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)
“She’s six.”
“Ash.”
She says my name the way a woman curses fate.
I walk toward her without thinking. Without hesitation. Without stopping to consider how it looks to everyone in the bay who is now pretending to measure hose length while absolutely listening to every word.
When I reach her, I stop just close enough that the air shifts.
“You okay?” I ask quietly.
Her eyes spark. “Am I okay? Your entire station just heard your niece proclaim our hypothetical marriage!”
“They hear worse,” I say, deadpan.
“That’s not comforting!”
I glance down at Holly, who is now humming loudly while drawing “wedding invitations” on scrap paper.
“Look,” Lucy whispers urgently, “you don’t have to— I’m not— it’s just a misunderstanding—”
“I know,” I say.
“So tell them!”
I raise a brow. “Why?”
Her mouth drops open. “Why? Because it’s not true!”
I say nothing. Her breath catches. She searches my face, waiting for a smirk, a joke, anything. But I’m not joking. This is the first time she realizes it. And it knocks her breath out of her chest.
“Ash…” Her voice softens, slips, becomes something fragile. “This is really not funny.”
“I’m not laughing.”
She swallows. Her eyes search mine like they’re trying to find an escape hatch from a truth she didn’t expect and I didn’t plan on revealing.
“Tell them it’s not true,” she whispers.
“If that’s what you want.”
She blinks. “Wh— what?”
“If that’s what you want, Lucy. I’ll shut it down right now.”
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.
“Do you want me to?” I ask.
She stares at me like she has no idea how to decipher the man standing in front of her.
“I… I…” She falters.
Holly jumps into the silence. “Miss Lucy, can you read me my book later?”
Lucy clings to the distraction like a lifeline. “Of course, honey. I’d love to.”
Holly grins and runs off. Lucy exhales shakily.
“Ash,” she says finally, her voice low so only I can hear, “this can’t happen.”
“What can’t?”
“This.” A tiny gesture between us. “People talking. Assuming. Holly thinking we’re… together.”
I lean down, voice so quiet it barely exists. “Is that the part that bothers you? Holly thinking it?”
Her breath shivers. “Ash—”
“Or the possibility it’s not as crazy as it sounds?”
Color floods her cheeks. She steps back like she needs space, but I follow, not touching, not crowding—just close enough she feels every inch of my presence.
“Ash,” she whispers, “you’re not helping.”
“I’m not trying to help.”
“No kidding.”
“I’m trying to understand.”
“Understand what?”
“What you want.”
She freezes. Completely.
The room buzzes with holiday music, the hum of engines warming, the chatter of the crew—but none of it touches us. We're in our own pocket of air, locked in something heavy and hot and impossible to ignore.
Her voice comes out barely audible. “I don’t know what I want.”
I nod once. “Then take the day.”
“The day?”
“To figure it out.”
Her brows knit. “You’re giving me a deadline?”
“Yes.”
“Ash!”
“Lucy.”
The banter hits the air like flint hitting steel.
She glares at me. I hold her gaze steady, unflinching, grounded in that solid firefighter way that tells her I’m not backing down.
Her lips part just slightly. She looks away first. The smallest surrender.
“Fine,” she whispers. “I’ll… think about it.”
Good.
My chest loosens in a way it hasn’t in months. I step back just enough to let her breathe.
“Good,” I echo. “Because I’m not denying anything until you tell me to.”
Her eyes snap back to mine.
“Ash.”
“Lucy.”
Holly shouts from across the bay, “MISS LUCY, WHAT ARE YOUR FAVORITE WEDDING COLORS?”
Lucy groans into her hands. The crew roars with laughter. I bite back a smile. And I still don’t deny it.
Chapter Eighteen
Lucy
The wind picks up before noon.
Devil’s Peak weather is chaotic, unpredictable, slightly vengeful. One minute the air is crisp and clear, the next it’s a swirling mess of winter mischief that laughs right in your face.
I’m standing on the parade grounds next to my gingerbread firefighter float—my pride, my baby, my two-week labor of glitter, cardboard, and questionable engineering. I’m adjusting the peppermint swirl banners along the sides, humming to myself, trying to ignore how every time I let go of a ribbon, the gusting wind whips it against my cheek like a festive insult.
“Hold still,” I mutter to the misbehaving decoration as I secure it with an extra staple. “You will not embarrass me in front of the entire town, do you hear me?”
The peppermint doesn’t answer, but I consider that a good sign.
What’s not a good sign?
The creaking. The groaning. And the unmistakable sound of something very large and very important beginning to tip.
My head jerks up.
The giant gingerbread firefighter figure—the centerpiece of the float, the eight-foot-tall cardboard-and-wood Frankenstein creation I’ve poured half my soul into—is swaying dangerously. The wind shoves it, and it tilts, wobbling like a drunk linebacker at last call.
“Oh no. Oh—no, no, no,” I whisper, scrambling up onto the float to steady it.
The platform shifts under my feet. Another gust slams into the float. The gingerbread firefighter lurches. I grab the wooden support beam and throw my weight against it, my boots skidding on the painted plywood.