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)
“Then we take turns holding the bucket,” he says. He stares straight ahead, hands flexing against his knees. “Because if I… once I—” He breaks off. “I don’t do halves.”
I know. God, I know. He would love like a blaze line—no way around, only through.
We sit there until my toes go numb and the mountain eats some of the pressure inside us. When we head back down, he takes my wrist without thinking on the steep part; I take his sleeve when the gravel slides. We drop our hands at the bottom like they’re guilty.
He sees me to my door. He always does. His body makes a wall between me and nothing.
“Goodnight, firecracker,” he says, rough.
“Night, Fireman,” I whisper.
He steps away. I watch him go down the walk, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched like he’s cold and spoiled for warmth.
I sleep badly. I keep waking to the sound of his voice saying things he’d never let himself say in the day.
At 2:11 a.m., my phone buzzes.
CLAY: You awake?
I am. It feels like a confession. EMBER: Yes.
Three dots. Then:
CLAY: Dreamed you were laughing in my kitchen.
My heart trips. EMBER: Was I loud?
CLAY: Yeah.
EMBER: Did you hate it?
A long pause. Then:
CLAY: No.
He doesn’t send anything else. He doesn’t have to. I touch the screen like I can touch him through it and then lie in the dark with my arm over my eyes and the stupidest smile on my mouth.
The town thinks this is pretend. Maybe it started that way.
But there’s nothing make-believe about the way I can still feel his hand at the small of my back, the way his forehead pressed to mine for one blasphemous second, the way his texts wake my skin.
He said he doesn’t do halves.
Good.
Neither do I.
Chapter Eight
Clay
The next time I see her, she’s standing beside the silent auction table like trouble poured into fitted flannel.
Ember.
The woman who’s been haunting my firehouse like smoke without a flame.
I’m posted up near the exit, arms crossed, pretending like I give two shits about tonight’s charity gala. I’d rather be elbows deep in engine grease or hoses than stuffed into a collared shirt with a clip-on tie choking my patience. But I promised Gabe I’d donate a “Fireman For A Day” experience, and now here I am—watching her finger hover over my auction sheet like it’s a detonator.
She glances around, hesitates, then scribbles a bid.
And just like that, the fuse is lit.
“You bid on me, firecracker?” I smirk an hour later, cornering her near the dessert table where she’s piling chocolate-covered strawberries like she’s hiding from a crime scene.
Her eyes widen. “It was an accident.”
“Sure it was.” I arch a brow, taking a deliberate step into her space. “You just accidentally outbid Mayor Henley’s wife.”
She pops a strawberry in her mouth, cheeks flushed, chewing slowly. “You’re not even a real prize.”
I smirk. “I’m a damn good prize, sweetheart.”
Her throat works as she swallows. “I didn’t mean to win. I thought I was bidding on a vintage quilt set.”
I lean in, my voice dropping. “What about me screams ‘home textiles’?”
She glares up at me, but her breath stutters. “The flannel.”
A low chuckle escapes. “Cute. You’ll need better comebacks during your training session.”
“Training?”
I tilt my head. “You signed up for the full experience. That means one-on-one drills. Hose handling. Pole sliding.” My voice is thick with need and innuendo.
Her gaze flickers. She licks a smear of chocolate from her thumb and doesn’t realize what that does to me.
Damn.
“You’re joking,” she mutters.
“Nope. Tomorrow. Ten a.m. sharp. Don’t be late.”
I walk away before she can argue. Because if I stand near her any longer, I’m going to forget we’re pretending not to be combusting every time we breathe the same air.
Ember shows up the next morning in high-waisted jeans and a snug white tee that hugs her curves in ways that make my brain short-circuit.
She waves. “So, where’s the vintage quilt?”
I grunt, tossing her a firehouse t-shirt. “Put that on.”
She catches it, nose scrunching. “Over my real shirt?”
“If you want me to cut you out of it later, be my guest.”
Her jaw drops. “Excuse me?”
I give her a wink and keep walking.
The rest of the crew’s out on call, and I’ve got the place to myself. Which is probably a mistake. Because five minutes into our ‘training,’ I’m already picturing how she’d look straddling my hips on the firehouse couch, soot-streaked and panting my name.
“Okay,” I say, dragging a thick coiled rope from the wall. “You’re gonna learn to descend the pole. Safely.”
She squints. “You’re serious?”
I nod toward the platform above. “Climb.”
Her eyes narrow. “This feels like hazing.”
“It’s not hazing if you begged for it.”
She marches up the stairs, muttering under her breath. “I didn’t beg.”
I stand at the bottom, arms crossed, watching the way her hips move. Her ponytail swishes. She gets to the edge of the platform and peers down.