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)
I feel his tremors, and then his arms tighten protectively around me. My hands roam over his knuckles and forearms, tracing the raised scars there. Guilt flickers through me at the sight of those battle wounds. He tenses beneath my fingers, memories flickering in his eyes as I push my fingertips through the soft smattering of hair that covers his chest..
“Are you okay?” he asks softly.
“Better now,” I whisper. I lift my head to look at him, eyes wide and tender. “Except for this damn couch.”
The tension drains from his face and he chuckles.
I press a gentle kiss to his forehead.
“Tell me about these scars,” I whisper, fingertips tracing the angry slashes on his skin.
He gives me a half-smile and tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. “From my time in the desert,” he murmurs.
He strokes my bare back with his fingertips, and I feel the tightness in his chest ease. He strokes my hair, and I sigh, content to simply be near him, safe in this warmth he’s offering. “I always thought I was better off alone, until you moved into my life.”
I trace a finger along his eyebrow. “You should get used to me, I’m never leaving.”
“I won’t let you,” he laughs. “Even if you are the neighbor from Hell.”
“Me?” I gasp.
“Yes you, bringing all that sunshine and happiness.”
“You needed my sunshine.”
“Damn right I did, Firefly.”
I press closer and rest my head on his chest and he brushes his fingers through my hair and plants a soft kiss on my forehead. I yawn, eyelids heavy with sleep and satisfaction. His arms wrap around me tighter. “Now go to sleep and dream about how sweet it will be when I wake you up with kisses all over your body tomorrow morning.”
“I can’t wait.” I smile, feeling safe in his arms and cherished for the first time in my life.
Epilogue
Three months later
Boone
By spring, the workshop doesn’t echo anymore.
I notice it one morning when the big bay door is rolled all the way up and sunlight cuts across the concrete, dust motes floating like lazy sparks. The radio’s on low, a blues station Ember likes, and there’s a kid on a stool near my workbench watching me fix a bent tire rim, eyes wide, hands jammed in the pockets of a jacket that’s two sizes too big.
“Don’t touch,” I say without looking.
“I won’t,” he says. A beat. “Promise.”
I glance over. He’s grinning like he just got away with something. I smirk despite myself. “Promises are a kind of contract.”
He nods solemnly. “My mom says contracts are serious.”
“Your mom’s right.”
The door chimes. Laughter spills in first, bright and unashamed, followed by Ember carrying a crate of canvases like it weighs nothing. Her hair’s up in a messy knot, paint already smeared along her knuckles, freckles standing out against skin kissed by sun. She takes in the scene—me, the kid, the open doors—and her smile does something dangerous to my chest.
“Morning, Firefly,” I say.
She sets the crate down and slides her hands around my waist from behind, pressing her cheek between my shoulder blades. “Morning, Grump.”
The kid clears his throat loudly. “Uh. Hi.”
Ember peeks around me, eyes crinkling. “You must be Tyler. I’m Ember.”
“Hi,” he says, suddenly shy.
“She’s the boss,” I add.
She pinches my side. “Don’t lie to children.”
“Only a little,” I say. “For their education.”
She laughs and kisses my shoulder anyway, soft and quick, then turns to the kid. “You ready for your lesson?”
He nods like his head might fall off.
We work for an hour—me showing Tyler how to measure twice and cut once, Ember teaching a pair of girls in the studio next door how to mix watercolors without turning everything into mud. Her studio door hangs open and I hear her voice rise and fall sometimes when the wind blows just right, encouraging, teasing. The kids laugh. It’s a sound that fills spaces I didn’t know were empty.
At noon, we break. The kids scatter toward the picnic tables out back, where Savannah left a cooler like she always does on mentoring days. Ember wipes her hands on a rag and leans against the workbench, eyes on me.
“You’re good at this,” she says.
I shrug. “They listen.”
“They listen because you care.”
I snort. “Don’t get poetic.”
She steps closer, close enough that the scent of citrus soap and paint clings to me. Her fingers trace the scar on my forearm, slow. “You’re allowed to be more than one thing, Boone Lawson.”
Her voice goes low on my name. I feel it everywhere.
“Careful,” I murmur. “Kids around.”
She grins, unapologetic. “I’m always careful.”
We close up midafternoon. The kids leave with grease on their hands and pride in their pockets. Ember locks the studio and crosses the narrow strip of gravel to me, sunburned nose and all.
“Walk with me,” she says.
“Always.”
We take the long way up the ridge behind the buildings, the one that overlooks Devil’s Peak and the river threading silver through the trees. The air smells like pine and wet earth. Ember slips her fingers through mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world.