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’s leaning against the side of the firetruck—because of course he brought a firetruck—arms crossed, watching me with an expression I can’t decipher. “You missed a spot,” he says.
I point the broom at him. “Say one more word about pine needles and I will shove this handle somewhere festive.”
His mouth twitches. “Tempting offer.”
Heat shoots up my neck. “That’s not what I—ugh. Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Twist my words.”
“I don’t twist them.” He pushes off the truck and stalks closer, each step heavy and deliberate. “You hand them to me already shaped like trouble.”
I swallow. “I’m not trouble.”
He stops inches from me. “You’re the most trouble I’ve seen in years.”
My breath stalls. His eyes drag over my face, lingering on my mouth again.
I hate that he does that. I hate that I like it.
“So.” I clear my throat. “You come to critique my sweeping?”
“No.”
“Then why are you—”
He steps closer—close enough that the broom handle between us becomes the only thing keeping our bodies from touching. “I came to say thank you.”
I blink. “For what?”
“For helping with the festival. For caring.” His voice lowers. “For giving Holly something to be excited about.”
Oh. That… hits differently.
I soften. “She’s a great kid.”
He nods. “She likes you.”
“I like her too.”
He watches me with something softer than I expect—something dangerous in its own way. “You’re good with her,” he murmurs. “Better than I am sometimes.”
“That’s not true,” I whisper.
His jaw tightens, and for a second I see something raw in his eyes. Vulnerability.
“I’m trying,” he says quietly.
“You’re doing great,” I tell him. “Really.”
His gaze sharpens, like my words hit something he keeps hidden. He looks at my mouth again. I grip the broom harder.
“Lucy,” he says, voice low.
“Ash.”
We hover there—so close the space between us feels like it could combust. But then he steps back. Just an inch. Just enough to breathe.
“We should head out,” he says. “Storm’s coming.”
I nod, trying to steady my heartbeat. “Right.”
He turns… then pauses. “Oh.” He points at me again. “You have glitter on your face.”
I wipe my cheek. “Here?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “Other side.”
I wipe the other cheek. “Here?”
“No.”
I frown. “Can you just tell me where—”
He lifts his hand. I freeze. His knuckles brush my cheekbone gently, sweeping the glitter away. His touch is warm. Careful. Slow enough to feel like a confession.
My breath catches. His eyes flick to mine. Then he drops his hand, stepping back fast, jaw set like steel.
“Be careful on the way home,” he mutters, turning away. “Seriously.”
I watch him walk off toward the firetruck, broad shoulders outlined in the fading daylight, steam rising off him like he’s walking through the cold unbothered.
He climbs in, slams the door, and drives away.
Leaving me standing in the snow, broom dangling in my hands, heart hammering, pulse racing, body still tingling where he touched me. I whisper into the quiet: “I am so screwed.”
Chapter Four
Lucy
If there’s an award for “Most Adorable Holiday Float in the History of Ever,” I’m about to win it. The Fire & Frost Festival float is perfect—absolutely, undeniably perfect—and no one, especially not one tall, glowering firefighter with biceps that belong in a safety hazard manual of their own, is going to ruin this moment.
I tug the tarp with a flourish. “Ta-da!”
Underneath, the magnificent creation stands proudly: a six-foot gingerbread firefighter. Helmet. Suspenders. Frosting smile. Licorice axe. Gumdrop buttons. Cinnamon-stick ladder leaning against a gingerbread fire truck.
It’s whimsical. It’s magical. It’s everything.
And then— A low, slow growl behind me. “Absolutely not.”
Of course.
He stands there with his turnout jacket unzipped, gloves shoved in the back pocket, jaw tight, eyes burning in full “ruin Lucy’s fun” mode.
I turn slowly. “Do you like it?”
He blinks once. “No.”
“Wrong answer.”
He walks toward the float like a man approaching a live bomb. “Lucy.” His voice drops into that deep, dangerous register that shouldn’t warm my stomach but absolutely does.
“What the hell is this?”
“A masterpiece,” I say cheerily.
He points at the gingerbread fire truck. “That is thirty percent candy. Candy, Lucy.”
“It’s holiday spirit.”
“It’s an ant infestation waiting to happen.”
I scoff. “Oh please—”
“And frosting?” He gestures to the gingerbread firefighter’s helmet. “Real frosting?”
“It’s royal icing. It dries hard.”
“I don’t care if it’s cement icing. It violates—”
“Don’t you dare say it.”
He glares. “Fire code.”
I groan dramatically. “Ash, it is not going to ignite.”
He circles the float slowly, muttering under his breath. “One… two… three… seven violations. Seven.”
I gasp in offense. “You didn’t even count four, five, or six!”
“Didn’t need to.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And you’re reckless.”
There it is—the classic exchange. Our greatest hits album. Only today, things feel… different. Sharper. Closer. Because when I step toward him, he doesn’t back up. Instead he stands there, boots shoulder-width apart, gaze locked squarely on mine. Heat rolls off him like he’s a furnace and I’m standing too damn close. Which—okay—maybe I am.
I fold my arms. “The float is staying.”