Total pages in book: 18
Estimated words: 19364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 97(@200wpm)___ 77(@250wpm)___ 65(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 19364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 97(@200wpm)___ 77(@250wpm)___ 65(@300wpm)
Romantic as hell.
Dangerous as sin.
“Guess I’m officially stuck for the night.”
“With me,” I add.
Her lips twitch. “Lucky me.”
I grin. “Careful. You’ll hurt my feelings.”
She folds her arms. “You don’t have feelings.”
“Only for coffee and chaos,” I say. “And you.”
The words slip out before I can stop them.
The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on.
Her breath hitches.
I step back, palms up. “Sorry. Storm brain. Been a long day.”
She doesn’t call me on it.
Instead, she says, “Where am I sleeping?”
I point toward the bunk room. “There’s a spare.”
“And you?”
“I’ll take the couch.”
She arches a brow. “You always do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make yourself uncomfortable so everyone else doesn’t have to.”
I meet her gaze. “That’s literally my job.”
She shakes her head. “You don’t have to be a hero all the time.”
“I’m not,” I say quietly. “Just stubborn.”
The heater hums. Snow pounds the roof.
We stand there, neither moving.
Finally, she says, “You got anything to eat?”
“Firehouse kitchen,” I answer. “It’s not fancy.”
She smiles faintly. “Neither am I.”
We spend the next twenty minutes standing at the counter eating soup from a can. It’s normal. Almost peaceful.
Her knee brushes mine.
Once.
Twice.
Neither of us moves away.
“You nervous?” she asks softly.
“Always,” I admit.
“About the storm?”
“No.”
She waits.
I don’t elaborate.
Because if I do, I’ll tell her everything.
Chapter 6
Rory
“You’re going to wear a hole in the floor,” he says, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching me like he’s trying to read the cracks in my armor.
I force a smile. “Sorry. I’ll pace clockwise instead.”
He snorts, but his eyes stay soft. Too soft. Like he’s worried I might shatter if he touches me wrong. “What are you thinking?”
“That I was stupid,” I blurt. “Sorry I keep thinking about it.”
Dax straightens. “No–”
“I really was stupid though,” I say, the words sharp now. “I built a whole fantasy out of ink and paper.”
He steps closer. Slow. Careful. Like he knows how volatile I am right now.
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“You say that because you’re nice.”
“I say it because it’s true.”
I look up at him. “You don’t know how it felt. Waiting. Wondering if tonight would finally make it real.”
His jaw tightens.
“Stop beating yourself up, Red,” he says gently.
The words land soft.
Too soft.
I laugh, brittle. “Can’t help it.”
I don’t miss the way he looks away.
Forced proximity changes everything. There’s no counter to hide behind. No espresso machine humming between us. No morning rush or easy rhythm.
Just silence.
And tension.
And the knowledge that I can’t leave.
I drop onto the couch, hugging a pillow to my chest. The firehouse smells like soap and metal and something warm and familiar that makes my chest ache.
Dax sits in the chair across from me, then stands again like he can’t get comfortable either.
“You want more tea?” he asks.
“Not really.”
“You should–it’ll help you sleep.”
Bossy.
I arch a brow. “Is that a firefighter order?”
He grins. “It’s a Dax suggestion.”
“Those are rarely optional.”
He steps closer, looming just enough to make my pulse skip. “You’ve never complained before.”
I scoff. “I complain constantly.”
“About everything except me.” His grin widens.
The air shifts.
I stare at him. “Excuse me?”
He shrugs, unapologetic. “You’re grumpy with everyone. Except me.”
I open my mouth.
Close it.
Damn him.
He’s right. He noticed. The truth is I look forward to seeing him every morning, the way he saunters, effortlessly stealing the air from my lungs.
I stand, smoothing my dress like that will give me back some control. “Congratulations. You cracked the code.”
“Not trying to,” he says quietly. “Just noticing.”
I cross my arms. “Well, stop.”
He doesn’t.
Instead, he says, “You want to decorate?”
I blink. “What?”
“The guys left out Valentine’s stuff,” he says, nodding toward a box of red streamers and heart lights. “Might as well use it.”
“You’re serious.”
“I always am.”
That’s not true, and he knows it.
We string lights around the common room, tension buzzing louder than the storm outside. He hands me tape. I hand him clips. Our fingers brush more than necessary.
On purpose.
“Careful,” he murmurs when I step on a chair. “You fall again, I’m charging hazard pay.”
“I did not fall,” I argue.
“You absolutely fell.”
“I slipped.”
“Into my arms.”
I glare down at him. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.”
I roll my eyes and reach for the lights.
That’s when they tangle.
Around my wrists.
My waist.
My shoulder.
I freeze.
“Dax.”
He looks up.
And stops breathing.
Red lights blink around me, casting everything in a soft, dangerous glow. His gaze drags slow, unfiltered, taking me in like he’s done pretending he doesn’t want to.
“You’re glowing for me,” he says low. “Finally.”
Heat flashes through me.
“Don’t say things like that,” I utter.
“Why?” He steps closer. “Because you might believe them?”
“Because it’s not fair.”
“To who?”
“To me,” I say. “To you.”
His hands come up, untangling the lights with deliberate care. Fingers warm. Steady. Confident.
“I’m not the one pretending,” he says.
My breath stutters.
“You don’t get to say that,” I whisper.
“I get to say whatever I want,” he replies. “I’ve earned that.”
I shove his chest lightly. “You don’t know what I want.”
He catches my wrist.
Gentle.
Firm.
“I know exactly what you want.”