went up to the Sugar Bush—he gestured to the burned-down building—and I demanded to deal with Fern instead of you? You’d chew my ass out. You run this business now, not your father. That commands respect, right? It’s the same for me, sweetheart.

Sweetheart? What a condescending jerk. Sure, he was a bit older than me, but that was totally uncalled for.

I held my breath, still glaring at him. Was he seriously comparing our situations? I’m a chick in my twenties, running a family farm, much to the dismay of my grumpy, borderline-misogynistic uncles. I have to wade through a lot of bullshit to run the Sugar Bush and farm the way I see fit.

Bastian couldn’t begin to understand everything the family put me through. I constantly had to prove myself. Did it matter that our profit margin had significantly increased since I took the reins, fresh out of university with a shiny business degree?

No.

Of course not.

Because I was a woman. Because I didn’t stick to the status quo. Because, above all else, I brought on change.

For Bastian, I would always be an eighteen-year-old spoiled, entitled brat. The sweetheart jab had made that abundantly clear.

My dad is retired, he repeated. Roy Construction is a good company. I assure you, Élodie, this project is easy as pie.

I pushed my glasses up my nose, regretting that I hadn’t worn my contacts. I didn’t want to fidget around Bastian. I didn’t want him to think that I was nervous because of him.

A deep annoyance gnawed at me, fraying the edges of my tried patience. I didn’t want his track record anywhere near my future plans.

Fine. Give me your estimate. I’m comparing builders before I make a decision.

He licked his lips, his throat working on a swallow. Okay. I’ll get to work on that. Just a note, though. If you’re planning on hosting weddings in the new cabin, I wouldn’t put in a second story. It’s doable, sure. If it were up to me, I’d keep the ceilings real high with long, wide windows. It’d give guests a stunning backdrop of the maple forest, no matter the season. He nodded toward the thick line of trees. It’s wonderful scenery.

The destroyed cabin had hosted years of Sunday Sugar Bush brunches during the winter and spring months. Generations of Eastwood residents had feasted on pancakes and fresh bread drenched in gold maple syrup in the log structure. My family had prepared fresh maple taffy on snow but a hundred feet from where I stood. It was a tradition for many residents to pop by at least once a year.

The forest was thick with a narrow, weaving path where we drove a sleigh through the thick snow for our guests before serving them hot chocolate to cut through the cold Canadian winter. They were free to roam through the woodland, taking in the beauty of the landscape.

It didn’t matter if the woods were covered in new pearl-white snow or alive with thousands of emerald leaves dancing through the soft breeze coming off the Caribou River.

There was always magic at Paradis Sugar Bush and Farm.

Like our last name promised, it was a slice of paradise.

My beautiful maples had come too close to going up in smoke. They’d survived another tragedy, earning even more reverence from my grateful heart.

Bastian was right. That would be a spectacular view. He described exactly what I wanted from the new cabin. The second-story bridal suite had been an attempted compromise with my father and uncle, who were adamant we didn’t need to expand.

Dipping into the wedding business made my father and uncles uncomfortable. Even though it was a multi-billion-dollar industry. Even though it could generate income during our off-season.

Change was dangerous to the old guard.

You want a few rental cabins, too. That’s where I would put the bridal suite. Not over the main cabin’s kitchen.

The rentals are just an idea for now, I admitted begrudgingly. So much for running this business like the boss lady I wanted to be. Nothing set in stone yet. I just want to know the price tag attached to it.

I had plans for the farm. Big plans that meant expansion and new buildings. I wanted to jump into the wedding business. I saw dollar signs in that endeavor. Something that would see us through if we had a bad spring and ran low on maple sap.

Or if there was another fire and we did lose everything.

I wanted to make sure that, no matter what, we had a business to run. An income for us and the next generation of Paradis.

I’d broached the topic with my dad and the uncles before the fire. They’d almost been convinced to let me go ahead with the expansion. Then Joseph Kerrigan happened. They were adamant that I put everything on hold while we rebuilt in time for our one-hundredth anniversary in the spring.

I thought it was the perfect time to expand, but what did I know? I was as green as a sapling to them.

I’d need an architect to okay the plans with the township, but… He took three large steps toward the burned-out pile of wood. I’d say we could expand the cabin. That fancy kitchen you want on the left, all through there. He pointed off in the distance as if there wasn’t the evidence of destruction under our feet.

Bastian continued to describe how he would build the cabin. I’d written my expectations and what I was looking for in the new structure, but the man was on a roll. He was detailing my dream cabin.

Remember who he is. Don’t forget what he did.

It’s hard to imagine. Hold up. He jogged to his truck and pulled down the tailgate. From a battered red toolbox, he took a piece of paper. It was torn and dirty, clearly some kind of receipt or order sheet. With the broken nub of a pencil, he scribbled something onto it.

A tendril of his thick black hair fell onto his forehead, but he didn’t push it away. His focus was zeroed on his drawing. His lower lip was caught between his teeth, his brow folded with concentration and excitement.

See? He continued adding details to the sketch as I joined him. I think the windows here at the front could be a good idea. It would let in some natural light. We could do the same at the back and on the right.

The sketch was hasty, but there was real talent behind it. Bastian had drawn a quick mock-up of the cabin, but it was beautiful. He studied my face as I stared at his work.

Damn him. Had he crawled into my mind to see exactly what I wanted?

Do not be charmed by his talented hands and creative mind.

I think that over there… He nudged his chin toward the line of trees. That’s where we could build the smaller cabins. We’d make them the same style, so it would be a cohesive look throughout the property. Even with the farmhouse and your house in the distance, it would look amazing. He paused just long enough to add another detail to the drawing. Colson mentioned you bought the land on the other side of the farm. Isn’t that right?

I nodded but didn’t offer more information. I’d like the estimates. One with the rental cabins and one without.

He shrugged like it didn’t matter to him. It didn’t, and why would it? If he got to build the cabin, it would still be quite the payday for him. It’s up to you. If I’m here with my crew, might as well get her all done. He winked.

A full-on wink.

No one had ever winked at me before because… Well, who even did that?

Hot fuckboys who were used to getting their way. That was who. I would not become another one of Bastian’s conquests. I knew who he was, and those full lips hid a viper’s tongue.

You’re not hired yet, I pointed out, pushing away the excitement his sketch had conjured.

His grin could have rekindled the remains of the cabin. Come on. You know this is going to be good. I think we’d make an outstanding team, Elie.

Élodie, I corrected. Send me the estimates.

With that, I turned on my heels.

Apparently, our previous encounters hadn’t registered for him. I remembered. No young woman got chewed out by a firefighter at a party and forgot about it.

Bastian really didn’t remember the things he’d said about me a million years ago.

That stung almost as badly as his words had back then.

2

Bastian

Two weeks had passed since we’d gotten the news. One word had set fire to life. Not just Dad’s but all of ours, including the staff. It was confusing as fuck. There were no blueprints to deal with this. There was no going back in time. Nothing could make it right.

Oh, they’d try chemo and radiation, but there was no point in trying surgery. We hadn’t been given odds; we’d been given a deadline and a warning. Best to get your affairs in order while you still can.

For the first few days, I’d tried my best to ignore it. Maybe if I pretended it wasn’t real, the pain in my chest would ease. Maybe it would all go away like a bad dream. But there was no hiding from it. Grieving the still-living was messed up.

Every moment around my father was as much a blessing as it was a curse. Every hacking cough was a gut punch. Every wheeze was a blade to the ribs. Every cross word was a swallowed sob.

The gray stone bungalow he’d built for his wife had once been a haven. The glint of the warm cherry-wood flooring was dulled now. The soft taupe walls had never before been so suffocating. The kitchen had been a lively space, but it was a hiding place now.

There had been many dinners at the thick oak table, but instead of Dad recounting stories from work, the table was set with a hefty serving of silence. Every room, every space was filled with grief and unspoken words.

We were all cloaked by death.

There would be no parole for good behavior this time.

Fate had spoken her judgment and delivered a final blow.

My father was a decent man, though he was quick to temper. His diagnosis had pitched him into a whole new kind of anger. He couldn’t work anymore, as if the disease wasn’t punishment enough. Roy Construction was his pride and joy, but he hadn’t set foot in the office or onto a worksite in over fourteen days. That would kill him faster than the cancer.

If he couldn’t work, no one would. His bitter solution was to downsize the company into an operation Tristan could run by himself. My brother hadn’t even argued. He’d just nodded along like it wasn’t a slap in the face that Dad didn’t think Tristan could keep the family business running smoothly in his honor.

Like my brother and I couldn’t team up like they had.

For two weeks now, we’d walked on eggshells around Dad, never knowing what would set him off. He was pissed that he wasn’t going to die on his own terms. I understood that. Alfred Roy was a man who liked control.

There was no way in hell I was letting the illness take more away from this family.

Roy Construction shouldn’t be downsizing.

We should be expanding and doing everything in our power to make sure Dad’s hard work lived on.

If no one was going to fight for it, I would.

I tested out a few lines in my mind, pushing my meal around on my plate. The old grandfather clock was the soundtrack of the tense family dinner. Where Dad was angry, his wife’s response to the shitty news was full domestic mode. She had insisted on hosting weekly family dinners while we still could.

There was an unspoken agreement that we shouldn’t rock the boat. Tristan and Mariette were dead set on letting Dad have his way like he always did. I was going to disturb the uneasy peace. Like I always did.

I want the job. Great. I’d gone and blurted it out like a fucking teenager.

No way, Dad grumbled before shoving a forkful of pasta into his mouth.

Mariette shot me a nervous look, her fingers reaching out toward my father’s arm. Why not just give him a chance? Her voice was soft and wary.

Dad ignored her, rubbing the long scar that ran from the left side of his forehead down to his right ear. The old cicatrix was long healed, the deadly accident nearly three decades in the past. It had caused a hell of a lot more damage, some of it still festering.

"Tristan will take the lead if the Paradis hire us."

Still can’t believe you went to Élodie, Tristan cut in.

Not why I showed you the email she wrote. Dad stared me down. As a kid, I would have turned beet red and apologized for stepping a toe out of line.

Not anymore.

You showed me her email to light a fire under my ass. Well, congratulations. Fire has been lit.

Dad’s jaw ticked before he pushed his plate away. "This isn’t up for discussion. I am giving Tristan the company. If you want the job, take