Chapter 4
Chapter Four
ASHER
Iwake up thinking about paint-covered hands and gentle eyes.
The fire station smells of coffee and diesel fumes this morning.
Perfect. At least here, everything makes sense.
Equipment checks, inventory lists, maintenance schedules—none of it requires emotional vulnerability or wondering what in the world I’m doing with a woman who brings sunshine to paint disasters.
“Morning, sunshine,” my partner calls from across the bay. “You look terrible.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, checking the pressure gauge on Engine 12 for the third time. This is safer territory. Fire hoses don’t require me to examine my feelings or worry about whether I said too much last night.
My phone buzzes.
Mom: How’s Dean this morning?
Right. Reality check. Dean’s laid up, which means I’m not just filling in for Santa duty—I’m replacing a fifteen-year Christmas legend. No pressure at all.
I drive to Dean’s house, trying not to think about how Mads smiled when I finally shut up and kissed her. Trying not to remember how she felt in my arms, perfect and trusting and dangerous to my peace of mind.
Dean’s sitting in his recliner, looking about as miserable as a guy can look in flannel pajamas.
“How you feeling, Chief?”
“Worse than I’ve ever felt in my life.” He winces as he reaches for his coffee. “But never mind me. We need to talk about Santa duty.”
My stomach drops. “About that—”
“Don’t even think about backing out, Lennox.
This town’s been counting on Christmas magic for fifteen years.
I made it look easy, but it’s not.” He fixes me with that stare that made rookie firefighters wet themselves.
“Kids have been writing letters since Halloween. Six-year-old Ellen Cooper specifically asked for the ‘nice firefighter Santa’ this year.”
“I’m not exactly the nice—”
“You will be for Christmas.” He leans forward, serious as a heart attack. “Asher, those kids believe in magic because we make them believe. You screw this up, you’re not just disappointing children—you’re destroying their parents’ faith too.”
Great. Just what I needed—more pressure to be something I’m not.
When I get back to the station, Ellen Cooper’s waiting for me, perched on the front bumper of Engine 12 as if she owns the place.
“You’re too grumpy,” she announces before I can say hello.
“Good morning to you too, Ellen. Shouldn’t you be with an adult?”
“My mom’s over there.” She points toward the front. “If you’re gonna be Santa, you need to be less grumpy and more twinkly.”
“Twinkly?”
“You know. When your eyes get happy. Mads has twinkly eyes. Yours are just... grouchy.”
Out of the mouths of babes.
“I’ll work on the twinkly thing,” I tell her, which makes her giggle.
“Good. Because Christmas is in three weeks, and you need lots of practice.”
Three weeks. To learn fifteen years’ worth of Dean’s Santa expertise. To figure out how to be magical instead of grumpy. To not disappoint every kid on this island.
To not disappoint her.
My phone buzzes again. This time it’s a picture from Mads—coffee cups at Twin Waves Brewery with the message: Thought you might need caffeine after last night’s paint emergency.
And there it is. That feeling in my chest when someone’s squeezing my heart and expanding it at the same time. She’s thinking about me. About what I might need.
When’s the last time someone did that?
I’m typing a response when the station alarm goes off.
Hazel comes in and grabs Ellen before leaving.
The emergency turns out to be a false alarm at the elementary school, but by the time we get back, I’ve convinced myself that texting about feelings is exactly the kind of emotional minefield I should avoid.
Better stick to what I know. Equipment maintenance. Things that don’t require examining why a woman with paint in her hair makes me want to be a better man.
Michelle’s coffee tastes bitter this morning. Perfect match for my mood.
I’m sitting in Twin Waves Brewing, trying to review Santa notes Dean gave me and failing to concentrate because all I can think about is how Mads’ mouth tasted of peppermint and possibility last night. How she looked at me as if I were worth keeping.
Then some guy walks in as if he owns the place, and every instinct I’ve got immediately goes to high alert.
“Hi, Michelle,” he says, voice carrying that particular brand of city superiority that sets my teeth on edge. “I’m looking for Mads.”
My coffee suddenly tastes of ash. This has to be Spencer. The ex-boyfriend who convinced her she was too much. Who made her think her sunshine personality was something to apologize for.
“I have no idea where she is.” Michelle’s tone’s gone arctic. Interesting. Apparently Spencer made an impression during his time here, and not a good one.
“She wasn’t at the boutique?” Penelope Waters asks. “I saw her there this morning.”
“Nope. Just some high school kid.” He flashes a smile that probably works on most people but lands flat in this room. “I’m hoping to surprise her.”
Yeah, I bet you are.
“She’s probably on her lunch break.” Penelope turns and squints at the boutique across the street. She turns back to Spencer, a big smile on her face. “There she is now, getting out of her car. I do hope the two of you work it out again.” Her voice is syrupy sweet.
I watch him leave through the window, then drain my coffee and follow. Not because I’m territorial or possessive or anything. Just because a good firefighter checks for potential hazards.
At least that’s what I tell myself as I position myself across the street from Hensley’s Beach Shack, pretending to inspect Christmas decorations while really watching this jerk walk into Mads’ life as if he has any right to be there.
Through the boutique window, I can see her face when she realizes who it is. The way her smile falters. How she takes a step back, creating distance.
Smart girl.
But then Spencer starts talking, hands moving in that animated way people use when they’re trying to convince someone of something. And I watch her posture change. See her defenses wavering.
He’s offering her something. Something familiar and safe and uncomplicated.
Something I can’t provide.
Look at the facts: Spencer’s successful, polished, probably makes good money at whatever he does in his expensive suit. He knows her history, her family, her fears. He offers predictability.
I offer what? Christmas chaos and a grumpy firefighter who’s terrified of disappointing people? A guy who clams up when things get emotional and has never successfully maintained a relationship longer than six months?
She deserves better than my emotional walls and professional deflection. She deserves someone who can give her the easy love Spencer probably promised. Someone who won’t make her work so hard just to get basic affection.
My phone buzzes.
Hazel: This is Ellen. Grandma says you’re supposed to practice your ho-ho-ho today. But not the grumpy kind.
Right. Santa duty. Community expectations. Three weeks to figure out how to be magical.
I pocket the phone and walk away from the boutique. Whatever conversation’s happening in there, Mads needs to have it without me lurking across the street.
Besides, I’ve got bigger problems than relationship drama. Learning how to convince a bunch of kids that a grumpy firefighter can deliver Christmas magic.
Mother Nature decides our Christmas planning needs a meteorological disaster soundtrack.
The wind’s howling, and we’re out here trying to set up festival booths that keep threatening to become airborne. Snow’s coming down sideways, and the temperature’s dropping fast enough to freeze exposed skin in minutes.
This is what I’m good at—emergency response, practical problems, things with clear solutions.
“We need to secure those decorations before they end up in the next county,” I shout over the wind, grabbing rope from the supply truck.
“But they’re so pretty!” Mads calls back, trying to save a string of lights that’s whipping around. “Maybe if we just—“
“Pretty doesn’t matter if they kill someone when they go flying!” I snap, frustration bleeding through. We’ve been at this for three hours, and every task takes twice as long as it should because she keeps trying to save decorations instead of focusing on safety.
Her face falls, and immediately I know I’ve been too harsh. But before I can apologize, the wind picks up again and a whole section of booth framework starts to topple.
Crisis mode kicks in. I’m moving, shouting orders, getting people clear of the danger zone. This is firefighter territory—assess, prioritize, execute. No time for hurt feelings or gentle explanations.
“Everyone back! Move away from the structures!”
But Mads isn’t listening. She’s still trying to save Christmas decorations as if they’re more important than basic safety protocols.
“Mads! Get away from there!”
“I can save the lights! Give me two more seconds!”
“Two seconds is how long it takes for that booth to crush you!”
I grab her arm, pulling her away from the failing structure just as it collapses exactly where she was standing. The lights she was trying to save get buried under a pile of wood and metal.
“Are you insane?” The words come out harder than I intend, but adrenaline and fear make everything sharp. “You could have been killed!”
“I was fine! I had it under control!”
“Under control?” I stare at her, disbelieving. “You were standing under a structure that was clearly failing, trying to save Christmas lights!”
“Because they matter! Because this festival matters to people!”
“Not more than your life!”
We’re both soaked, both shouting, both reverting to our worst selves under pressure. Her sunshine optimism clashing head-on with my pessimistic crisis management.
“This is exactly what I’m talking about,” I continue, the stress of the past week boiling over. “You don’t think about consequences. You just see what you want and assume everything will work out fine.”