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)
“Fine,” I say.
Her head snaps up. “Fine?”
“Fine. We fake it.”
Her whole face lights.
I hold up a finger. “But. There are rules.”
Her smile turns sly. “Ooo. Bossy fiancé.”
“Rule one,” I say, ignoring that. “No touching.”
She snorts. “That’ll make it believable.”
“We can hug,” I allow, jaw tight. “In public. Quick. Like normal people.”
Her eyes sparkle. “I do nothing quick.”
“I noticed,” I say, voice dipping.
Her pupils flare.
Shit.
“Rule two,” I say roughly. “No kissing.”
She actually pouts. “What if the town demands it?”
“This town demanded a kissing booth for the Fourth of July parade,” I say. “They can live without.”
She grins. “You jealous?”
I glare. “Rule three. No trouble.”
She laughs. “Clay. Sweetheart. Baby. Mountain caveman. That’s not a realistic rule for me.”
“It’s the only way I’m doing this.”
She considers. “Define trouble.”
“No press you don’t clear with me. No social posts without telling me. No dragging me to weird events where everybody’s drunk and asking when we’re having babies.”
She blinks. “So…you’re saying I can drag you to events. Just not weird ones.”
I rub my temples. “You’re gonna do whatever you want anyway.”
“Correct.”
We stare at each other. She’s winning and she knows it.
I let out a long breath through my nose. “I’ll tell the guys at the station we’re…seeing each other.”
Her lips twitch. “And I’ll tell Tina we’re doing an interview.”
I narrow my eyes. “No.”
“Clay.”
“No interviews.”
“But the town–and the insurance guy–will believe it more—”
“No.”
She sighs dramatically. “You are no fun.”
“I’m doing this, aren’t I?”
She bites her lip, looking me over in a way that should not make me feel ten feet tall. “Yeah. You are.”
Silence drops.
The air shifts.
She’s close again. The sweatshirt slides off one shoulder, revealing a strap and a hint of tattoo—something floral, maybe, inked along her collarbone. I want to trace it with my tongue.
I don’t move.
She does.
She steps in, up on her toes, like she’s gonna test me. “So. Fireman fiancé,” she murmurs. “You gonna pick me up for the charity bonfire tonight like a good fake partner?”
My jaw flexes. “I have a shift.”
“You’re off at six.”
Damn it. “You checked.”
“I asked,” she says, all innocence. “Everyone loves to talk about you.”
“Wonderful.”
She grins, wicked. “They said you were hot and cranky and never dated anyone here, so I figured—”
“You figured I needed a mail-order artist to fix me?” I cut in.
“You figured right.” She taps my chest with one finger. “Also, maybe the fire burned up my ride and I could use one.”
“You have friends.”
“You’re my favorite friend,” she says brightly. “My fian-friend.”
I stare at her mouth.
“Don’t,” I warn.
“Don’t what,” she whispers.
“Don’t make up words like that.”
“Fian-friend,” she repeats, slower, more obnoxious.
I grab her wrist.
Her mouth pops open in a sweet little O.
I lean in, real close, let her feel the heat she keeps teasing.
“We’re not engaged,” I say, voice rough. “We’re not dating. We’re not anything.”
Her breath hitches. “Then why,” she whispers back, “do you look at me like you want to peel me out of this sweatshirt?”
Because I fucking do.
My hand tightens on her wrist for one second. I make myself let go.
“Because I’m human,” I say, stepping back. “Not dead.”
Her eyes darken. “And I’m your fake fiancée.”
“Exactly.”
She tilts her head, smile slow, dangerous. “Then act like it.”
Before I can ask what she means, she lifts onto her toes and presses her mouth to my cheek.
Soft.
Warm.
Vanilla.
I go statue-still.
It’s not a kiss, not really. But it’s enough to make every muscle in my body fire.
She pulls back, eyes triumphant. “Public display of affection,” she says. “In case Mrs. Vance is still watching.”
I glance out the window.
Mrs. Vance is, in fact, still watching.
Of course she is.
I exhale hard. “You’re gonna make this hell.”
She beams. “You already started a fire, Fireman. Too late for that.”
I shake my head, turn toward the door before I forget the rules I just made. “Six,” I say. “Be ready.”
“Define ready.”
“Clothes,” I say over my shoulder. “Shoes. Don’t smell like paint.”
“Rude,” she mutters. “Paint is my scent.”
I pause in the doorway. “Ember.”
She looks up.
“It wasn’t your fault,” I tell her again, because I saw the way she looked at the ashes.
Her throat moves. “Say it again later,” she says quietly. “So I believe you.”
I meet her eyes.
“I will.”
I step out onto the porch, nod once to Mrs. Vance, and head back to the truck.
By the time I pull out, I can already imagine the rest of the day.
Station: I get razzed. Gazette: front-page bullshit. Bonfire: small town spectacle.
And standing in the middle of it—barefoot, wild-haired, smelling like clay and smoke—will be the woman who roped me into pretending I’m hers.
The problem is, every time I look at her?
Pretending feels less like a lie.
And more like a test I’m about to fail.
Chapter Three
Ember
By noon the next day, I can’t buy coffee without someone congratulating me on my “hero fiancé.”
I push open the bell-clanging door at Sugar & Sage, still wearing Clay’s navy jacket that I found in his rental. The warm air smells like cinnamon and butter and triumph.