Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 29645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 148(@200wpm)___ 119(@250wpm)___ 99(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 148(@200wpm)___ 119(@250wpm)___ 99(@300wpm)
“Back to work,” he says evenly.
The crowd resumes its chaos. Mrs. Dottie sighs dramatically. The cheer team whispers and points. And I stand there behind the fire engine, soaked and breathless, staring at the man who just almost kissed me again. Something shifts inside me. Because this isn’t just fake dating anymore. It isn’t playful banter or strategic affection.
It’s heat.
Real heat.
And the most terrifying part?
When he leaned in—I didn’t want him to stop.
Not for the town.
Not for the rules.
Not even for the past.
I wanted him to scorch me.
And that’s the moment I realize:
I’m not playing with fire.
I’m begging it to burn.
Chapter 6
Levi
Aweek later I’m standing at the bake sale watching Sadie do her thing and cursing the moment she sauntered back into my life looking like sweetness and sin.
This bake sale was supposed to be safe.
Low-risk. Low-heat. Low-chance of me losing my damn mind.
I should’ve known better the second I saw her step behind the folding booth in cutoff jeans and a fitted Devil’s Peak Fire & Rescue fundraiser T-shirt tied in a loose knot at her waist.
Flour dusts her fingers. Her hair is pulled into a messy ponytail that keeps slipping over her shoulder every time she leans forward. She’d been flirting with customers for the past hour like she was born to command a crowd.
“Two dollars for a cupcake,” she says brightly to an old rancher, sliding the tray closer. “Five if you want me to smile while you hand it over.”
The rancher laughs and hands her a ten. I’m standing behind her pretending to reorganize napkins. I’m not reorganizing napkins.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” I mutter.
She glances back at me over her shoulder, eyes dancing. “You jealous?”
“Of baked goods?”
“Of the attention.”
I snort. “You think I care about attention?”
She turns fully, hip bumping into the table behind her. “You care about control.”
My jaw tightens. She’s not wrong.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, Hotshot,” I say quietly.
She tilts her head. “We’re fake dating, remember? I’m supposed to look smitten.”
“Do you?”
Her smile falters for half a second before she recovers. “That’s the assignment, Lieutenant.”
I lean closer, lowering my voice. “Careful with that tone.”
“Which tone?”
“The one that makes me forget this is a church fundraiser.”
Her breath hitches.
The church parking lot hums around us—kids running past with lemonade cups, Mrs. Dottie barking instructions about raffle tickets, Sawyer across the way pretending not to watch us like we’re about to set off a five-alarm situation.
Sadie reaches for a fresh tray of cupcakes just as a gust of mountain wind whips through the lot.
The cheap folding booth shudders. I clock it a split second before it gives.
“Sadie—”
The front leg buckles. The table tilts. Flour bags tumble. Cupcakes launch like edible projectiles. And the entire booth collapses inward. I move without thinking.
I grab her around the waist and pull her down as the folding table flips, trays clattering against metal poles. A cloud of flour explodes into the air like smoke from a blown hose line.
We hit the ground hard. The world goes white. Something lands against my back with a dull thud. I brace my forearm beside her head, shielding her from a falling rack of baked goods. Flour drifts down slowly around us like snow. When the noise settles, all I can hear is her breathing, fast and shaky.
We’re trapped beneath the overturned table. My body cages hers against the asphalt. Her palms press against my chest. Flour coats her hair, her lashes, the curve of her cheek. There’s frosting smeared near her mouth. A smashed cupcake squishes under my knee. From somewhere above us, I hear Mrs. Dottie gasp dramatically. “Oh my stars!”
But down here, under the table, it’s just us.
Sadie blinks up at me through a haze of flour.
“Hi,” she says softly.
My pulse slams. “You okay?”
She nods. “Are you?”
“Fine.” A tray shifts against my shoulder. I adjust, leaning closer. Too close. Her fingers tighten in my shirt.
Flour streaks my forearms. Frosting smears across my biceps. I can feel the heat of her body through the thin cotton of her T-shirt.
“You always did have dramatic timing,” she whispers.
I stare down at her. There’s frosting at the corner of her mouth. I swipe my thumb across it without thinking. The touch is slow. Deliberate. Her breath stutters. I bring my thumb up and lick the frosting off.
Her eyes darken instantly. “You did not just—”
“Waste good frosting?” I murmur.
Her throat works as she swallows. “You’re insufferable.”
“You’re staring.”
She shifts slightly beneath me. The movement drags her hip against mine. My control frays.
“You’re heavy,” she says, but her voice isn’t annoyed.
“Should I move?”
Her fingers tighten in my shirt again. “No.”
Silence thickens.
Flour coats her collarbone. A streak of pink frosting slides slowly down toward the neckline of her shirt. My gaze follows it. Her breath grows uneven.
“Levi,” she says quietly.
“Yeah.”
“This doesn’t look very fake.”
The words land between us. Sharp. Dangerous. My pulse goes feral.