Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Ember
The problem with fake boyfriends is when they almost kiss you like that, it stops feeling fake.
My mind is still swirling with thoughts of him the next afternoon when I step out of my Subaru in front of the Copper Mountain Community Center and the December air knifes straight through my coat.
I know three things:
My hair is finally doing that big swoopy wave thing I saw on Pinterest.
My studio is still a pile of blackened heartbreak.
Clay Walker is waiting for me by the steps in a dark Henley that makes his shoulders look like a public safety hazard.
He shouldn’t look that good for a town fundraiser.
He looks like an apology and a bad decision.
“Firecracker,” he rumbles when I reach him, voice like smoke and late nights. “You’re late.”
“I was glazing ornaments.”
“You were stalling.”
“Same thing.”
His mouth twitches like he wants to smile but refuses to let me see it. “You ready for this?”
“Ready to be worshiped by the town I saved from boring décor? Always.”
He huffs. “You didn’t save ‘em. You just threw glitter ‘n glaze at ‘em.”
“And yet,” I say, leaning in, “they ate it up.”
He looks me over—coat, dress peeking out, red tights, the snowflake earrings I wore to look more wholesome than feral. His gaze drags slow, heated. It’s not fair that a man can look at you like that in front of a building where they do pancake breakfasts.
“Cute,” he says.
I narrow my eyes. “You use that word like it’s not foreplay.”
“It’s not.”
“Then stop saying it in that voice.”
His eyes darken. “What voice?”
“That voice.”
“The one I use when I’m warning you?”
“No, the one you use when you’re thinking about bending me over your workbench.”
His jaw flexes. His gaze flicks to the street, like he needs a second to reel it in. “You’re gonna be trouble tonight.”
“I am trouble.”
“Yeah.” His eyes come back to mine, hotter. “That’s the part I like.”
Before I can react, a herd of women bursts out the community center doors—Mrs. Pruitt from the bakery, Vi from the Gazette, Paisley from the library, Sheila who runs the nature center. They’re already squealing.
“There they are!”
“Copper Mountain’s hottest couple!”
“Get over here, you two!”
I grin and link my arm through Clay’s. “Showtime, fiancé.”
He looks down at the contact, then at me, then at the crowd. I feel that muscle in his cheek tick. “Behave.”
“Make me.”
He exhales through his nose like I’m the world’s cutest pain in the ass and escorts me inside.
The room’s decked out in twinkle lights and pine garland, handmade wreaths lining the walls. I did some of them last year for extra cash. It hurts a little to see them and know I don’t have a place to make more. Smells like chili, cider, and the entire town’s business.
We’ve been “engaged” less than a week and everyone in Copper Mountain acts like they watched him propose at sunset on a ski slope while I cried over cocoa.
“Ember!” Vi swoops in, tablet in hand, eyes glued to us like she’s collecting data. “Can we steal you two for a photo for the Gazette follow-up?”
Clay mutters under his breath, “I knew she’d do a follow-up.”
“To death,” I murmur back.
He tightens his arm around mine, pulls me in closer, like we’ve been doing this forever. The way his body shields mine from the crowd—it should make me feel trapped. It doesn’t. It makes me feel…tucked. Kept. Warm.
Which is dangerous.
“Just one shot!” Vi says. “Well…maybe three.”
“Smile,” I whisper up at him.
He doesn’t.
So I pinch his side.
He grunts, then gives the camera a look that lands halfway between long-suffering and smoldering. Vi actually fans herself.
“You two are unreal,” she says. “It’s like fate.”
Clay says nothing.
I say, “Right? Total kismet. Firefighter saves artist, artist saves firefighter from eternal bachelorhood, everybody wins.”
Right on cue, Mrs. Pruitt leans in, eyes bright. “We voted.”
Clay’s brows pull together. “On what.”
“Couple of the Year.”
My mouth drops. “We just got engaged, Pruitt.”
She waves a dismissive hand. “Copper Mountain doesn’t need time, honey. We need content. Also? Your story made three grand in donations last night alone. People love a love story.” Her eyes go sharp.
I blink. “Sorry—what?”
She gestures to the little stage near the front. “We’re doing the raffle in fifteen. You two’ll come up for the ‘Most Inspiring Holiday Couple’ shot. And we’re gonna need a kiss.”
I cough. “A what?”
“A kiss,” she repeats cheerfully like we’re talking about sugar cookies. “Just a little one. For the town Facebook page.”
Oh.
Oh, no.
I glance at Clay.
Clay’s jaw is stone.
“We’re not—” he starts, but I cut in fast, fingers squeezing his arm.
“They’re watching,” I whisper. “We said we’d sell it.”
His eyes cut to me. Dark. Warning. “This wasn’t part of the deal, firecracker.”
“Neither was me losing my studio and then finding out the insurance investigator is a nosy troll who reads the Gazette.”
His gaze holds mine for three…four…five seconds.
Then he mutters a filthy curse I feel in my toes.
“Fine,” he grates. “But we do it my way.”
I swallow. My way probably means closed mouth, firm, professional. Something we can both walk away from.
I can handle—
“Don’t look so pleased,” he says, catching the look on my face. “I’m not doing it because I want to.”
“Why, then?”
“Because you asked.”
…Okay.
Why does that feel like more?
He says it and I want to kiss him in front of everyone now.
Before I have time to obsess, someone clinks a spoon on a glass. “Okay, folks! Who’s ready to see the happy couple?”
Cheers go up. Phones appear. Clay’s hand locks at my lower back, steering me to the little stage. I curse him silently for the way his hand spreads wide and hot and possessive like that.
We step up.
Lights. People. Heat.
I paste on my big holiday grin.
Clay stands straight, broad, totally calm. He looks like not a single thing on earth can rattle him. Like a kiss is nothing.
My chest is all rattle.
“Let’s give them a sweet one!” Mrs. Pruitt trills. “For the scrapbook!”
I really hate that she said scrapbook.
I tilt up my face.
Clay turns to me.
His hand rises—slow, big, calloused—cupping my jaw like I’m something fragile. His thumb slides just under my ear. I swear to God my knees go soft on the spot.
“Relax,” he murmurs, just for me.
“Trying.”
“You’re shaking.”
“You’re hot.”
His eyes flash. “Ember.”
“Clay.”
He leans in.
I brace.
He doesn’t press a quick peck to my mouth.
No.
He kisses me like we’re not in a room full of our neighbors and his fire chief and the judge’s wife and literally the reporter who started this whole mess.
He kisses me like we’re alone.
Slow at first. Deliberate. His mouth covers mine, warm and firm, a test and a promise and a warning at once. I inhale him—pine, smoke, winter, him—and I swear I melt inside my own coat.
My fingers hook in his flannel without permission.
His lips angle, deepening, tongue teasing the seam of mine like he could take this further, like we both know what’s on the other side of pretend. A pulse of heat surges through me—low, hot, need.
I open.
He takes.
His tongue strokes mine once, heavy and sure and filthy good. My head spins. I cling to him because my center of gravity just moved into him.
The crowd goes nuts.
Whistling.
Applause.
A distant, “Get it, Walker!”
Clay slows it down, easing off like this is his pace, not mine. He nips my bottom lip once—once, hard enough to make me gasp—and then pulls back, breathing steady, eyes not.
He stares at me.
I know I look wrecked.
I can feel my lipstick smeared and my pupils blown and my body begging for more.
His hand slides from my jaw to the back of my neck, squeezing, drawing me in an inch. He puts his mouth next to my ear, voice a dark scrape.
“You wanted real,” he says. “Don’t tempt me next time.”
Heat floods every inch of me.
I can’t speak.
I can only nod like a fool.
He straightens, turns us back to the crowd like nothing happened, like he didn’t just immolate me in front of the entire town. He smiles—a real one this time—and I seriously wonder if anyone else in here notices the way his fingers flexed on my neck like he didn’t want to let go.
They don’t.
They see fireworks.
I see gasoline.
Back at my rental, I pace.
I stomp, really.
My coat’s on a chair. My boots are tossed. My heart is still lodged in that kiss in front of the fundraising tree.
Clay’s in my kitchen, because of course he is. I told him to come in, that we needed to talk, that he couldn’t just do that and leave.
He did not argue.
He just followed, shut the door, and now stands there leaned against my counter like some off-duty sin, arms crossed, watching me storm up and down my tiny living room.
“Say it,” he says finally.
I whirl. “You can’t do that.”
He lifts a brow. “Do what.”
“Kiss me like you mean it.”
He doesn’t move. “You asked.”
“I asked you to pretend.”
“That didn’t look fake to them.”
“It didn’t feel fake to me.”
That slips out hotter than I want. His eyes darken at once.
“Yeah,” he says slowly. “I noticed.”
My face flames. “You can’t just—just—lick my soul in front of the town and then act like it’s business!”
His mouth twitches. “That what I did?”
“Yes!”
“What’d it taste like?”
“Clay!”
He pushes off the counter, slow, big, like a predator leaving a shadow. “Firecracker,” he says, voice dropping, “you wanted this to work. I made it work.”
“You made it—” I fling a hand through the air, words tripping out of me. “You made it confusing!”
“Confusing?” He stalks closer. My breath stutters. “Thought I was being pretty clear.”
“You’re not.”
“You wanted a real couple. You wanted Copper Mountain to buy it. They bought it.”
“But I bought it, too!” I say, because apparently tonight is the night I rip my own heart out bare-handed. “I bought it, Clay. I…felt it.”
He stops two feet from me.
Looks down.
Big. Unyielding.
“You weren’t supposed to,” he says, softer, almost regretful. “That wasn’t part of the deal.”
I let out a hollow laugh. “Oh my God. Of course you’d say that.”
“What.”
“That human emotion wasn’t part of your precious deal.”
“It complicates things.”
“People complicate things. I complicate things. Newsflash, firefighter—this was always gonna get messy.”
“That’s why I set rules.”
“And that kiss set them on fire.”
He jaw ticks. “I told you not to tempt me.”
“I didn’t—”
“You did.”
“You know what?” I shake my head hard. “You’re just looking for a reason to pull back.”
His eyes flash. “No.”
“Yes. I see it now. You want the illusion, not the real thing. You want to play husband but not be one.”
His stare goes flint. “This was your idea.”
“Because I had to. Because my life was on fire. Because I needed the money and the town was watching and you were the one they handed me.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You’re a coward.”
Silence slams down between us. Thick. Sharp.
His eyes go cold.
“Say that again,” he says, voice low.
“Coward,” I bite out, chest heaving. “You can run into burning buildings, but God forbid you feel something.”
He moves.
Fast.
Grabs my wrist, not hard, just firm enough to stop me pacing circles around him. Pulls me in until my body brushes his. His jaw is tight, eyes furious, mouth inches from mine.
“You don’t know a damn thing about what I feel,” he grinds.
“I know you kissed me like you almost let go.”
He doesn’t deny it.
He just looks angry that I saw it.
“That’s not what this is,” he says.
“What is this, then?”
“A favor.”
“We’re way past favors.”
“A cover, then.”
“For who?” I shove his chest, heat rising. “Me? Or you?”
His nostrils flare.
I keep going, reckless. “Because I’m starting to think this whole ‘let’s pretend to be engaged’ thing is as much for you as it is for me.”
“How do you figure?”
“You get to do the whole hero thing—fix me, protect me, play house—without risking anything. Without letting me in.”
“Ember—”
“No.” I jab a finger at his chest. “You like me, Clay. You want me. You want to kiss me again. You want—” heat creeps up my neck “—you want me. But instead of admitting it, you’re hiding behind town gossip and insurance forms.”
His jaw is clenched so hard now I can see it jump.
“I told you from the start,” he says, voice rough, “this wasn’t real.”
“It is to me.”
That softens something for a second.
Just a second.
Then he shakes his head. “That’s not my fault.”
“Really? Because you’re the one making it feel real.”
“You’re the one letting it.”
“Because you’re confusing me!” I blurt. “You kiss me and touch me and wrap me in your flannel and tell the whole town I’m yours, then come in here and say it’s pretend. Which is it?”
He exhales hard, like he wants to tear his own hair out. “I’m trying to make sure you get what you need.”
“What I need,” I say quietly, “might be you.”
His eyes slam shut for one second.
Then open, harder.
“That’s exactly why I gotta go,” he says.
“Unbelievable.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re running.”
“I’m leaving before I do something we can’t walk back from.”
“Like what,” I demand, stepping into him, chin tilted. “Like touch me? Like take me to bed? Like admit you actually give a damn?”
His gaze drops. Lingers at my mouth.
For a second—just one—I think he’s going to do it.
I want him to do it.
Instead, he lets my wrist go. Steps back.
“Not like this,” he says, low. “Not angry.”
“Not angry?” I laugh, bitter. “I am angry.”
“I know.”
“Because you made me feel—”
“I know.”
“Clay!”
He heads for the door.
I follow. “So that’s it? You’re just gonna walk out?”
“If I stay, I’ll put you against that wall,” he throws over his shoulder, voice gone ragged, “and we both know neither of us is ready for that.”
My breath punches out.
He stops with his hand on the knob. Looks back.
For a heartbeat, everything is open. Raw. Him. Me. This thing sparking between us like live wires.
“Don’t look at me like that again in public,” he says, voice rough. “It makes me forget we’re pretending.”
“Maybe we should,” I whisper.
He swallows.
Then he opens the door.
Cold night air rushes in.
“Lock up, firecracker,” he says without turning. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Then he’s gone.
Door shuts.
And I’m left in my kitchen, lips still tingling, heart still pounding, wanting a man who keeps insisting he’s only a placeholder.
Except no placeholder has ever kissed me like that.
No placeholder ever left like that.
And I know, bone-deep and furious:
The rules?
Yeah.
They’re not just bending anymore.
They’re burning.