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)
He nearly kissed me tonight.
And next time? I don’t think he’ll stop.
Chapter Nine
Ash
The firehouse is loud tonight.
Boone is yelling about losing a wrench again, Levi is arguing with the stove like it insulted his mother, and the guys are in rare form—loud, restless, hyped on caffeine and Christmas spirit.
I’m half-listening, half-pretending not to exist.
Because all day, one thought has chased me like a damn ghost:
Lucy Snow almost kissed me.
Or I almost kissed her. Hard to tell. Both feel true. Either way, my brain is a mess.
And the last thing I need is her walking into the station—
“Hi, boys!”
—like that.
I curse under my breath and spin around.
She’s standing in the doorway, holding a tin with snowflake stickers on it, wearing that red coat that makes her hair look brighter, her cheeks pinker, her smile more dangerous.
The temperature in the bay spikes ten degrees.
Boone whistles. “Well, well, if it isn’t Lieutenant Calder’s—”
“Finish that sentence,” I bark, “and you’re on latrine duty for the rest of the month.”
He smirks. “Yes, sir.”
Lucy waves at the crew. “I brought cookies! Holiday cookies. Tested on children. Very safe.”
“Unlike her snow machine,” Levi mutters.
She beams. “That was user error.”
Boone elbows Levi. “Whose error?”
“His,” she says sweetly, pointing at me.
The guys cackle. I glare. She laughs.
And suddenly, despite everything—despite my vow to stay away, despite every line I refuse to cross—I feel my chest loosen. Just a little.
I clear my throat. “What are you doing here, Lucy?”
She lifts the cookie tin. “Bringing provisions.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s what normal humans do, Ash.”
I cross my arms. “You are not normal.”
She grins. “Well, thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“Sure it wasn’t.”
She brushes past me—soft perfume, warm coat, static spark on my arm—and sets the tin on the breakroom counter.
The guys swarm it like wolves. I stay back, arms crossed, watching her. Which is a mistake. Because Lucy Snow in my firehouse looks… right. Too right.
She shakes snow from her hair, laughing when it lands on her eyelashes.
She talks to the guys like she’s known them forever—easy, warm, full of sunshine I’m not allowed to touch.
And every single one of my firefighters loves her already.
Holly loves her even more.
Which is exactly why I need to keep my distance.
Lucy turns and catches me staring. Of course.
She tilts her head. “Why are you hanging back like I’m contagious?”
“Because you are.”
She walks toward me slowly. Too slowly. “Oh? What disease do I have?”
“Chaos.”
She snorts. “Not a disease.”
“It is for me.”
Her eyes warm. “You mean you don’t like a little fun?”
“Not your version of it.”
She steps closer—close enough that I smell vanilla and cold air and something sweet that has no business being this intoxicating.
“Really?” she murmurs. “Because you didn’t seem to mind the snow machine accident.”
I lean in. “You blasted me in the face.”
“And you smiled.”
I grit my teeth. “Never happened.”
“It did.” Her voice is soft, teasing. “You smiled because of me.”
She shouldn’t say things like that. She shouldn’t think them. She damn sure shouldn’t look at me the way she’s looking at me. Like she knows exactly what I’m thinking. I drop my gaze to her lips. Just for a second. Just enough to make her breath catch.
“Lucy,” I say quietly, “you need to stop pushing.”
“I wasn’t pushing.”
“You were.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
She stands even closer now—breasts inches from my chest, chin tipped up in challenge.
“You’re scowling again,” she whispers.
“Occupational hazard.”
“No.” Her smile turns wicked. “It’s me.”
Christ. She might actually kill me.
I take a step back before I do something stupid. “Did you need something else?”
She blinks. “What?”
“You brought cookies.”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“And… I guess that’s it.”
I cross my arms. “That’s it?”
She fidgets—rare for her. Softens. Looks anywhere except at me.
“I just thought,” she says lightly, “that maybe you guys would like them. That’s all.”
She clears her throat. “You know. Holiday goodwill. Community spirit. That sort of thing.”
Her voice is too bright. Like she’s hiding something. Like she’s nervous. And that thought hits me hard. Girls like Lucy Snow don’t get nervous. But she does around me. The idea does something dangerous inside my chest.
I lower my voice. “Why are you really here, Lucy?”
She swallows. Then she says, too quietly, “I thought you could use something nice after the week you’ve had.”
I freeze.
Everyone else keeps talking and laughing and eating cookies, but the world narrows to her and me and that soft, unbearably earnest sentence.
I try to joke it off. “I’m fine.”
She lifts one brow. “Uh-huh. You always say that.”
“Because it’s true.”
“It’s not,” she says gently.
I look away. “Drop it.”
“No.”
“Lucy.”
“Ash.”
We’re doing this again. This verbal tug-of-war that leaves me feeling exposed every damn time.
She steps closer. “You look tired.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re lying.”
I exhale sharply. “You don’t know me well enough to say that.”
“Yes,” she whispers, “I do.”
Her words hit harder than they should. I turn away, jaw tight. “Don’t.”
She frowns. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“How am I looking at you?”
“Like you see things I don’t want people seeing.”