Total pages in book: 31
Estimated words: 32231 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 161(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 107(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32231 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 161(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 107(@300wpm)
I press to his side.
“Smile,” she says.
He doesn’t.
I do.
She snaps.
“Perfect,” she chirps. “Our own firehouse fairy tale.”
Clay mutters, “Not a fairy tale.”
She winks. “You say that now.”
She bustles off.
I look up at him. “You hate this.”
He looks down at me. “You needed it.”
My heart does that traitorous flutter.
I want to say something flirty. I want to bite, tease, make him roll his eyes.
Instead, what comes out is soft. Too soft.
“Thank you,” I say.
His eyes flicker.
He tries to make it nothing. “Just keeping up appearances.”
“I know,” I say, still holding his gaze. “Still. Thank you.”
The air thickens again.
I don’t know which of us moves.
One second we’re two inches apart; the next we’re one. The fire sound fades. The chatter blurs. All I can see is his mouth.
His eyes drop to mine.
“Ember,” he says, warning.
“Yes?”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you want me to break my own rules.”
“What if I do want that?”
His breath shudders out.
Then he does something that is so on-brand Clay I almost laugh.
He takes a step back.
Breaks the tension like he’s severing a wire.
“Come on,” he says, clearing his throat like he just swallowed a live coal. “You’re freezing.”
“I have your flannel.”
“Your nose is pink.”
I glare. “Rude.”
“Your lips are blue.”
“They’d be warmer if—”
He shoots me a look.
I shut up.
We walk back toward the fire. People clap us on the back. Congratulate us. Ask about dates and venues and registries. I make up ridiculous answers on the spot; he glares at me; everyone eats it up.
By the time the bonfire dies, the sky’s dark purple and my toes are numb. Clay walks me to his truck without even asking, hand on my lower back like we’ve done it a thousand times.
He opens the door. Stops me.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
I look up.
“Good job tonight,” he says.
My brows lift. “You praising me?”
“Don’t get used to it.”
I smile. “You did good too, Captain Grumpy.”
He snorts.
I hitch his flannel higher. “So…see you tomorrow for…whatever couple thing they dream up?”
“Unfortunately.”
“You love it.”
He gives me that flat stare. “Go home, firecracker.”
“Yes, fiancé.”
He shakes his head like I’m going to be the death of him.
Maybe I will.
But as I slide into his truck and he shuts the door soft, careful, like I’m something breakable, I realize something kind of dangerous.
I like being his.
Even if it’s fake.
Even if it’s for the town.
Even if it’s just appearances.
Because under all that repression, there’s a man who shrugs off his flannel in the cold without being asked.
A man who will stand in front of a whole town for me.
A man who looks at me like maybe—just maybe—I’m the first good, bright, messy thing to walk into his orderly, ash-covered life.
And that?
That’s a fire I don’t mind walking into.
Chapter Four
Clay
I’m halfway through inventorying hose nozzles when the bay door rolls up and trouble walks in wearing paint-splattered jeans.
Ember Quinn doesn’t just enter a room—she pours into it. Warm. Loud. Bright. Like someone left the kiln on too long and it condensed into a woman with wild hair and a mouth I keep telling myself I’m not going to taste.
She shouldn’t be here.
She is here.
And she’s holding something cradled in both hands like it’s a newborn.
Great.
“Hey, fiancé,” she calls, all sunshine and sin. “Got a delivery for the hero who’s very bad at pretending he doesn’t like me.”
I don’t look up right away, mostly because the guys are in the lounge, and if they hear that sentence I’m never hearing the end of it. I set the nozzle down, wipe grease off my palms, and finally lift my head.
She’s already watching me. Always is.
“You can’t just walk in the bay,” I tell her, voice flat. “It’s not a bakery.”
“Hi, Clay,” she sing-songs, ignoring every boundary ever established. “Love of my very public life.”
“Ember.”
She grins wider. “God, I love when you say my name like it’s a fire you have to control.”
“Because it is.”
“Aw.”
She crosses the concrete toward me. Her boots squeak. Her dark waves are in some messy knot that is definitely going to fall apart later. She smells like clay and oranges and female trouble.
“What is that,” I ask, nodding at the thing she’s carrying.
“A bribe.”
“Not taking bribes.”
“A gift.”
“Don’t need gifts.”
“Too bad.”
She stops right in front of me—too close—and lifts it.
It’s a mug.
Terracotta base, glazed a deep, glossy red, letters stamped imperfectly around the curve.
FIREPROOF HEART.
I look at it.
Then I look at her.
She’s watching me like I’m a kiln she’s waiting on. Like she cares whether I like it. Which I hate. Because I do.
I take it from her, big hand swallowing the handle. The clay is smooth, still warmer than room temp. She must’ve fired it this morning.
I run my thumb over the letters, slow. Raised indents. Her work. Her hands.
“Cute,” I say.
Her mouth drops open. “Cute? Clay. It’s a bespoke, hand-thrown, small-batch piece of functional art.”
“It’s a cup.”