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)
“What came out,” I say slowly.
“That you were my fiancé,” she says in a rush. “Kind of.”
I stare.
She winces again. “I said ‘Yes, that’s him.’ I panicked.”
“You panicked,” I repeat. “So you invented an engagement.”
“Invented is such a harsh word,” she says, biting her lip. “I confirmed a clerical error with enthusiasm.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Ember.”
“I know, I know. But they were so happy about it. And listen—listen.” She hurries closer, hands up. “There’s a reason it helps.”
“Oh, I cannot wait to hear this.”
She narrows her eyes at my tone. “The investigator is coming up from Denver.”
“Already?”
“Yeah. Tomorrow. Because the fire was electrical and the panel was old and my claim is…big.” She grimaces. “I told you I insured everything.”
“Good,” I say again, automatic. “So what does that have to do with—”
“If it looks like I was being negligent,” she talks over me, words spilling like marbles, “or if it looks like I just moved here and torched my own studio to get a check—”
“You didn’t,” I cut in, firm.
“I know that,” she says, eyes flashing, “and you know that, but he doesn’t know that. And Lottie said—and I didn’t even think about this, she just said it—‘well she can’t have done it on purpose, she’s getting married to the fire captain, he wouldn’t let that slide,’ and Tina was like, ‘that’s so true,’ so…yeah.”
I blink.
“So…yeah?” I repeat.
“So…now we’re engaged,” she finishes, hands flopping to her sides.
I stare at her for a good ten seconds. She fidgets under it, dragging a bare foot across the rug, chewing her lip.
“You couldn’t have told them the truth?” I ask finally.
“You couldn’t have smiled for five seconds?” she fires back.
My brows snap down. “What?”
“You growled the whole time I was at the station,” she says. “Lottie was scared of you.”
“Good.”
“Not good,” she huffs. “Scared people ask more questions. I was trying to make it look normal. Like we’re…together.”
“We’re not together.”
Her gaze drops to my mouth. Just for a beat.
Then back up.
“Then stop looking at me,” she says quietly, “like you wish we were.”
The room goes still.
She said it.
I don’t flinch.
Because she’s not wrong.
I do look at her like that. I looked at her like that last night, ash-smeared and crying and still smart-mouthed when I dropped her off at my rental cabin. I looked at her like that at two in the damn morning when I replayed pulling her away from the door.
I just didn’t think she noticed.
I take a step forward.
She sucks in a breath but doesn’t retreat.
“You have no idea,” I say, voice low, “what I wish.”
Her pulse jumps in her throat. I see it. I want to put my mouth there.
But I don’t.
I drag a hand through my hair and force myself to back up two inches. “We’re not engaged, Ember.”
“I know that.”
“So tell them.”
“I can’t,” she says, frustration flaring. “Do you understand how fast this town turns? One second you’re a cute story, the next you’re a liar who tried to steal money. And I just lost everything.”
The wobble in her voice hits me harder than the fire did.
She looks so small suddenly. Still mouthy. Still bright. But small.
“The investigator’s gonna be looking for a reason to deny me,” she says, softer now. “He sees I have no family here, no fiancé, no roots? He might think I set it. I didn’t. I swear to God, Clay, I would never—I love that studio. I built it. It was my dream.”
Her eyes shine. She blinks fast.
Damn it.
I curse under my breath and pace away, then back. The place is tiny; I’m too big in it. I glance out the window. Across the road, Mrs. Vance is on her porch, watching. Of course she is.
I look back at Ember. “So what. We fake it.”
“Yes.”
“For how long.”
“Until the claim clears.”
“That could be weeks.”
“Yep.”
I stare.
She folds her arms. “It’s not like we’d have to…you know.”
I lift a brow. “Know what?”
Her cheeks pink. “Kiss. Or anything.”
“You started telling people I got down on one knee in the snow,” I remind her.
“Okay, that was Tina, but I didn’t correct her,” she says. “Anyway, we don’t have to make out. Just…go to a few things. Be seen. Look coupley. Convince people that I’m stable and not some weird arsonist.”
“You’re not stable,” I mutter.
She tilts her head. “And you’re not nice, but here we are.”
I bite back a smile.
This woman is gonna kill me.
I scrub a hand over my jaw, weighing it. On one hand: I hate lies. I hate drama. I especially hate my name in the damn Gazette. On the other: she’s right. Investigators look for people who are isolated, stressed, desperate. A fiancé with a solid job and a reputation for being boring and reliable?
That helps her.
And—if I’m being honest, which I hate—it helps me too. Because right now I look like a hard-ass who dragged a crying woman away from her life and then left her. If the town thinks we’re together, they’ll stop asking why I didn’t let her save her work.