Total pages in book: 31
Estimated words: 32231 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 161(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 107(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32231 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 161(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 107(@300wpm)
The crowd goes nuts.
Whistling.
Applause.
A distant, “Get it, Walker!”
Clay slows it down, easing off like this is his pace, not mine. He nips my bottom lip once—once, hard enough to make me gasp—and then pulls back, breathing steady, eyes not.
He stares at me.
I know I look wrecked.
I can feel my lipstick smeared and my pupils blown and my body begging for more.
His hand slides from my jaw to the back of my neck, squeezing, drawing me in an inch. He puts his mouth next to my ear, voice a dark scrape.
“You wanted real,” he says. “Don’t tempt me next time.”
Heat floods every inch of me.
I can’t speak.
I can only nod like a fool.
He straightens, turns us back to the crowd like nothing happened, like he didn’t just immolate me in front of the entire town. He smiles—a real one this time—and I seriously wonder if anyone else in here notices the way his fingers flexed on my neck like he didn’t want to let go.
They don’t.
They see fireworks.
I see gasoline.
Back at my rental, I pace.
I stomp, really.
My coat’s on a chair. My boots are tossed. My heart is still lodged in that kiss in front of the fundraising tree.
Clay’s in my kitchen, because of course he is. I told him to come in, that we needed to talk, that he couldn’t just do that and leave.
He did not argue.
He just followed, shut the door, and now stands there leaned against my counter like some off-duty sin, arms crossed, watching me storm up and down my tiny living room.
“Say it,” he says finally.
I whirl. “You can’t do that.”
He lifts a brow. “Do what.”
“Kiss me like you mean it.”
He doesn’t move. “You asked.”
“I asked you to pretend.”
“That didn’t look fake to them.”
“It didn’t feel fake to me.”
That slips out hotter than I want. His eyes darken at once.
“Yeah,” he says slowly. “I noticed.”
My face flames. “You can’t just—just—lick my soul in front of the town and then act like it’s business!”
His mouth twitches. “That what I did?”
“Yes!”
“What’d it taste like?”
“Clay!”
He pushes off the counter, slow, big, like a predator leaving a shadow. “Firecracker,” he says, voice dropping, “you wanted this to work. I made it work.”
“You made it—” I fling a hand through the air, words tripping out of me. “You made it confusing!”
“Confusing?” He stalks closer. My breath stutters. “Thought I was being pretty clear.”
“You’re not.”
“You wanted a real couple. You wanted Copper Mountain to buy it. They bought it.”
“But I bought it, too!” I say, because apparently tonight is the night I rip my own heart out bare-handed. “I bought it, Clay. I…felt it.”
He stops two feet from me.
Looks down.
Big. Unyielding.
“You weren’t supposed to,” he says, softer, almost regretful. “That wasn’t part of the deal.”
I let out a hollow laugh. “Oh my God. Of course you’d say that.”
“What.”
“That human emotion wasn’t part of your precious deal.”
“It complicates things.”
“People complicate things. I complicate things. Newsflash, firefighter—this was always gonna get messy.”
“That’s why I set rules.”
“And that kiss set them on fire.”
He jaw ticks. “I told you not to tempt me.”
“I didn’t—”
“You did.”
“You know what?” I shake my head hard. “You’re just looking for a reason to pull back.”
His eyes flash. “No.”
“Yes. I see it now. You want the illusion, not the real thing. You want to play husband but not be one.”
His stare goes flint. “This was your idea.”
“Because I had to. Because my life was on fire. Because I needed the money and the town was watching and you were the one they handed me.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You’re a coward.”
Silence slams down between us. Thick. Sharp.
His eyes go cold.
“Say that again,” he says, voice low.
“Coward,” I bite out, chest heaving. “You can run into burning buildings, but God forbid you feel something.”
He moves.
Fast.
Grabs my wrist, not hard, just firm enough to stop me pacing circles around him. Pulls me in until my body brushes his. His jaw is tight, eyes furious, mouth inches from mine.
“You don’t know a damn thing about what I feel,” he grinds.
“I know you kissed me like you almost let go.”
He doesn’t deny it.
He just looks angry that I saw it.
“That’s not what this is,” he says.
“What is this, then?”
“A favor.”
“We’re way past favors.”
“A cover, then.”
“For who?” I shove his chest, heat rising. “Me? Or you?”
His nostrils flare.
I keep going, reckless. “Because I’m starting to think this whole ‘let’s pretend to be engaged’ thing is as much for you as it is for me.”
“How do you figure?”
“You get to do the whole hero thing—fix me, protect me, play house—without risking anything. Without letting me in.”
“Ember—”
“No.” I jab a finger at his chest. “You like me, Clay. You want me. You want to kiss me again. You want—” heat creeps up my neck “—you want me. But instead of admitting it, you’re hiding behind town gossip and insurance forms.”
His jaw is clenched so hard now I can see it jump.