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)
No.
I pull back an inch.
“You know what our deal was,” I remind her. “No touching. No kissing. No trouble.”
“You added the trouble.”
“I knew who I was talking to.”
She smiles, soft and wicked. “Then maybe you also knew you didn’t really want to keep your hands off me.”
My lips twitch. “You done?”
“Not even close.”
She pushes off the bench and slips out from under my arm, all fast, slippery fox. Grabs her bag. Looks back.
“Enjoy your mug, Fireman,” she says, eyes flicking to the red glaze. “It’s heat-safe. Like you.”
“Ember—”
But she’s already walking backward, grin too big for this building. “Don’t break it,” she sings. “Or my heart. They’re kind of a matching set.”
Then she spins and leaves, boots clacking on the bay floor like she belongs here.
The door rolls down behind her.
Silence rushes in.
I look at the mug.
FIREPROOF HEART.
My thumb runs over it again.
I don’t smile.
I don’t.
But I feel something ease that hasn’t eased in a long fucking time.
I make it about four hours before I cave and use the thing.
I tell myself it’s because my old mug is chipped.
I tell myself it’s because Ember will 100% ask me about it later and I don’t wanna have to say it sat in a cupboard.
Truth?
I want her hands on my hands.
I rinse it, fill it with black coffee, and stand at the bay door watching late afternoon bleed over Copper Mountain, mug warm in my palm. The guys rag me about it, of course.
“Cute cup, Walker.”
“Aw, did your fiancée make you a love potion?”
“Where’s ours?”
I tell them all to shut up.
They don’t.
They never do.
But they stop when the Gazette article drops.
My phone pings around five. Then again. Then again. Then again.
I pull it from my pocket, thumb over the screen, and there it is:
LOVE FROM THE ASHES: COPPER MOUNTAIN FIREFIGHTER SAVES HIS BRIDE
Featuring a zoomed-in, very unflattering, very close shot of me putting my flannel on Ember last night.
I stare.
Then I swear.
Loud.
From the office, Chief calls, “Everything all right, Walker?”
“Peachy,” I grind out.
The guys crowd around, laughing, whistling. Gabe reads over my shoulder.
“Oooh, they called you stoic.” He grins. “And ‘enigmatic.’ And ‘heartbroken hero who found love again.’”
I scroll.
There’s a quote from Ember.
My jaw locks.
He didn’t just save me from the fire, she said with that obnoxious smile. He stayed. He made sure I wasn’t alone. That’s the kind of man you marry.
I close my eyes.
God, firecracker.
You really didn’t have to go that hard.
“Walker,” Chief calls again, sharper. “My office. Now.”
Perfect.
By the time I get off the call with the insurance investigator—who, surprise, also heard the rumor and thinks it’s “so sweet”—I’m strung tight. The station’s quieting for the night. The guys are heading out. I only had to endure a few jibes from Chief.
I tell myself I’m heading home.
I do not, under any circumstances, tell myself I’m going to see her.
But the second I get in my truck, my hands turn the wheel toward that crappy little rental she’s in at the bottom of the mountain.
The porch light’s on.
Her old Subaru is out front, the one she swears will survive the apocalypse.
I kill the engine.
I sit.
I look at the mug in the cup holder. I’d brought it. Don’t know why. Maybe to prove something. Maybe to tell her to stop giving me things.
I grab it and get out.
fresh snow crunches under my boots. The air is cold enough to bite. Her porch smells like cinnamon and wet clay.
I knock.
“Door’s open!” she calls, voice muffled.
Of course it is.
I push in.
Her space is…Ember.
Throw blankets. Plants. A drying rack full of small greenware pieces. Fairy lights. A stupid little ceramic fox in the window with a scarf on.
She’s in the kitchen, back to me, hair down now, sweater falling off one shoulder, pajama shorts. Bare legs.
My jaw tightens.
“Hey, fake husband,” she says, not turning. “You’re just in time. I’m making chili.”
“You always leave your door unlocked?” I ask.
“Small town. People only break in to bring you soup.”
“Or kidnap you.”
She glances over her shoulder, eyes dancing. “You gonna kidnap me, Clay?”
“Don’t tempt me.”
I hold up the mug. “Brought this back.”
Her face falls. “What? No. You don’t like it?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then why are you returning my heart.”
“I’m not.”
She blinks.
I set it on the counter. “I used it.”
Her mouth parts. “You did?”
“Yeah.”
“You drank coffee out of it?”
“Yeah.”
“Like…a real fiancé?”
I give her a look. “You gotta stop saying that.”
“You gotta stop making it so plausible.”
She turns, hips bumping the counter, and leans there, eyeing me. “So what’s up? You here to yell at me about the article?”
“Yes.”
“Too late. Paper’s printed.”
“You made me sound—” I search for the word. “Soft.”
“You are soft,” she says instantly.
I pin her with a stare. “I am not.”
“You stayed.”
“You were crying on Main.”
“I cry pretty.”
“You cry loud.”
“You liked it.”
I huff a laugh, shake my head. “You’re impossible.”
“You like that too.”
I cross to her.
I don’t mean to.