Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Boone
I show up at her doorstep at eight in the morning with a tool bag in one hand and a paper cup of coffee in the other, and I already regret every life choice that led me here.
Not because I don’t want to be here.
Because I do.
That’s the problem.
Her little studio-house sits next to mine like it’s trying to pretend it belongs—fresh paint on the trim, a new wreath already hanging crooked on the door, and a string of lights she definitely doesn’t need and absolutely insisted on anyway.
The morning sun hits the snow and turns the whole street into a damn postcard.
I knock once. Then again, because I’m not a patient man and she’s a menace.
The door swings open a beat later, and Ember Price stands there barefoot in a pair of fuzzy socks that have little paint splatters on them like she couldn’t even commit to being cozy without making it artistic.
Her hair’s a mess. A bun that’s losing the war with the elastic. A smudge of blue on her cheek. Oversized sweatshirt. Sleepy eyes.
And I’m immediately aware of my own body like it’s betraying me.
“Boone?” she says, blinking like she’s not sure I’m real. Then her gaze drops to my hands. “Why are you holding coffee like you’re a functional adult?”
“I can be functional,” I say. “Sometimes. When the situation demands it.”
She leans a shoulder against the doorframe, squinting at me. “It’s eight.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re… early.”
“I’m on time,” I correct. “You’re late.”
She snorts. “I’m in my house.”
I lift the coffee cup slightly. “How was your morning bowl of Cheerios?”
Her expression goes blank.
Then confused.
Then her eyes narrow like she’s putting pieces together and doesn’t like the picture they make.
“What?” she demands.
I hold my face perfectly straight. “Your cereal. Your champion breakfast. You know. Since you needed milk at eleven o’clock last night.”
A flush climbs her neck in real time, and it’s so satisfying I almost laugh.
She points at me. “You absolute—”
“Store closed?” I ask innocently.
Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
“It was,” she snaps. “And I… I had to improvise.”
“Oh?” I lean in a fraction. “What’d you do, Firefly? Eat your Cheerios dry like a criminal?”
Her eyes go wide. “You knew it would be closed.”
“I knew.” My mouth twitches. “I also knew it would make you blush.”
She huffs so hard it fogs in the cold air. “Why are you here being all cute and annoying on my doorstep first thing in the morning?”
Cute.
That word lands in my chest like a punch.
I step closer until she’s forced to tilt her head to keep eye contact. Not because I’m trying to intimidate her.
Because I like the way she looks when she has to look up at me.
“Captain ordered me,” I say.
Her brows knit. “Captain… Saxon?”
I nod once. “Inspection yesterday turned up dangerous wiring in your renovation.”
Her face falls. “What? No. I— I haven’t even—”
“You haven’t even,” I repeat, dry. “Which is exactly why it’s dangerous.”
She bristles immediately. “Excuse you. I am perfectly capable of renovating a studio.”
“Sure,” I say. “If the goal is to set it on fire.”
She glares at me like she wants to throw something, which makes me want to smile, which makes me want to kiss her, which makes me want to slam my own head into the nearest wall and end the internal problem permanently.
“So Saxon sent you,” she says, crossing her arms. “Why you?”
“Because I’m the mechanic. And the arson investigator.” I lift my tool bag. “And because apparently my suffering builds character.”
She bites back a smile. Fails. “So you’re here to save me from myself.”
“I’m here because your wiring is a liability,” I say. “And the department doesn’t want to scrape your city-girl ashes off the floor when you decide to plug in forty thousand twinkle lights and a snow machine.”
“I don’t have a snow machine,” she says quickly.
I stare at her.
She blinks.
“…Yet,” she adds, quieter.
I exhale through my nose. “Jesus.”
“Stop being dramatic,” she says. “Come in.”
She steps back, and I walk inside her place like I own it, which I don’t—but something in me likes the idea a little too much.
The studio smells like paint and pine and possibility.
Half the room is in chaos: boxes, rolls of paper, jars of brushes, a ladder leaning against a wall with a strand of lights wrapped around it like a lazy snake.
The other half looks like she actually has a plan—canvases stacked neatly, a whiteboard with sketches, a little table set up for kids with tiny stools.
There’s a watercolor palette on the counter like it’s a living thing. Reds bleeding into oranges, blues pooling like ink.
Color everywhere.
It’s… loud.
Not in a bad way.
In a way that makes me feel like I’ve been living in black-and-white and didn’t realize it.
Ember watches me take it in, chin lifted like she’s daring me to insult it.
“So,” she says, voice bright but edged. “Where’s this terrifying death wiring?”
I swing my gaze back to her. “You always talk like you’re picking a fight.”
“I’m from the city,” she says. “It’s my love language.”
I set my coffee on her counter. “You want to start with a kiss then?”
Her breath catches.
Just a hitch. Barely there.
But I see it.
And I file it away.
“I want to start with you doing your job,” she snaps, cheeks pink.
“Mm-hmm.” I step around her, close enough that my shoulder brushes hers on purpose. “Move.”
She doesn’t.
She lifts her chin. “Make me.”
The air shifts.
Like the room tightens around us.
I stop in front of her, my body blocking the path, and I don’t touch her—not yet—but I let the weight of me speak. Let her feel the difference between us without saying it out loud.
Her eyes flick down my chest. Back up to my face. She swallows.
“I could,” I say quietly.
Her voice is breathy when she answers, and I know she hates herself for it. “You won’t.”
I smile. Slow. Sharp. “Not in the morning. I’m trying to be a gentleman.”
She scoffs. “You’re not a gentleman. You’re a menace with a limp.”
My jaw tightens reflexively at the word limp, but I don’t let her see it. Not right now. Not when she’s standing here with war in her eyes and paint on her cheek and her mouth acting like it wants trouble.
“Watch it,” I murmur.
“Why?” she challenges. “You gonna arrest me for disrespecting your grumpy authority?”
I lean in just enough that she smells me—cold air, coffee, the faint grease that never fully leaves my skin.
“Careful, Firefly,” I say, voice low. “I might start liking the way you talk back.”
Her eyes darken.
“Too late,” she whispers.
That does something to me. Something I don’t name.
I step past her before I do something stupid.
“Show me the panel,” I say.
She follows, still flustered, still stubborn. “It’s in the back.”
The back of the studio is half torn apart, drywall exposed in one corner, wires running like veins behind the surface. I crouch, set my tool bag down, and start working without explaining every move, because she’d argue with me just to prove a point.
“Did Saxon really order you?” she asks, hovering.
“Yes.”
“And you just… obey?”
I glance up at her. “You think I’m here because I wanted to spend my morning in your glitter cave?”
Her mouth twists. “It’s not a glitter cave.”
“It’s going to be,” I say, popping the panel open. “I can feel it.”
She crosses her arms again and watches me work like she’s trying to catch me doing something wrong.
“What’s wrong with the wiring?” she asks.
I point with my screwdriver. “This is old work. Spliced poorly. Whoever did this before you either didn’t know what they were doing or didn’t care if it burned down.”
Her expression shifts—serious now. Quiet.
“I didn’t do that,” she says.
“I know,” I reply.
She frowns. “How?”
“Because it’s not colorful enough,” I deadpan.
She gapes. Then she laughs, and the sound hits me right in the chest.
“Shut up,” she says, smiling.
“No,” I say, returning to the panel. “This line’s live when it shouldn’t be. If you’d plugged in your ‘festive sparkle,’ you could’ve caused an arc.”
Her smile fades. “So… I could’ve started a fire.”
“Yeah.” I look back at her, letting the word hang. “You could’ve.”
Her throat bobs as she swallows. She tries to cover it with attitude, but I see the flicker of real fear under her bravado.
“I hate that,” she says softly.
“Good,” I tell her. “Fear keeps you alive.”
She huffs. “You’re so cheerful.”
“You’re the cheerful one,” I say. “I’m the realist.”
“Grump,” she corrects.
I straighten slowly, and when I turn, she’s closer than she was a second ago. Like she can’t help it. Like her body keeps drifting toward mine even when her mouth says she hates me.
I lift a brow. “You hovering because you’re worried, or because you like watching me work with my hands?”
She chokes. “Oh my God.”
“Answer the question.”
She points at the panel. “Is it fixed?”
I step closer until she has to lean back against the wall behind her. Not trapped. Not exactly. But my body is a boundary now, and she knows it.
“Not yet,” I say.
“Then fix it,” she snaps, but her voice wavers.
My gaze drops to her mouth again because it’s the most distracting thing in the room. She’s got a tiny smear of paint near the corner of her lip, and the thought of wiping it off with my thumb makes my hands ache.
“You always this bossy?” I ask.
“Only with men who need it,” she fires back.
I laugh under my breath. “You think I need it?”
She lifts her chin. “Don’t you?”
I step in closer, just enough that our breath tangles. I don’t touch her. I don’t have to.
“Firefly,” I murmur, “you don’t know what I need.”
Her eyes widen—just a fraction—and her cheeks flush again. She tries to hold her ground, but her fingers curl in the hem of her sweatshirt like she’s bracing herself.
“Then tell me,” she says, and her voice is quiet and bold at the same time.
My jaw ticks.
I could.
I could tell her that I need her to stop looking at me like she sees through the steel and the sarcasm.
I could tell her I need her to stop turning my mornings into something I look forward to.
I could tell her I need her to stop being so goddamn bright next door while I’m trying to live in the dark.
Instead, I lift my hand, slow, deliberate, and swipe my thumb gently across her cheek where the blue paint sits.
She freezes.
Not scared.
Affected.
I hold her gaze as I pull my hand back and look at my thumb like the paint is evidence.
“You missed a spot,” I say.
She blinks like she forgot how.
Then she exhales, shaky. “You came here to fix wiring.”
“I am fixing wiring,” I say, calm. “This is… quality control.”
She swats at my arm, but it’s weak. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re a hazard,” I counter. “Saxon’s right. Leaving you unsupervised with power tools is a crime.”
Her mouth opens. “Excuse you—”
I cut her off by stepping back, turning away, and going to my tool bag like I’m not affected at all.
It’s a lie.
I can still feel her warmth where my thumb touched her skin.
Behind me, she mutters, “As if being neighbors wasn’t close enough.”
I grin to myself without letting her see it.
“Yeah,” I say, pulling out wire cutters. “Guess we’ll have to suffer through close quarters for the foreseeable future.”
She makes a sound—half annoyed, half pleased.
“Fine,” she says. “But I’m not paying you.”
I glance back over my shoulder. “I already told you the price.”
Her eyes narrow. “Cookies.”
“Cookies,” I confirm.
She points at me like she’s making a vow. “You’re getting the driest, most flavorless cookies in the history of baked goods.”
“Liar,” I say, returning to the panel. “You don’t have it in you.”
“I do,” she insists. “I have darkness. It’s just… pastel.”
That makes me laugh again, and it comes out warmer than I expect.
Ember goes still at the sound, like she’s caught something rare. Like she’s collecting proof that I’m not as shut down as I pretend.
Her gaze lingers on me—on my hands, on the set of my shoulders, on the way I work like I’m used to fixing things that can break people.
“You know,” she says lightly, “if you keep showing up at my door first thing in the morning, people are going to talk.”
“They already are,” I answer without looking up.
Her voice dips. “Do you care?”
I cut the damaged splice and start stripping fresh wire, fingers steady.
Then I look up.
Hold her eyes.
And let the truth sit between us like a live line.
“Maybe I don’t mind,” I say.
Her breath stutters.
For a second, the studio feels too small. Too warm. Like the air’s thickening into something dangerous.
Then she clears her throat and forces brightness back into her voice. “Well. I mind. Because if the town thinks you’re helping me, they might think you’re… nice.”
I smirk. “Can’t have that.”
“No.” She shakes her head solemnly. “It would ruin your whole vibe.”
I lean back on my heels, gaze dragging over her slowly, deliberately—letting her feel it.
“What vibe is that?” I ask.
She swallows, then lifts her chin like she’s brave. “Grumpy. Sarcastic. Broody. Scary.”
I tilt my head. “Scary?”
Her eyes flick to my mouth. Back up. “A little.”
I stand, closing the space again, and this time I let my hand settle on the wall beside her head—not touching her, just there, a quiet reminder of how easily I could.
Her cheeks flush.
I lower my voice. “You should be scared of the wiring,” I murmur. “Not me.”
Her lips part.
She whispers, “Maybe I’m scared of both.”
For a heartbeat, I consider kissing her right there—consider teaching her exactly what she’s playing with.
Instead, I step back again, because I’m not a man who loses control in the morning.
Not yet.
“Go make coffee,” I tell her gruffly. “And stop hovering. You’re distracting.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Me? Distracting?”
I glance at her, dead serious. “Firefly, you walked into my workshop with paint on your face and sunshine in your smile. You’ve been distracting since the second you showed up.”
Her throat works as she swallows.
She tries for sass. Fails. “Fine. I’ll make coffee. And I’ll… not hover.”
“Good.”
She turns toward the kitchenette, still flustered, still glowing, and I watch her for one second too long.
Because Saxon can order me to fix the wiring all he wants.
But he didn’t order the way Ember Price is starting to feel like the most dangerous thing I’ve ever been near.
And I’m an arson investigator.
I know exactly what happens when you keep leaning into a flame.