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)
“Well,” I say, pushing off the bed and standing way too close to him, “then I guess I should—”
“Stay.”
It’s one word. One syllable. One low, rough command that hits me like a physical touch.
My breath halts in my chest. He stiffens too, like he surprised himself by saying it out loud.
“Ash…” I whisper.
He looks me up and down slowly, carefully, like he’s cataloging every reason this is a bad idea and every reason he wants to ignore all of them.
“You don’t have to rush back,” he says, voice softer now. “There’s still festival decorating to finish. The parade float team’s meeting this afternoon. And Holly will want to show you the nativity crafts she made. And…” He trails off, rubbing the back of his neck. “I could use help with a few things.”
Festival prep. Parade stuff. Holly. All perfectly reasonable, non-threatening adult tasks.
But none of them are why he wants me to stay. We both know it.
My voice comes out embarrassingly fast. “Okay.”
His brows lift. “Okay?”
“Yeah. I mean—sure. I can stay. For festival stuff. If you need an extra set of hands. I don’t have to rush home. I’m not in a hurry or anything. Like, at all.”
Stop talking, Lucy. Stop talking immediately.
He stares at me like he’s trying to figure out if I just impulsively agreed to something I don’t understand. Or if I understand perfectly.
“You’re sure?” he asks, low.
“Very.”
A beat of silence stretches between us — tense, thick, buzzing with all the things we didn’t say last night. All the things we almost said. Almost did.
Then he exhales, slow and deep, shoulders dropping like he’s been holding tension all night and is just now letting it drain out.
“Good,” he says softly. “I didn’t want you to go.”
The confession is subtle. Barely there. But it slides under my skin like heat. I pretend not to hear too much in it. He pretends not to have said too much.
“Let’s get breakfast,” he says, pushing off the dresser and heading toward the stairs. “Crew stocked the fridge yesterday. There’s coffee, too. If the storm didn’t freeze the pipes.”
“Coffee sounds perfect,” I say, grabbing my sweater.
He glances back at me. Not at my face. At my throat. My collarbone. The flush spreading down my chest.
He swallows once, hard. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Coffee.”
We head downstairs, our shoulders brushing once on the narrow staircase — a tiny touch that sends a shock through me. In the bay, the fire truck gleams, washed clean by the storm. Sunlight streams through the tall windows, hitting dust motes like glitter suspended in the air.
Everything feels too bright. Too sharp. Too alive.
Ash moves around the kitchen with deliberate, controlled ease — like a man who knows exactly how his body moves in space and exactly how much of that space I’m occupying.
He hands me a mug of steaming coffee and our fingers graze. He doesn’t pull away first. Neither do I.
“You staying for the morning meeting?” he asks, voice calm but threaded with something darker.
“If you want me to.”
His jaw flexes. “I do.”
“Oh.”
He leans against the counter, watching me sip the coffee, eyes tracking my mouth like he can’t help it. I set the mug down too fast.
“I’ll help with whatever you need,” I say.
He inhales like I just hit him. “Yeah. I figured.”
“You did?”
“Lucy,” he says quietly, stepping closer, “you said yes before I even finished asking.”
My face burns. “It’s not a big deal.”
“It is to me.”
I look at him. Really look at him. This man who showed up in a blizzard. This man who held my hand in the dark. This man who hasn’t slept because of me. This man who asked me to stay without looking away once.
He’s staring at me now — steady, unfiltered, the way a man stares when he wants something but isn’t sure he’s allowed to have it.
My chest tightens.
“Ash,” I whisper, “I didn’t want to leave.”
His breath falters and his voice drops, low and rough and wrecking.
“I know.”
We don’t move. We don’t touch. But the air between us shifts — warm, heavy, humming with something that feels dangerously close to surrender.
Finally, he clears his throat, dragging a hand through his hair like he needs the distraction. “We should get moving. Parade committee’s expecting us at nine.”
“Right.”
“We’ll take my truck.”
“Of course.”
“And Lucy?”
“Yeah?”
His eyes lock onto mine with quiet, devastating intensity.
“Don’t second-guess your yes.”
I nod. Unable to speak. Unable to do anything except stand there and let the words melt down into the places I’ve been afraid to feel for a long time. He turns toward the garage, grabbing his jacket, and I follow him, pulse pounding, breath unsteady.
The storm outside is over.
The storm in here is just beginning.
Chapter Seventeen
Ash
The firehouse is loud by nine a.m.
Not alarm-loud. Not chaos-loud. Just the usual morning noise — boots thudding across concrete, mugs clinking against metal counters, someone blasting Christmas music too early for sane people.