Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 29299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 146(@200wpm)___ 117(@250wpm)___ 98(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 146(@200wpm)___ 117(@250wpm)___ 98(@300wpm)
My grip tightens slightly. “Good.”
Silence. Heavy. Charged. She doesn’t kiss me. She waits.
And that control—that quiet patience—nearly brings me to my knees.
“You think pulling away hurts you?” I say softly. “It guts me too.”
“Then stop.”
The word is barely audible.
I tilt her chin up.
“Tell me something,” I say.
“What?”
“Are you strong enough to stand beside a man who’s still carrying ghosts?”
Her answer comes without hesitation. “Yes.”
That’s the moment something shifts.
I slide my thumb along her jaw.
“Then don’t mistake distance for indifference,” I murmur. “I pulled back because I think I could see us together if I was reckless enough to let myself.”
Her breath catches. “You… what?”
I close my eyes briefly. There it is. Out loud.
“You heard me,” I repeat, steady this time. “And that terrifies me more than any fire I’ve walked into.”
Her hands tremble where they hold me.
“You don’t get to say that and then act like I’m just the nanny,” she whispers.
“I’m done acting,” I say.
And then I press the softest kiss to her lips. So soft, so quick, it’s almost chaste.
She grips my shirt like she’s afraid I’ll disappear. I don’t. When I pull back, her eyes are glassy.
“I don’t like when you disappear all day,” she says, voice shaking.
“I won’t then.”
“Don’t promise unless you mean it.”
“I mean it.”
For the first time in years, I don’t feel like I’m bracing for impact. I feel anchored.
Chapter 6
Tessa
Lacee falls asleep with glitter in her hair and a smudge of chocolate on her cheek.
We built volcanoes out of papier-mâché tonight. Sawyer pretended not to be impressed when her baking soda lava erupted all over the kitchen island, but I saw the pride in his eyes. He can’t hide it when it comes to her.
He tucks her in first.
I stand in the hallway pretending to wipe down the baseboards just so I can listen. His voice lowers when he talks to her. Soft. Steady. Protective.
“I love you, Lace.”
“I love you more, Dad.”
“Not possible.”
Silence. A kiss on her forehead. The creak of her bedroom door closing. When he turns and sees me standing there, cloth still in my hand, something shifts in his expression.
“You spying?” he asks.
“Monitoring quality control.”
He steps closer. Close enough that I can smell smoke and cedar on his skin.
“How’d I do?”
I tilt my head like I’m inspecting him. “You’re adequate.”
He huffs out a laugh. “Adequate.”
“For a grumpy firefighter.”
He leans against the wall, arms folding across his chest. His biceps flex under the worn cotton of his t-shirt and I have to force my gaze up.
“You keep calling me grumpy,” he says. “I’m going to start charging rent.”
“For what?”
“For living in your head.”
I roll my eyes and brush past him toward the kitchen. He catches my wrist before I can go far. Not rough. Just firm. Intentional.
“You’re not subtle,” he murmurs.
“Neither are you.”
His thumb brushes the inside of my wrist, slow and distracting.
“You think I don’t see the way you look at me?” he asks.
Heat floods my chest. “You’re imagining things.”
“Am I?”
He steps forward. I step back. My spine hits the counter. There’s nowhere left to retreat.
His voice lowers. “You get quiet when I get close.”
“I’m not quiet.”
“You are right now.”
I swallow. He watches the movement.
“You don’t have to run every time I look at you,” he says softly.
“I’m not running.”
He reaches up, fingers brushing a strand of hair off my cheek.
“Then why are you shaking?”
Because you undo me.
Because you’re older and steady and dangerous in ways I don’t understand.
Because when you look at me like that I forget I’m supposed to be professional.
“I’m not,” I whisper.
He smiles slightly. Not amused. Not mocking. Something else.
“You’re brave with Lacee,” he says. “Confident. I bet you command a room full of ten-year-olds without blinking.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“She’s a kid.”
“And I’m not?” The edge in his tone makes my pulse jump.
He moves closer. Close enough that my breath hits his chest.
“I don’t want to scare you,” he says.
“You don’t.”
His jaw tightens. “That’s not true.”
He knows. He sees the way my hands tremble. Not from fear. From want.
He lifts his hand slowly, giving me time to stop him. I don’t. His fingers slide along my jaw, down my neck, stopping just at my collarbone.
“You’re too young for me,” he says quietly.
The words sting.
I push his chest lightly. “You’re the one who keeps stepping closer.”
“That’s the problem.”
“And?”
“You’re twenty-four.”
“So what?”
“So I’ve lived things you haven’t.”
“Don’t assume that.”
His eyes darken. “I’m not assuming,” he says. “I’m protecting you.”
“I don’t need protection.”
He steps back abruptly, dragging a hand through his hair. “Yes,” he mutters. “You do.”
I cross my arms. “From you?”
He doesn’t answer. The silence stretches. He turns toward the sink, grips the edge of it like he’s bracing for something.
“You make me forget,” he says finally.
“Forget what?”
“How to be careful.”
I step closer now. “You make me feel steady,” I say quietly. “Like I’m not floating.”
He turns slowly. “Don’t say things like that.”