Chapter 4
FOUR
BECKETT
The bench seat in Tom Martin’s old pickup creaks every time Willa takes a corner.
I still don’t know why I let her talk me into this.
“Where are we going?” I ask for the third time, bracing one arm against the door.
“I already told you.” She grins, eyes fixed on the road. “It’s a field trip.”
“That’s not much of an answer.”
“It’s all you’re getting.” She downshifts smoothly, clearly at home behind the wheel. “You’re the safety guy, remember? Always preaching about being prepared. Consider this practice in flexibility.”
I grunt. “I don’t like surprises.”
“You’ll like this one.” Her ponytail swings when she glances at me, mischief dancing in her eyes.
I’m about to press again when she makes a final turn, gravel crunching under the tires. The truck rolls to a stop, and I look out the window and freeze.
The Maple Ridge Fall Festival spreads in front of us, strung with orange lights, booths lined along the square, the smell of cider and cinnamon rolling on the cool air. Families. Kids. Laughter.
I haven’t come here for anything but inspections in years. Haven’t let myself.
Willa kills the engine, tosses me a triumphant look. “Surprise.”
“The… festival,” I gape. “This is your fact-finding field trip?”
“Where else?” Her smile widens. “You’ve been supervising booths for years. Checking permits. Shutting down rogue extension cords. But when’s the last time you actually enjoyed it?”
I grunt. “Enjoy isn’t part of my job description.”
“Exactly. Which is why I’m making it part of mine.” She waves toward the door. “Come on. Don’t make me drag you.”
And damn if the mental image of her trying to drag me anywhere doesn’t short-circuit my brain. I clear my throat. “This is ridiculous.”
“This,” she counters, “is non-negotiable.”
So ten minutes later, I’m walking through the festival beside her.
The smell of cinnamon, woodsmoke, and fried dough fills the air. Booths line the sidewalks, strung with orange lights and garlands of paper leaves. Music floats from the square—fiddles, banjos, voices raised in a song everyone but me seems to know.
Kids dart past with caramel apples in hand, their parents chasing behind with harried laughter.
I should feel twitchy, out of place without my badge clipped to my belt and my eyes scanning for fire hazards. Instead, I feel… lighter.
Like maybe this night isn’t a risk so much as a reprieve.
Willa presses a frosty cup into my hand.”What’s this?”
“Sip. Smile. Repeat.”
I arch a brow. “Bossy.”
She beams, eyes sparkling under the string lights. “You like it.”
Maybe I do. I take a sip—cold, sweet, sharper than expected—and nearly groan. She catches the sound and grins like she’s won something.
“See?” she says. “Not all rules are bad. Rule number one of the festival: you have to let yourself like something.”
I huff out a laugh, surprised by how easily it comes. “What’s rule number two?”
“Don’t make fun of how long it takes me to get through the maze. It’s harder than it looks.”
“Noted.”
We wander past rows of booths, pausing to sample pumpkin fudge at a sweets stand. She smears chocolate on her knuckle, and before I think better of it, I catch her wrist and swipe it away with my thumb. Her breath hitches. My chest tightens.
She shakes it off fast, tugging me toward the game stalls. “I bet you were terrible at ring toss.”
“Wrong.” I pick up three rings, flick them smooth and controlled. All three land, dead center.
She gapes. “Show-off.”
“You started it.”
She tries, misses two, lands one, and squeals like she’s just taken first prize at the county fair. The sound hits me in the gut. I can’t stop myself from smiling. Big. Real. Unguarded. And I can’t remember the last time I smiled like that.
A group of kids swarm me then, wide-eyed. One boy tugs my sleeve. “Mr. Firefighter?”
Surprised to be recognized out of my uniform I nod and lower on my haunches. “You okay, son?”
He nods. “You showed us how to stop, drop, and roll last month. My sister still practices in the yard.”
“Is that so?” My ears heat under Willa’s appraising stare. “How about the rest of you?”
His friends join in, firing off questions about firetrucks, hoses, sirens. I answer what I can, cheeks burning hotter than any flame. When they finally scatter, sticky-handed and chattering, Willa steps close.
“You’re kind of a hero around here.”
I shake my head. “I’m just the guy who makes sure their marshmallows don’t ignite.”
“Uh-huh.” Her eyes twinkle, soft and mischievous all at once. “I like this side of you.”
Something in me loosens at that. She doesn’t say it like it’s a surprise or a joke. She says it like it’s a truth. And I realize I like this side of me too, when she’s looking at me like that.
We keep going—playing cornhole, splitting a funnel cake dusted with too much powdered sugar, listening to the bluegrass band while she claps along. I let myself laugh when she trips on the edge of the hay bale, and she laughs harder when I catch her around the waist to steady her.
By the time we reach the square, I’ve almost forgotten I came here against my will.
She sips the last of her cider slushie and tips her head, studying me. “Okay, Mr. Fire Marshal. Serious question.”
I brace automatically. “Shoot.”
“What is your favorite thing about fall?”
It should be simple. A dozen safe answers sit on the tip of my tongue—cooler nights, hunting season, the smell of woodsmoke.
Instead, the truth slips out is. “Caramel apples. And going on the Ferris wheel at the festival.”
Her mouth curves slow, wicked and sweet. “Then we have our next mission.”
Before I can argue, she ducks to a nearby booth, returning with a paper tray loaded with caramel apple nachos—slices drizzled in caramel and chocolate, topped with crushed nuts. She thrusts it into my hands, her grin triumphant.
“We’ll need it for the ride.”
“Ride?” I echo, already knowing where this is going.
She jerks her chin toward the glowing wheel on the edge of the square, its lights blinking against the dark sky. “We’re going on the Ferris wheel. Obviously.”
I don’t stand a chance of saying no.
The ferris wheel looms ahead, rim lit with white bulbs that blink against the night sky.
The air smells like fried dough and kettle corn, the music from the square fading as we step into the line.
Families chatter, couples lean into each other.
I shouldn’t be here. But with Willa’s shoulder brushing mine, I can’t think of one reason to leave.
She bounces slightly on her toes. “You don’t look excited.”
“I’m assessing the mechanics,” I deadpan, eyes on the metal arms, the operators checking safety bars.
She smirks. “You’re making it very hard to believe this is one of your favorite parts of fall.”
“It is.”
“Then act like it.”
Before I can reply, the attendant waves us forward. We climb into the seat, the safety bar clanking down. The bench sways, pulling her closer to my side. Her thigh presses against mine, warm through denim.
“You okay?” she asks, her grin teasing.
I arch a brow. “You worried about me?”
“Maybe.”
The ride lurches, gears groaning, and we rise above the square. Lights scatter below us—orange strings, glowing booths, the shimmer of the lake at the edge of town.
Willa sighs, soft and content. “See? Is there anything more beautiful?”
I glance at her instead of the view. She’s framed in the glow, hair catching the light, eyes wide with wonder. Nope. I’ve never seen anything more beautiful than her.
Halfway up in the air, she digs into the tray of caramel apple nachos she insisted on bringing. She offers me a slice. I shake my head.
“Suit yourself,” she says, popping one into her mouth. Caramel glistens on her lips. She licks at the corner, missing a spot.
Before I know what I’m doing, I reach over and brush my thumb across her mouth, wiping it away. Her breath stills. Mine does too.
My gaze drops to her lips.
Hers lowers to mine.
And then I lean in. She moves closer.
And I kiss her.
It’s soft at first, tentative, sweet with caramel and apple. She makes a sound—half sigh, half surprise—that undoes me completely. Her lips part, inviting me deeper, and I take it, sliding my hand along her jaw, tilting her face toward mine.
The world drops away—the creak of the wheel, the hum of the crowd, the dizzying height. None of it matters. There’s only her, warm and pliant, kissing me back like she’s been waiting for this as long as I have.
I break just enough to rasp, “Is this okay?”
Her eyes are dark, shining. “Yes.”
She fists the front of my shirt and pulls me back to her.
So I kiss her again, harder this time, until my lungs protest and my pulse feels like it’s on the outside of my skin. Her hand slides up my arm, gripping tight. She tastes like sugar and daring, and I know—without a single doubt—that this woman is dangerous in ways fire never was.
The Ferris wheel pauses at the very top, swaying gently. The town sprawls below, lights twinkling. But I don’t see it.
I only see her.
When her lips meet mine again, slow and sure, the rest of the world disappears.