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)
He studies me for a long, quiet beat. Smoke still billows behind him. His profile is carved hard and dark against the flames.
“Could’ve fooled me,” he mutters finally, but there’s no bite in it.
Then he walks away.
I watch him go.
Even through the gear, he moves like he knows exactly what his body can do. Like any emergency is just another problem his muscles can solve. Broad back. Powerful legs. The kind of man the town whispers about.
I stand in front of the smoking corpse of my dream wearing a firefighter’s coat, smelling like ash, heart pounding from adrenaline and anger and… something else.
Something warm.
Something dangerous.
Something that started the second he said, not a chance, and refused to let me go.
Chapter Two
Clay
Sirens are loud.
Gossip is louder.
By the time I finish the incident report the next day, file the preliminary cause notes, and lecture my guys about ground-fault breakers, Copper Mountain already has us married. Her. Ember. She’s been on my mind since the moment I carried her out of the smoke.
I know it the second Ramirez comes back from coffee with that look.
He leans against the office door, sipping like he’s settling in for a show. “So, Cap. Anything you wanna tell us?”
I don’t look up from the tablet. “About what.”
“The artist.”
I stop typing.
Look up slow.
“Try that again,” I say.
He grins like a punk. “The engagement. You and the clay girl. Fire-forged lovers. ‘He carried her from the flames and straight into forever.’” He actually clasps his hands like he’s swooning. “Town is eating it up, man.”
I stare.
“I didn’t say that,” I grind out.
“You didn’t have to,” he says. “Ivy and Ruby were at the station earlier to drop off cookies. Said Tina at the Gazette called to confirm, mentioned you got down on one knee in the snow. Said she heard it from Lottie at the insurance desk, who heard it from Indie—”
I hold up a hand. “Ramirez.”
He snaps his mouth shut.
I push back from the desk, muscles tight from no sleep and too much smoke. I rinse the taste of ash from my mouth with lukewarm coffee and grab my jacket.
“Where are you going?” he asks.
“To put out a worse fire,” I mutter, and head for the door.
Because I know exactly how this happened.
She did it.
The barefoot chaos goblin with paint on her arms and tears in her eyes who tried to run into a fully involved structure.
Ember Quinn.
Pretty name. Stupid choices.
I climb into the truck and gun it for my rental cabin. I pull up in front of the cabin five minutes later and kill the engine. It’s late afternoon, snowmelt dripping off the eaves, sun low and gold. There’s a blanket tacked up as a curtain and a potted plant already on the porch. Less than 24 hours and she’s nesting.
Of course.
I stomp up the steps and knock once.
No answer.
I hear music, though. Some indie-folk-hippie shit with wind chimes and a banjo.
I knock again, harder. “Ember.”
Footsteps.
The door cracks.
Brown eyes, wide. Messy bun. She’s in leggings and an oversized sweatshirt that says Kiln It across the chest in glitter. There’s a smudge of clay on her jaw.
And she smiles.
Then she sees my face.
“Oh,” she says, smile fading. “You look…fun.”
“Cute,” I say flatly. “We need to talk.”
She opens the door wider and waves me in like this is normal. The place smells like coffee, vanilla, and something floral. Her duffel lies open on the couch, shoes everywhere, sketchbooks stacked on the coffee table like survivors.
“Sorry it’s a mess,” she says, kicking a paintbrush under the couch. “It’s been a day.”
“It’s about to get worse,” I tell her.
She turns, hands on hips. “Did the studio spontaneously un-burn itself?”
I level her a look. “Why is the Copper Mountain Gazette calling me your fiancé?”
Her mouth opens.
Closes.
She winces.
“Okay,” she says slowly, walking backward like she can make space with charm. “So, funny story.”
“It’s not funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
“Ember.”
“Okay, okay.” She plants her palms toward me, surrender. “So I went to file the insurance claim—”
“Today?”
“Yes. First thing this morning.”
“Saw the kitchen light on from my place late last night–did you even sleep?”
She shrugs. “Couldn’t. Kept smelling smoke. And I wanted to document everything while it was still in my head. I brought pictures, estimates, lists—”
“Good.” I nod once. “That helps.”
“—and then I met Lottie—”
I close my eyes. “Jesus.”
Lottie is seventy, nosy, and runs the front desk like it’s a gossip ministry.
“She saw the incident report. She saw your name. And in the little emergency contact section on the intake, it had you listed as fiancé.” Ember winces. “Which was obviously wrong.”
“Obviously,” I deadpan. “Since we’ve never been on a date.”
“You’ve never even bought me dinner,” she agrees, tone wounded.
“You were on fire,” I remind her.
“You can still buy dinner after,” she says. “Rude.”
My jaw flexes. “So why didn’t you correct it?”
“I was going to!” she says, marching toward me. “But then Tina walked in and started talking about doing a feature on ‘love in the line of fire,’ and Lottie was like ‘Oh my gosh, yes, she was so brave and he carried her,’ and they were both looking at me with hearts in their eyes and I—” She breaks off, hands flailing. “It just…came out.”