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 don’t have a snow machine,” she says quickly.
I stare at her.
She blinks.
“…Yet,” she adds, quieter.
I exhale through my nose. “Jesus.”
“Stop being dramatic,” she says. “Come in.”
She steps back, and I walk inside her place like I own it, which I don’t—but something in me likes the idea a little too much.
The studio smells like paint and pine and possibility. Half the room is in chaos: boxes, rolls of paper, jars of brushes, a ladder leaning against a wall with a strand of lights wrapped around it like a lazy snake. The other half looks like she actually has a plan—canvases stacked neatly, a whiteboard with sketches, a little table set up for kids with tiny stools.
There’s a watercolor palette on the counter like it’s a living thing. Reds bleeding into oranges, blues pooling like ink.
Color everywhere.
It’s… loud.
Not in a bad way.
In a way that makes me feel like I’ve been living in black-and-white and didn’t realize it.
Ember watches me take it in, chin lifted like she’s daring me to insult it.
“So,” she says, voice bright but edged. “Where’s this terrifying death wiring?”
I swing my gaze back to her. “You always talk like you’re picking a fight.”
“I’m from the city,” she says. “It’s my love language.”
I set my coffee on her counter. “You want to start with a kiss then?”
Her breath catches.
Just a hitch. Barely there.
But I see it.
And I file it away.
“I want to start with you doing your job,” she snaps, cheeks pink.
“Mm-hmm.” I step around her, close enough that my shoulder brushes hers on purpose. “Move.”
She doesn’t.
She lifts her chin. “Make me.”
The air shifts.
Like the room tightens around us.
I stop in front of her, my body blocking the path, and I don’t touch her—not yet—but I let the weight of me speak. Let her feel the difference between us without saying it out loud.
Her eyes flick down my chest. Back up to my face. She swallows.
“I could,” I say quietly.
Her voice is breathy when she answers, and I know she hates herself for it. “You won’t.”
I smile. Slow. Sharp. “Not in the morning. I’m trying to be a gentleman.”
She scoffs. “You’re not a gentleman. You’re a menace with a limp.”
My jaw tightens reflexively at the word limp, but I don’t let her see it. Not right now. Not when she’s standing here with war in her eyes and paint on her cheek and her mouth acting like it wants trouble.
“Watch it,” I murmur.
“Why?” she challenges. “You gonna arrest me for disrespecting your grumpy authority?”
I lean in just enough that she smells me—cold air, coffee, the faint grease that never fully leaves my skin.
“Careful, Firefly,” I say, voice low. “I might start liking the way you talk back.”
Her eyes darken.
“Too late,” she whispers.
That does something to me. Something I don’t name.
I step past her before I do something stupid.
“Show me the panel,” I say.
She follows, still flustered, still stubborn. “It’s in the back.”
The back of the studio is half torn apart, drywall exposed in one corner, wires running like veins behind the surface. I crouch, set my tool bag down, and start working without explaining every move, because she’d argue with me just to prove a point.
“Did Saxon really order you?” she asks, hovering.
“Yes.”
“And you just… obey?”
I glance up at her. “You think I’m here because I wanted to spend my morning in your glitter cave?”
Her mouth twists. “It’s not a glitter cave.”
“It’s going to be,” I say, popping the panel open. “I can feel it.”
She crosses her arms again and watches me work like she’s trying to catch me doing something wrong.
“What’s wrong with the wiring?” she asks.
I point with my screwdriver. “This is old work. Spliced poorly. Whoever did this before you either didn’t know what they were doing or didn’t care if it burned down.”
Her expression shifts—serious now. Quiet.
“I didn’t do that,” she says.
“I know,” I reply.
She frowns. “How?”
“Because it’s not colorful enough,” I deadpan.
She gapes. Then she laughs, and the sound hits me right in the chest.
“Shut up,” she says, smiling.
“No,” I say, returning to the panel. “This line’s live when it shouldn’t be. If you’d plugged in your ‘festive sparkle,’ you could’ve caused an arc.”
Her smile fades. “So… I could’ve started a fire.”
“Yeah.” I look back at her, letting the word hang. “You could’ve.”
Her throat bobs as she swallows. She tries to cover it with attitude, but I see the flicker of real fear under her bravado.
“I hate that,” she says softly.
“Good,” I tell her. “Fear keeps you alive.”
She huffs. “You’re so cheerful.”
“You’re the cheerful one,” I say. “I’m the realist.”
“Grump,” she corrects.
I straighten slowly, and when I turn, she’s closer than she was a second ago. Like she can’t help it. Like her body keeps drifting toward mine even when her mouth says she hates me.
I lift a brow. “You hovering because you’re worried, or because you like watching me work with my hands?”