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)
Not yet.
“Go make coffee,” I tell her gruffly. “And stop hovering. You’re distracting.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Me? Distracting?”
I glance at her, dead serious. “Firefly, you walked into my workshop with paint on your face and sunshine in your smile. You’ve been distracting since the second you showed up.”
Her throat works as she swallows.
She tries for sass. Fails. “Fine. I’ll make coffee. And I’ll… not hover.”
“Good.”
She turns toward the kitchenette, still flustered, still glowing, and I watch her for one second too long.
Because Saxon can order me to fix the wiring all he wants.
But he didn’t order the way Ember Price is starting to feel like the most dangerous thing I’ve ever been near.
And I’m an arson investigator.
I know exactly what happens when you keep leaning into a flame.
Chapter Six
Ember
By noon, Boone and I have developed a rhythm that feels illegal.
Not because it’s smooth—because it’s sharp. Every movement between us scrapes. Every look lands hot. We work shoulder to shoulder in my half-gutted studio, him fixing what the inspector flagged, me painting trim samples on scraps of wood like I’m auditioning colors for a role that matters too much.
“Firefly,” he says without looking up, voice dry. “You’re about to electrocute yourself.”
“I’m standing on a ladder, not licking wires,” I shoot back, brush between my teeth as I reach for another swatch.
“You left the breaker live.”
“I like danger.”
He snorts. “You like chaos.”
“Same thing.”
I glance down. He’s crouched beneath the panel, broad shoulders filling the narrow space, dark T-shirt clinging in a way that feels personal. Grease smudges his forearm. The scar along his shoulder peeks out when he moves, pale against tanned skin, and my attention snags on it like thread pulled too tight.
He senses my eyes on him.
“What?” he asks, not looking at me.
“Nothing.”
“Firefly.”
“I was just thinking,” I say lightly, “that you complain a lot for someone who volunteered to be here.”
“I didn’t volunteer.”
“You showed up before eight.”
“Captain ordered me.”
“You brought coffee.”
“For me.”
“Two cups.”
He finally looks up, one brow lifting. “You counting now?”
“Observing.”
He pushes to his feet. He smells like soap and metal and something darker underneath. Smoke, maybe. Or memory.
“Careful,” he murmurs. “Observation leads to conclusions.”
“And conclusions lead to?”
“Trouble.”
My pulse flickers. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
His mouth twitches. Not a smile. Something more dangerous. “Depends who gets burned.”
We hold the look too long. The ladder creaks beneath me. He reaches out automatically, palm flattening against my hip to steady me. The contact is solid. Intentional. My breath stutters before I can stop it.
“Reckless,” he says quietly.
“Grumpy,” I counter, but the word lands soft, not sharp.
He doesn’t move his hand right away. His thumb presses once, slow. Testing.
Then he steps back like he’s caught himself touching fire.
I climb down before I embarrass us both. “I’ve got a new sofa and some canvases being delivered today. Thank you for helping me get this place in shape enough to have a dozen kids over for my first art class in the morning.”
“Happy to do it,” he replies swiftly.
We work in silence for ten minutes that feel like an hour. When he breaks it, his voice is different. Curious. Careful.
“What’s your favorite painting?”
I blink. “What?”
“You heard me.”
I laugh, surprised. “That’s random.”
“So?”
I set my brush down, wipe my hands on my jeans. “You mean favorite I’ve done?”
“Unless you’re secretly hoarding a Picasso.”
“A watercolor,” I say. “Mountain cabin. Pine trees. Creek out back. I was nineteen when I painted it.”
He leans against the counter, arms crossed. Listening in a way that makes me want to tell the truth.
“I’ve sold prints,” I continue. “Lots of them. But I’ll never sell the original of that one.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s home.” I swallow. “Copper Mountain. Summers with my mom. She taught me how to bleed color into water and let it decide where to go.”
His jaw tightens. “Your mom.”
“Breast cancer,” I say, steady. “A few years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I moved back to the mountains after,” I add. “But Copper was too… full. Too many echoes. Devil’s Peak felt like a clean slate.”
“And your dad?” he asks.
I shrug. “City. New wife. Always been distant.”
He nods, slow. No judgment. Just understanding. His hand comes to my back, rubbing gently like he’s grounding me without asking permission.
For a second, I think he’s going to kiss me.
Then the door bangs open.
“Delivery!”
We both jump. The spell shatters.
Boone curses under his breath and shoulders past the delivery men standing at the door like a general. He instructs them to drop it and waves them off, then hauls the sofa inside with ridiculous ease. He sets it under the picture window, unwraps it, steps back. “There.”
We sit.
Instant regret floods through me.
It’s stiff. Narrow. Punishing.
I burst out laughing. He does too, deep and surprised, like it escaped him.
“Congratulations,” he says. “You bought medieval torture furniture.”
“Sit on it longer,” I say, wiping my eyes. “Maybe it breaks in.”