Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 48518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 243(@200wpm)___ 194(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 243(@200wpm)___ 194(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
Then—
“Hey, Calder!” Boone shouts. “The machine’s still on!”
FOOOOMPH.
The snow cannon blasts again.
And this time?
It hits both of us.
Square in the face.
Lucy shrieks.
I choke.
The crew howls laughing.
She sputters and wipes her face. “Ash—I—I’m so sorry—”
I look at her—dripping, shivering, glowing—and I can’t stop it this time.
The smile breaks through. Slow. Uncontrolled. Real.
Her eyes widen. “Oh my God. You smiled.”
I shake my head, defeated. “Yeah, well. Don’t get used to it.”
She laughs again—bright and warm and impossible. And I know, standing there soaked and freezing and completely undone— I’m in so much trouble.
Chapter Eight
Lucy
Devil’s Peak could host a bake sale and somehow turn it into a spectacle, but the annual Fire & Frost Charity Calendar? That’s a full-blown event.
Half the town is packed into the firehouse bay when I arrive—photographers setting up lights, volunteer coordinators barking instructions, Holly handing out candy canes like a tiny sugar-fueled dictator.
And then there’s Ash. Standing dead center. Jaw clenched. Arms crossed.
Expression carved from stone. Already annoyed, and the shoot hasn’t even started. Which means I am absolutely, definitely, one hundred percent in trouble.
I slip behind a row of folding chairs, but Holly spots me instantly and shrieks:
“LUCY!”
Her little boots slap across the concrete as she barrels into my legs. I scoop her up.
“Hi, sweetheart. You look very official with that candy cane badge.”
“It means I’m in charge,” she whispers. “Uncle Ash said don’t tell anyone that, but it’s true.”
Of course.
“Where’s your uncle?” I ask.
She points. And that’s when I see it: Ash is shirtless. Not halfway shirtless. Not “just taking off his jacket.” Fully. Shirtless. Broad shoulders. Hard chest. Muscles that look like they were handcrafted for sin and holiday marketing.
His turnout pants hang low on his hips, suspenders draped around his thighs, and he’s glaring at the photographer like he’s considering arson.
My lungs forget how to work.
Holly pats my cheek. “He hates it.”
“Yes,” I whisper hoarsely. “I can see that.”
“Everyone keeps saying he looks very… what was that word?”
“Photogenic?”
“No. The other one. The one Mrs. Stevens said when he took off his shirt.”
I swallow. “Uh—handsome?”
“No,” Holly says confidently. “The other thing. Thirsty.”
I choke so hard Holly thumps my back.
“Oh my God—Holly—you can’t—where did you hear that?”
She shrugs. “Everyone said it. And then Uncle Ash told them to shut up.”
Of course he did.
I spot the festival coordinator waving me over. “Lucy! There you are! We need your help with staging!”
Holly wiggles out of my arms to run after another kid, leaving me to face the firing squad. Or, more accurately, the shirtless firefighter. I walk toward him, calculating the odds of surviving this moment with any dignity. Low. Approximately zero.
He’s rubbing the back of his neck, irritation visible in every tense line of his body.
A photographer waves a clipboard. “Ash! We need you angled more toward the light—”
“Not happening,” Ash mutters.
“Ash,” I say gently.
He turns. And when his eyes land on me, something flickers—heat, annoyance, something too dangerous to name.
“Lucy.” His voice is low. Gravel. “What are you doing here?”
“I volunteer. Remember?”
“I remember you volunteering me for a snow cannon attack.”
“You walked into the blast.”
“You aimed it at me.”
My lips twitch. “Debatable.”
His gaze sweeps my face, lingering too long, lingering in a way that makes my pulse skip.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he murmurs.
“Why not?”
“Because I can’t—” He cuts himself off, jaw flexing. “Just… stay out of the staging area.”
“Too late,” I say brightly. “I’m literally the staging area.”
He drags both hands down his face like he’s praying for strength.
God, he’s pretty when he suffers.
The coordinator rushes over, thrusting a Santa hat at me. “Lucy, perfect! We need help with the December shot. Ash refuses to take direction.”
Ash growls. “I’m right here.”
“Exactly,” she says cheerfully. “And you’re impossible. So Lucy is handling you now.”
My eyebrows shoot up. Oh hell.
Ash’s glare swings to me. “No.”
“Yes!” the coordinator chirps. “Lucy, position him!”
Position him.
The words alone almost combust my nervous system.
Ash folds his arms—now making his biceps bulge in a way that should be illegal—and says, “Don’t even think about touching me.”
I try to keep my voice steady. “I have to adjust your pose.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
He steps closer, towering over me, heat rolling off him like a furnace.
“Lucy,” he says quietly, “I’m warning you.”
I look straight up at him, refusing to back down. “Ash, it’s for charity.”
“I don’t care.”
“You care about everything.”
“Not this.”
“Yes, you do.”
His eyes burn. “If I let you start touching me, I won’t be able to stop you.”
I freeze.
He freezes.
The whole firehouse goes silent.
Then Boone loudly whispers, “Oh my God.”
The coordinator claps her hands. “Perfect! Sexual tension sells calendars!”
“Ma’am,” Ash snaps, “please stop talking.”
I swallow hard, grab the Santa hat, and avoid looking at his chest as I step closer.
“Ash,” I murmur, “just let me help.”
He exhales through his nose. “Fine. One minute.”
I lift the hat, but my hands shake.
He notices immediately. “Lucy.”
“Yes?”
“Calm down.”
“I’m calm.”
“You’re trembling.”
“No, I’m—” My voice cracks. “Completely fine.”