Total pages in book: 23
Estimated words: 24365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 122(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 122(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
“These,” she says softly, stepping closer, “are the colors I see when I look at you.”
Before I can stop her, she drags the brush down my forearm.
I freeze.
The touch is light. Intentional. Electric.
She adds another stroke. Smoke-dark. Ember-hot.
My pulse roars.
I lean in, slow, deliberate, giving her every chance to pull away.
She doesn’t.
Chapter Eight
Ember
I don’t breathe when Boone takes the brush from my fingers.
I should. I know that. Oxygen is generally important for survival. But the moment stretches, thick and humming, and all I can do is watch his hand—broad, scarred, steady—as he dips the bristles into water and then into color.
Soft color.
Not the reds and blacks I chose for him.
Blues. Golds. Pale blush.
My throat tightens.
“What are you doing?” I ask, trying for teasing and landing somewhere closer to bare.
He doesn’t answer right away. Steps closer instead, his presence pressing into the space like gravity. The windows throw late-afternoon light across his shoulders, catching the paint streaked along his forearm. Fire and smoke and danger.
Then the brush touches my skin.
Just below my collarbone.
I gasp.
“Standing still,” he says quietly. “That’s what you’re doing.”
I swallow. “Bossy.”
“Accurate.”
The brush drags slowly, deliberately, like he’s got all the time in the world. The bristles are cool, wet, sending shivers straight through my ribs. He paints a line of pale blue along my collarbone, then gold just beneath it, the color warm even before it dries.
“This,” he murmurs, eyes tracking the path of the brush, “is calm.”
I laugh weakly. “You have terrible instincts.”
He flicks his gaze up to mine. “Do I?”
My mouth opens. No sound comes out.
He adds a soft wash of pink near my shoulder, barely grazing skin. His thumb brushes against me as he steadies my arm. That touch is the loudest thing in the room.
“This,” he continues, lower now, “is warmth.”
I shiver. “You’re projecting.”
“Maybe,” he says. “Or maybe you’re brighter than you think.”
I hate how much that lands.
The studio is silent except for our breathing. I can smell oil and pigment and tomato sauce still lingering faintly in the air. Boone is close enough that I can see the faint line between his brows, the concentration there, the way his jaw tightens like he’s holding something back.
He finishes the last stroke slowly, then lifts the brush away.
For a second, neither of us moves.
I’m aware of everything at once—my bare feet on the cool concrete, the way my skin hums where he touched me, the way his eyes are darker now, heated and intent.
“Boone,” I whisper.
He exhales through his nose. “Firefly.”
The word curls around me.
He sets the brush down carefully, like if he doesn’t, something will break. His hand lingers on the table. Mine hovers uselessly at my side. The distance between us is suddenly too small and somehow still not enough.
“I shouldn’t—” I start.
“You should,” he counters immediately.
My pulse spikes.
His hand lifts. Hesitates. Drops to his side again.
We’re right there.
Right on the edge of something that feels inevitable and terrifying and so, so wanted.
And then a knock slams against the front door.
“Boone?” a familiar voice calls. “You here, man?”
I jump like I’ve been electrocuted.
Boone freezes, eyes shutting for half a second. When he opens them again, there’s a flash of something wild and frustrated and very male.
“Shit,” he mutters.
The door opens before either of us can move.
One of Boone’s friends I recognize from The Devil's Brew, Axel, steps inside with a foil-covered casserole dish in his hands, snow dusting his jacket. He stops dead.
His eyes flick from Boone to me.
Then down.
Then back up again.
Paint streaks Boone’s forearm. Paint streaks my collarbone. My shirt is smudged with pastel blue and gold. Boone’s T-shirt has a smear of red across the chest like evidence.
We look like we lost a fight with a sexy Jackson Pollock.
“Oh,” Axel says slowly.
I feel my face go nuclear.
Boone clears his throat. “Ramirez.”
Axel’s mouth twitches. “Did I interrupt… something?”
“No,” I say too fast.
“Yes,” Boone says at the same time.
We glare at each other.
Axel raises a brow. “Cool. Love that energy.”
I scramble for dignity, wiping my hands on my already ruined jeans. “Hi, Axel. I—uh—Boone was helping with the wiring.”
“And the painting?” Axel asks dryly.
Boone shrugs. “Art inspection.”
Axel snorts. “Saxon sent me with Savannah’s casserole. Figured Boone was hiding in his cave.”
He looks around the bright studio, the windows, the canvases, the half-finished renovations. Then back at Boone.
“Guess not.”
Boone shifts, clearly torn between irritation and something like pride. “Didn’t hear you knock.”
“I did,” Axel says. “You were… busy.”
I want the floor to open up and swallow me whole.
Axel sets the casserole on the counter, eyes dancing. “Savannah says hi. Also says if this turns into another firehouse scandal, she wants front-row seats.”
Boone groans. “Get out.”
Axel grins wider. “Just checking in. Renovation looks good. You look…” He gestures vaguely. “Colorful.”
“Out,” Boone repeats.
Axel lifts his hands in surrender. “I’ll leave you two… uh… artists to it.”