Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 48518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 243(@200wpm)___ 194(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 243(@200wpm)___ 194(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
I stiffen at my niece’s name. “Holly shouldn’t have that much sugar.”
“It’s Christmas,” Lucy says. “She’ll be fine.”
“She’ll be bouncing off the walls.”
“Good for her,” Lucy says. “Kids should bounce.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “We’re not doing a sugar workshop.”
“Yes, we are.”
“No, we’re—”
She sets her binder on the table and looks directly at me.
“Lieutenant Calder,” she says sweetly, “are you planning to fight me on every single idea I bring to this committee?”
Every pair of eyes turn to me. Her tone is pure sugar. Her expression pure challenge.
She’s daring me to say no. Daring me to push back. She has no idea how dangerous that is.
“Yes,” I say simply. “If they’re unsafe.”
Her lips part. “Joy is not unsafe.”
“With you?” The words slip out before I can stop them. Again.
The committee sucks in a collective gasp. Lucy’s cheeks go pink. She presses her hand against her binder like she needs something to hold on to.
Then she smiles. Slow. Dangerous.
“Well then,” she says, “I suppose you’ll be seeing a lot of me.”
My pulse spikes.
“I suppose I will,” I answer, my voice lower than it should be.
One woman whispers, “Dear Lord,” under her breath.
I don’t look at her. I don’t look at anyone.
I only look at Lucy.
And the way she’s looking at me.
Like she feels something too. Like she’s curious. Drawn. Maybe even a little shaken.
She clears her throat and faces the room again.
“That’s it for today,” she announces. “Thank you all for coming!”
Chairs scrape. People stand. The committee dissolves into small conversations. Lucy starts packing her binder, her movements neat but rushed. I push to my feet. I shouldn’t talk to her. I shouldn’t go near her.
But I do.
I walk straight toward her.
She pretends not to notice until I’m close enough that she can feel my shadow stretch across her table.
She looks up—wide eyes, pink cheeks, breath catching.
“Lieutenant Calder,” she says, a little too quickly.
“Lucy.”
Her spine straightens. “Miss Snow.”
I huff a laugh. “Right.”
She shoves her papers into her bag. “Was there something you needed?”
I study her.
The nervous fingers. The way she avoids my gaze. The heat between us, humming like a live wire. I don’t touch her. I don’t step closer. But I lower my voice so only she can hear.
“You can throw all the glitter you want, Sparky. Just don’t expect me to stop calling out hazards.”
Her eyes flare. “You’re impossible.”
“And you,” I murmur, “are reckless.”
Her breath stutters.
“And distracting,” I add before I can think better of it.
She swallows. Hard. “Stop calling me that.”
“What? Distracting?”
She glares. “Yes.”
“No.”
“No?” she echoes.
I lean in slightly—close enough to see the flecks of gold in her eyes. “Not when you keep proving me right.”
Her lips part like she’s about to say something sharp.
Instead she whispers, “I don’t know what to do with you.”
“Good,” I say. “Try not to figure it out.”
“Why?”
“Because you won’t like the answer.”
We stare at each other. Heat rising. Air tightening. Something dangerous pushing at the walls between us.
Someone coughs loudly nearby, jolting us apart.
Lucy steps back like she needs air.
I step back too—but only because I have to.
She grabs her bag. “See you at the next meeting.”
“Count on it,” I say, voice rough.
She turns. Takes three steps toward the door. Looks back over her shoulder. And gives me a smile that hits like a spark straight to the chest. Then she walks out, boots crunching in the snow-covered hallway, disappearing around the corner. I exhale slowly, gripping the back of the chair.
Christ.
I’m in trouble.
Deep, glitter-covered, irresistible trouble.
And her name is Lucy Snow.
Chapter Three
Lucy
The town Christmas tree looks like it’s swallowed half the season’s budget and the soul of every Hallmark movie ever made. It towers over the town square—fifty feet of pine bristling with potential.
Potential for magic. Potential for joy. Potential for falling to my death.
“Hold the ladder steady!” I shout down to Mrs. Garland, who at eighty-two has the enthusiasm of a parade float and the upper-body strength of a warm noodle.
“It’s steady, dear!” she calls back, even though the ladder wobbles like a drunk reindeer.
I climb anyway.
Because someone has to attach the final star-shaped garland to the top boughs, and that someone—apparently—is me. My mittens are dusted with snow, my boots slipping on each rung, but I refuse to be deterred.
This is going to be beautiful. This is going to sparkle. This is—
“Absolutely not.”
The voice hits me like a gust of cold air and strong judgment.
Ash Calder. My neighbor-from-Hell and resident firefighter grump. Of course.
I whip my head down, and there he is—standing at the base of the tree, boots planted in the snow, arms crossed, jaw tight, and eyes locked on me like I’m currently violating every known safety protocol. Which, okay, maybe I am.
But still.
“Ash,” I call down, “unless you’re here to help, you can take your grumpy commentary back to whatever fire-glorified cave you crawled out of.”