Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
EMBER
Drake’s truck looms like a beast at the curb, all black steel and chrome. Of course he drives something this tall. Men like him don’t do sensible hatchbacks; they drive vehicles you need a ladder to climb into.
Which is exactly my problem.
I stand there, padded pumpkin belly puffing out, one crutch wedged under my arm, the other slipping on the asphalt. My thighs swish in my orange tights every time I shift. There is no universe where this ends gracefully.
Drake opens the passenger door for me, a satisfied grin etched across his smudged green face under the streetlight.
I stare at the seat and lift my leg, but it’s too high for my five-foot-four frame. “Do you have a stepladder in the back by any chance?”
“Need a hand, pumpkin?” He offers me a hand, but I bat it away.
“I’ve got this.” I attempt to hoist myself up, foot slipping, crutch clattering against the side panel. My padded middle wedges against the seat like an inflatable life raft. The harder I wriggle, the louder Drake chuckles.
“Stop laughing,” I grumble, half suffocated by polyester stuffing.
“I’m not laughing,” he lies, stepping in close. His large hands wrap around my waist and, with humiliating ease, he lifts me as if I weigh nothing and deposits me in the passenger seat.
My breath hitches. His does too, just for a second. Then he clears his throat and reaches across me.
“Seatbelt.”
“I can do it,” I snap, tugging at the strap. Only the stupid costume padding blocks my arms, and the buckle might as well be in another zip code, buried under orange polyester.
His fingers brush mine as he clicks it into place with one smooth motion. “There. Safe and secure, pumpkin.”
Mortification burns through me. “Great. Next you’ll be handing me a juice box.”
He grins, close enough that I catch the mix of soap on his skin. “Only if you’re a good girl.”
I glare, cheeks flaming. “This suit is the problem. I should’ve just taken it off.”
His gaze drops, slow and hot. “What’s underneath?”
“Don’t you dare.” My voice squeaks. “Just tights and a top.”
His grin spreads, wicked. “I’ve seen worse. Your—what was it? That pink pyjama short set with flying cartoon cats all over it?”
My stomach lurches. “You saw that?”
“Hard to forget a woman ranting about calendars, sparks, and October, wearing cat shorts.”
“Oh, no.” I drop my face into my hands.
He chuckles, the deep sound vibrating through me. “Relax, pumpkin. I thought it was cute.”
“Cute,” I mutter, sinking lower into the seat. “Just what every woman wants to hear.”
“What’s wrong with cute?” he says, starting the engine, his smile softening.
“I’m not a child.” I chew on the inside of my cheek as I watch him drive, the inked dragon tail peeking out from under his costume and curling around his wrist.
“You just wear kids’ pyjamas?” He chuckles. “What was it? Flying unicorns or were they cats?”
I’m grateful for the darkness in the cab because my cheeks are blazing hotter than the heater vents.
“You don’t need to be embarrassed. Cute makes me want to take care of you.”
I clear my throat, desperate to steer us somewhere safer. “So… do all firefighters moonlight as face-paint models, or was I just lucky tonight?”
He chuckles. “Depends. Usually I only volunteer for rescues. Burning buildings. Stranded kittens. Teachers dressed as vegetables.”
“Vegetable?” I splutter. “Pumpkins are technically classed as a fruit because they develop from the flower of the plant.”
His smirk widens. “See? You’re already teaching me something.”
I shake my head, hiding my smile. “Do you always flirt like this?”
He glances at me, blue eyes glinting under the passing streetlight. “Only with women dressed as snacks.”
My stomach flips, and I scramble for a distraction. “So, how’s Sienna settling in?”
Instantly his expression softens, pride warming his voice. “She loves your class. Talks about you all the time. Says you’re the prettiest teacher she’s ever had.”
My throat tightens. I force a laugh. “She’s six. Her opinion doesn’t count.”
“Counts to me. And I happen to agree with her.”
“What happened to her mom?” I blurt, but there was nothing on file, and before I let this flirting continue, I need to know why they separated. I need to protect my heart.
“Car accident.”
I bring my hand to my mouth with a gasp. “Drake, I’m so sorry. I had no idea. I thought you’d left her back in the UK or something.”
“I did. She’s buried in my hometown, next to my parents.”
“Drake, I… I don’t know what to say. When?”
“Eighteen months ago now.” His smile no longer reaches his eyes, now sad with unshed tears. His blue irises as deep as the ocean. “This move has been good for both of us. A fresh start.” He lets out a sigh. “I’m tired of grieving, Em.”
The way he calls me Em sounds so endearing. The name my brother calls me and a name my parents used. I reach out and place my hand on his knee.
He places his large warm palm over mine and threads his thick fingers through mine, then brings my hand to his lips. “It’s time for me to live again.”
He turns onto my street. Last year’s Christmas lights hang from the roof of my bungalow, where I yanked them a few weeks ago.
Silence swells between us, filling up the truck. I fiddle with the stalk on my pumpkin hat, wishing my heart would stop thudding.
Drake pulls up on the sidewalk next to my front lawn and clears his throat. “Someone should sort out your lights. That’s a hazard, and with you, an accident waiting to happen.”
“Flint said he’d sort it out. But with organising the fundraiser, I think he forgot.”
“He’s been doing overtime at the station.
You know what it’s like this time of year with candles and…
” He gives me a warm smile. “And pumpkins.” His gaze wanders over the padding bunched around my waist, my thick orange-clad thighs on full display.
“I’ll sort it. Do you still have a ladder? I’ll do it now.”
“Don’t you have to get back for Sienna?”
“Nah, she’s staying at her grandparents tonight. You know May and Howard?”
“I know of them but don’t know them personally.”
“They’re the closest thing I have to family now. Apart from Phoenix. He’s like a brother to me. We grew up together back in England.”
Something about the way he talks about his family knocks me sideways. He’s not just smoke and swagger. He’s real. With a past as tragic as my own. More tragic even.
“You’re not what I expected,” I blurt.
“Oh?” He quirks a brow. “What’d you expect?”
“Someone cocky. Firefighter calendar type.”
His grin returns. “I can pose on a ladder if it’ll help.”
I roll my eyes, laughing despite myself. “You’re impossible.”
“And you,” he says softly, “are trouble. But the good kind.” He climbs out of the truck, then corners the vehicle to open my passenger door like a gentleman. “Let’s get your place secure. I can’t have any more mishaps on my watch, Miss Sparks.”