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)
“It’s a gesture.”
“It’s still a cup.”
She jabs a finger at me. “You are impossible.”
“Been told.”
She huffs, all theatrics, then narrows her eyes suspiciously at the mug in my hand. “You like it.”
I set it on the workbench carefully—because I do like it, and I’m not letting any of the guys break it—and lean back on my heels. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t not say it.”
I give her a look. “You always argue like this?”
“Only with men who rescue me from burning buildings and then pretend they’re not soft inside.”
I snort. “I’m not soft, firecracker.”
“Uh-huh.” She tips her head, eyes flicking to the mug. “Don’t act like you’re not touched.”
“I’m touched, all right.” I let my gaze drag over her, unhurried, lingering on the paint smudge at her collarbone, the way her shirt falls off one shoulder. “Just not where you’re hoping.”
Her cheeks flush. Not shy. Just…hit.
Bingo.
The air between us tightens. I feel the shift happen—like oxygen getting sucked out right before a flashover.
She swallows. “Who says I’m hoping?”
“Your face.”
“My face is innocent.”
“Your face is loud.”
She laughs under her breath, throatier than before. “You’re so obnoxious.”
“You keep showing up.”
“Because we’re engaged, remember?”
“Wrong word.”
“Temporarily engaged.”
“Fake engaged.”
“Semantics.” She waves it away. “Anyway, I brought you that so you remember not everyone burns.”
I go still.
She realizes what she said a half-second too late. I watch it hit her—her bright expression flickers, like she stepped where she didn’t mean to.
“Clay, I didn’t—I just meant—”
“I know what you meant,” I say, voice lower. “And you’re wrong.”
Her brows knit. “About what?”
“Everything burns.”
For a second, the clowning drops out of her eyes. There’s that look I saw last night at the bonfire, the one she tried to drown in sugar and jokes—loss, deep and familiar. It hits something in me I don’t want hit.
She looks like she wants to argue. She always does.
Instead, she takes a breath. “Then maybe some of us are supposed to,” she says quietly. “Maybe that’s how we get warm.”
Christ.
I have to look away.
Because that line? That’s the kind of soft-hearted, reckless poetry that gets a man killed. Gets him making mistakes. Gets him reaching.
And I don’t reach.
Not anymore.
Before I can redirect, I hear footsteps and a too-amused voice from the doorway. “Well, if it isn’t Firehouse Fiancées,” Gabe calls. “We get donuts or just Clay gets pottery?”
Ember brightens like someone plugged her in. “Hey, Gabe! I brought art.”
Gabe grins. “You bring anything that doesn’t get broken in five minutes?”
“A good time.”
He barks a laugh. “I like her.”
I glare at him. “Don’t you have reports?”
“Already done.”
Ember props her hip against the bench, casual as hell. “Don’t let me keep you from an Important Fireman Meeting.”
“I won’t.”
“But before you go—”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Ember.”
She bounces on her toes once, mischief blooming. “Put the flannel on.”
I stare at her. “What.”
“The flannel. The green one the town lost its mind over. You can’t break their hearts now. They’re invested.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Clay.”
“No. You wore it last night–”
“Because I was freezing. You’re my fiancé. We have to match aesthetically.”
“We do not.”
“Clay.”
“Ember.”
We stare.
She grins.
I sigh.
“Jesus,” I mutter, turning to the rack by the door where I hung it earlier. I grab the damn green flannel and shrug it on over my navy tee. The material pulls across my shoulders. It smells like smoke and—annoyingly—her.
I look back at her.
She’s staring.
Hard.
“What?” I ask.
She licks her lips. Tiny movement. Full-body hit.
“That’s illegal,” she says softly.
“It’s a shirt.”
“It’s foreplay.”
Gabe coughs from the doorway, trying and failing not to laugh. “I’m gonna go before HR appears out of thin air.”
“Go,” I snap.
He goes.
I turn back to Ember.
She’s still looking at me like she could eat me for breakfast and lick the plate clean.
“You good?” I ask.
Her eyes flick up to mine, wide and much too aware. “Yeah,” she breathes. “Fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“Then stop looking at me like that.”
“I’m not looking at you like anything.”
She arches a brow. “Clay. You’re looking at me like you’re deciding which part of me you want to bite first.”
Yeah?
Because I am.
I close the distance between us without thinking about it. Two steps. Boots on concrete. Now I’m in her space, my shadow over her, her back brushing the bench.
Her breath hitches.
“Ember,” I say, low.
“Yeah.”
“You really shouldn’t look at me like that, firecracker.”
Her pupils blow wide. “Like what?”
“Like you want me to set you on fire.”
She swallows. “Maybe I do.”
I brace a hand on the workbench beside her hip, leaning in just enough to feel her heat, not enough to give in. I can see every fleck of brown and gold in her eyes. Her scent fills my lungs.
“You got no idea what you’re asking for,” I murmur.
“Try me.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
“Too late.”
My jaw tightens. My body is way ahead of my brain—heavy, awake, ready. I can picture it too easily—her up on this bench, legs wrapped, clay under her nails digging into my shoulders while I—