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)
“Yeah,” I say, lifting my chin. “Artist. Ceramicist. Maker. Chaos goblin.”
The corner of his mouth twitches.
Not a smile. Not even close. More like his facial muscles had an accident and almost formed one.
“Chaos goblin,” he repeats, voice a shade warmer. “Fits.”
“Thanks,” I snap. “You mountain caveman.”
He actually exhales a little laugh through his nose, like I annoyed him into amusement. “You always this mouthy?”
“You always this bossy?”
“Yeah.”
“Well,” I huff, tugging his jacket back over my shoulders because now that I’ve had warmth, I do in fact need it, “me too.”
He watches me for a second, eyes narrowing like he’s figuring me out, cataloguing me, filing me under “problems to manage.”
Then he looks back at the building.
The flames are dying now, water steam-blasting the windows. My cute little wreath is ash. I want to cry again.
“Can I—” My voice breaks. I clear it. “Can I at least go see when it’s out? I need to know what’s left.”
He hesitates. I see the answer on his face: No, it’s a scene, it’s not safe, stay back, ma’am.
I cut him off. “Don’t you dare tell me to go home.”
“Do you even have a home?” he asks, brow lifting.
“I have a loft above the studio,” I say tightly.
Silence.
He looks at the studio.
Then back at me.
And I swear to God, the way his jaw works—it’s sympathy and frustration and that protective thing I do not want.
“Yeah,” he says. “Thought so.”
“I can stay with friends,” I rush to add. “I’m not a stray.”
His eyes do that slow roll down my body again—boots, paint-splattered jeans, oversized sweater, hair half up with a pencil stabbed through it, smoke film on my skin.
“You look like a stray,” he says.
“You look like you stepped out of a Chippendales calendar,” I shoot back.
That gets him. His mouth curves, slow and wicked, and I get a flash of dimples I did not sign up for.
“You flirting with the guy who just saved your ass?” he asks, voice dropping a fraction.
“Are you flirting with the girl whose life just burned down?” I counter.
“Maybe.” His grin slides to one side. “Got a cabin on the back of my property you can stay at. Been fixin’ it up and meanin’ to rent it–it’s yours for as long as you need.”
Heat skitters up my throat that has nothing to do with the fire.
I yank his jacket tighter and glare at the smoldering building. “I hate this.”
“I know.”
“I worked so hard.”
“I know.”
“My kiln was brand new.”
“I know.”
“It was named Gertrude,” I blurt, and then I laugh because that sounds so stupid out loud.
He huffs. “You named your kiln.”
“Yeah, and she was reliable, okay? No attitude. Unlike—” I flick my gaze to him. “—present company.”
That almost-smile returns. “You named a kiln and you’re calling me dramatic?”
“I am not dramatic.”
“You ran into a burning building.”
I point at his chest. “You carried me out over your shoulder.”
“That’s my job. Savin’ damsels in distress. You’re welcome.”
I open my mouth to argue again but get interrupted by a firefighter jogging over. “Clay—power’s cut, origin looks like that back wall behind the wheel. We’ll need the report tonight.”
My knight in ash and soot nods, all business again. “Good.”
The guy flicks a glance at me, confusion on his face. “She okay?”
My fireman–Clay–doesn’t even look at me when he answers. “She’s fine.”
“I am not fine,” I mutter.
He ignores me.
The other firefighter heads back. Clay finally turns to me again.
“Need EMS to check you?” he asks.
“No, Dad.”
“How’s your hand?”
I blink. “What?”
He grabs my wrist. My breath catches.
When did I scrape it?
There’s a thin red line over the heel of my palm, already blooming to a sting. He studies it like it personally offended him, then lifts his gaze.
“We’ll clean it,” he says.
“I can—”
“We’ll. Clean. It.”
Bossy.
Hot.
Annoying.
“Fine,” I grumble. “But I don’t need—”
“Saving. Yeah. I heard you the first thirty times.”
“Then stop treating me like I’m gonna fall over.”
“You are gonna fall over.”
“I am not—”
“You are, Ember.” His voice gentles, unexpected. “You just lost your whole world.”
My throat fists. Damn him.
“Don’t say it like that,” I whisper. “I can’t hear it like that yet.”
He pauses. Nods once. Then: “You have insurance?”
I scrub my cheek. “Yeah. I think. I pay something every month.”
“You think?”
“It’s probably fine.”
“It’s never fine.”
I tip my head back to look at him. “Do you live to kill hope?”
He stares down at me, eyes steady, rain starting to mix with the steam. “I live to keep people alive.”
“Poetic,” I snark, because I can’t just let him be noble. “Is that on your business card?”
“Firecracker,” he warns, voice dropping.
I shiver.
Why is that hot?
Why is him calling me a nickname hot?
Damn it.
“Okay,” I breathe out. “Okay. What now?”
“You stay here,” he says, already turning toward the building again. “I’ll get you a blanket and a medic to clean that hand.”
I grab his sleeve. “Clay.”
He looks back, brows up.
I swallow. “Thank you.”