Chapter 4 #2
By the time I get off the call with the insurance investigator—who, surprise, also heard the rumor and thinks it’s “so sweet”—I’m strung tight. The station’s quieting for the night. The guys are heading out. I only had to endure a few jibes from Chief.
I tell myself I’m heading home.
I do not, under any circumstances, tell myself I’m going to see her.
But the second I get in my truck, my hands turn the wheel toward that crappy little rental she’s in at the bottom of the mountain.
The porch light’s on.
Her old Subaru is out front, the one she swears will survive the apocalypse.
I kill the engine.
I sit.
I look at the mug in the cup holder. I’d brought it. Don’t know why. Maybe to prove something. Maybe to tell her to stop giving me things.
I grab it and get out.
fresh snow crunches under my boots. The air is cold enough to bite. Her porch smells like cinnamon and wet clay.
I knock.
“Door’s open!” she calls, voice muffled.
Of course it is.
I push in.
Her space is…Ember.
Throw blankets. Plants. A drying rack full of small greenware pieces. Fairy lights. A stupid little ceramic fox in the window with a scarf on.
She’s in the kitchen, back to me, hair down now, sweater falling off one shoulder, pajama shorts. Bare legs.
My jaw tightens.
“Hey, fake husband,” she says, not turning. “You’re just in time. I’m making chili.”
“You always leave your door unlocked?” I ask.
“Small town. People only break in to bring you soup.”
“Or kidnap you.”
She glances over her shoulder, eyes dancing. “You gonna kidnap me, Clay?”
“Don’t tempt me.”
I hold up the mug. “Brought this back.”
Her face falls. “What? No. You don’t like it?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then why are you returning my heart.”
“I’m not.”
She blinks.
I set it on the counter. “I used it.”
Her mouth parts. “You did?”
“Yeah.”
“You drank coffee out of it?”
“Yeah.”
“Like…a real fiancé?”
I give her a look. “You gotta stop saying that.”
“You gotta stop making it so plausible.”
She turns, hips bumping the counter, and leans there, eyeing me. “So what’s up? You here to yell at me about the article?”
“Yes.”
“Too late. Paper’s printed.”
“You made me sound—” I search for the word. “Soft.”
“You are soft,” she says instantly.
I pin her with a stare. “I am not.”
“You stayed.”
“You were crying on Main.”
“I cry pretty.”
“You cry loud.”
“You liked it.”
I huff a laugh, shake my head. “You’re impossible.”
“You like that too.”
I cross to her.
I don’t mean to.
But I do.
Her eyes flick up, half warning, half invite. “What are you doing?”
“Laying down some actual rules,” I tell her. “’Cause clearly mine didn’t get heard the first time.”
“Ohhh,” she says, eyes bright. “The firefighter’s gonna discipline me.”
I lift a brow. “You want that?”
She sucks in a breath, cheeks going warm. “Not answering that.”
“Thought so.”
I plant my hands on the counter on either side of her, caging her in. Not touching. Close. Her breath stutters, lips parting.
“Clay,” she whispers.
“Here’s how this works,” I say, voice rough. “You wanna play fiancée in public? Fine. You wanna make mugs and run that pretty mouth? Fine. But you don’t get to go around telling the whole goddamn town I’m some lovesick hero without understanding what that looks like.”
Her eyes search mine. “And what does it look like?”
“It looks like me showing up,” I growl. “It looks like me in your space. It looks like me making sure you’re okay. It looks like me carrying your shit and fixing your car and replacing your smoke alarms and standing next to you at every town event until this thing is over.”
Her pulse flutters at her throat. I see it. I track it.
“Sounds real,” she whispers.
“It’s fake.”
“Feels real.”
“That’s the problem,” I bite out.
We stare at each other. Tension spikes, electric and hot and stupid.
I look at her mouth.
She looks at mine.
I can smell her—spice and clay and woman.
“Clay,” she says again, softer. “You gonna kiss me or just mansplain the rules?”
I exhale, long. “If I kiss you,” I warn, “I won’t stop.”
Her eyes go molten. “And if I want you to not stop?”
My control snaps tight.
I don’t kiss her.
I do something worse.
I bend low, mouth to her ear, breath hot over her skin. I feel her shiver.
“You keep looking at me like that, firecracker,” I murmur, “and you’re gonna find out exactly how not fireproof you are.”
She whimpers.
I pull back before I do what I want to do—hoist her on that counter, tug those shorts down, finally taste that smart mouth.
I step away. Hard. Like I’m tearing myself off.
She stares at me, eyes wide, lips swollen from nothing.
“You’re evil,” she breathes.
“You started it,” I say, backing toward the door.
“Coward.”
“Smart.”
“Clay.”
“Ember.”
We hold each other’s gaze like a live wire.
Then I nod at the mug. “Keep making stuff like that,” I tell her. “You’re good.”
I walk out before I can wreck everything.
That night I lie in bed, arm over my eyes, replaying it.
The way she looked at me.
The way she swallowed when I told her not to.
The way her body arched, barely, when I spoke in her ear.
I imagine it again.
Again.
Again.
And I know, with a clarity that should piss me off:
This fake thing?
It’s getting real fast.