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)
I grin and link my arm through Clay’s. “Showtime, fiancé.”
He looks down at the contact, then at me, then at the crowd. I feel that muscle in his cheek tick. “Behave.”
“Make me.”
He exhales through his nose like I’m the world’s cutest pain in the ass and escorts me inside.
The room’s decked out in twinkle lights and pine garland, handmade wreaths lining the walls. I did some of them last year for extra cash. It hurts a little to see them and know I don’t have a place to make more. Smells like chili, cider, and the entire town’s business.
We’ve been “engaged” less than a week and everyone in Copper Mountain acts like they watched him propose at sunset on a ski slope while I cried over cocoa.
“Ember!” Vi swoops in, tablet in hand, eyes glued to us like she’s collecting data. “Can we steal you two for a photo for the Gazette follow-up?”
Clay mutters under his breath, “I knew she’d do a follow-up.”
“To death,” I murmur back.
He tightens his arm around mine, pulls me in closer, like we’ve been doing this forever. The way his body shields mine from the crowd—it should make me feel trapped. It doesn’t. It makes me feel…tucked. Kept. Warm.
Which is dangerous.
“Just one shot!” Vi says. “Well…maybe three.”
“Smile,” I whisper up at him.
He doesn’t.
So I pinch his side.
He grunts, then gives the camera a look that lands halfway between long-suffering and smoldering. Vi actually fans herself.
“You two are unreal,” she says. “It’s like fate.”
Clay says nothing.
I say, “Right? Total kismet. Firefighter saves artist, artist saves firefighter from eternal bachelorhood, everybody wins.”
Right on cue, Mrs. Pruitt leans in, eyes bright. “We voted.”
Clay’s brows pull together. “On what.”
“Couple of the Year.”
My mouth drops. “We just got engaged, Pruitt.”
She waves a dismissive hand. “Copper Mountain doesn’t need time, honey. We need content. Also? Your story made three grand in donations last night alone. People love a love story.” Her eyes go sharp.
I blink. “Sorry—what?”
She gestures to the little stage near the front. “We’re doing the raffle in fifteen. You two’ll come up for the ‘Most Inspiring Holiday Couple’ shot. And we’re gonna need a kiss.”
I cough. “A what?”
“A kiss,” she repeats cheerfully like we’re talking about sugar cookies. “Just a little one. For the town Facebook page.”
Oh.
Oh, no.
I glance at Clay.
Clay’s jaw is stone.
“We’re not—” he starts, but I cut in fast, fingers squeezing his arm.
“They’re watching,” I whisper. “We said we’d sell it.”
His eyes cut to me. Dark. Warning. “This wasn’t part of the deal, firecracker.”
“Neither was me losing my studio and then finding out the insurance investigator is a nosy troll who reads the Gazette.”
His gaze holds mine for three…four…five seconds.
Then he mutters a filthy curse I feel in my toes.
“Fine,” he grates. “But we do it my way.”
I swallow. My way probably means closed mouth, firm, professional. Something we can both walk away from.
I can handle—
“Don’t look so pleased,” he says, catching the look on my face. “I’m not doing it because I want to.”
“Why, then?”
“Because you asked.”
…Okay.
Why does that feel like more?
He says it and I want to kiss him in front of everyone now.
Before I have time to obsess, someone clinks a spoon on a glass. “Okay, folks! Who’s ready to see the happy couple?”
Cheers go up. Phones appear. Clay’s hand locks at my lower back, steering me to the little stage. I curse him silently for the way his hand spreads wide and hot and possessive like that.
We step up.
Lights. People. Heat.
I paste on my big holiday grin.
Clay stands straight, broad, totally calm. He looks like not a single thing on earth can rattle him. Like a kiss is nothing.
My chest is all rattle.
“Let’s give them a sweet one!” Mrs. Pruitt trills. “For the scrapbook!”
I really hate that she said scrapbook.
I tilt up my face.
Clay turns to me.
His hand rises—slow, big, calloused—cupping my jaw like I’m something fragile. His thumb slides just under my ear. I swear to God my knees go soft on the spot.
“Relax,” he murmurs, just for me.
“Trying.”
“You’re shaking.”
“You’re hot.”
His eyes flash. “Ember.”
“Clay.”
He leans in.
I brace.
He doesn’t press a quick peck to my mouth.
No.
He kisses me like we’re not in a room full of our neighbors and his fire chief and the judge’s wife and literally the reporter who started this whole mess.
He kisses me like we’re alone.
Slow at first. Deliberate. His mouth covers mine, warm and firm, a test and a promise and a warning at once. I inhale him—pine, smoke, winter, him—and I swear I melt inside my own coat.
My fingers hook in his flannel without permission.
His lips angle, deepening, tongue teasing the seam of mine like he could take this further, like we both know what’s on the other side of pretend. A pulse of heat surges through me—low, hot, need.
I open.
He takes.
His tongue strokes mine once, heavy and sure and filthy good. My head spins. I cling to him because my center of gravity just moved into him.