Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Ash
The conference room inside Devil’s Peak Community Hall smells like burnt coffee, pine cleaner, and trouble.
Not the actual emergency kind—though I’d prefer that. No. This is the kind of trouble that shows up wearing a red scarf, smelling like vanilla sugar, and carrying a binder covered in glittery snowflakes.
Lucy Snow.
She’s at the front of the room now, smiling like she’s about to fix world peace with construction paper.
I take the empty chair at the back, fold my arms across my chest, and remind myself that I’m here for one reason only: To keep these lunatics from burning the town down with their holiday decorations.
“Thank you so much for coming!” Lucy chirps, flipping open her binder. “I’m thrilled to help with this year’s Fire & Frost Festival. We’ll start with the parade, then tree lighting, then the charity gala—”
“Hold up.” I don’t raise my voice, but it cuts through her sunshine like a blade.
She looks at me. The whole room looks at me. Great.
I clear my throat. “Before we get into… all that, we need to address safety considerations. Last year’s float nearly burst into flames because someone plugged a six-foot inflatable Santa into a faulty multi-outlet generator.”
Lucy blinks. “Safety considerations are important, of course, but maybe we could get through the overview first?”
“We can,” I say. “As long as everyone understands power limits, flame retardant requirements, and how many watts your decorations can handle without blowing out half the block.”
A few committee members groan. Someone mutters “Here we go again.”
Lucy just… smiles. Like I’m a puzzle she’s dying to solve.
“Thank you, Lieutenant Calder,” she says sweetly. “We’ll absolutely rely on your… expertise.”
I narrow my eyes. “You trying to say something?”
Her smile widens. “Not at all. Your expertise is very… thorough.”
The room snickers. Great. Perfect. A whole damn audience.
She flips a page in her binder, clears her throat, and launches into her plan.
It’s a disaster already.
“First,” she says, holding up a sketch, “the parade float. I’m envisioning a cozy gingerbread village theme with working lights, faux smoke curling from the chimneys, and children dressed like gumdrops—”
“No smoke.”
She pauses. “It’s faux smoke. Completely safe.”
“Nothing about that is completely safe.”
“It’s literally just vapor, Ash.”
“Vapor can set off alarms.”
“So can burnt toast,” she counters. “But we don’t ban breakfast.”
A ripple of laughter breaks across the room.
I clench my jaw.
Lucy lifts her chin, eyes sparkling like she’s enjoying this way too much. “Anyway, the float will be adorable.”
“Adorable doesn’t mean safe.”
“Safe doesn’t mean boring,” she fires back.
“Better boring than on fire.”
She places the sketch against her chest dramatically. “Why do you hate joy?”
“I don’t hate joy. I hate unnecessary risks.”
“Joy isn’t a risk,” she insists.
“With you?” I say before I can stop myself. “Feels like one.”
The room goes silent. Lucy freezes. Her cheeks flush a soft pink. Something flickers in her eyes—surprise, heat, something that slams low in my gut.
Damn it.
I shouldn’t be thinking about her like that. I shouldn’t be looking at her like that.
But she keeps pushing.
“Are you calling me dangerous, Lieutenant Calder?”
Her voice runs down my spine like warm honey—slow, smooth, sweet, and absolutely lethal.
I sit forward in my chair. “I’m calling you impulsive. Messy. Distracting.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Distracting?”
Shit.
“Not what I—” I scrub a hand over my jaw. “Just go on.”
She eyes me for several long, quiet seconds. Then—slowly—she turns back to the room.
But she knows exactly what I meant. And she’s glowing with it.
“Next,” she says, “the tree lighting.”
I brace myself.
“We’re going bigger this year,” she continues. “More lights. More garland. More sparkle.”
“No,” I say immediately.
“Yes,” she counters.
“Lucy, you can’t—”
“It’s Miss Snow.”
I stare at her. “You’re kidding.”
She lifts her chin. “We should keep this professional.”
My jaw ticks. “Fine. Miss Snow.”
Her eyes spark like a challenge.
“Wonderful,” she says, beaming. “Now. About the tree—”
“Too many lights overload the wiring,” I tell the room. “Last year we barely avoided a short.”
“That was because someone plugged in a space heater,” she says. “Not because of my lights.”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s a hazard.”
She puts her hands on her hips. “You know what else is a hazard, Lieutenant Calder?”
“Enlighten me.”
“That attitude.”
A few volunteers laugh aloud.
I lean back, crossing my arms again. “Glad to know we’re blaming the firefighter instead of the faulty wiring.”
“We’re blaming the grumpy firefighter,” she corrects, “who won’t allow even the tiniest bit of Christmas magic.”
My teeth clench. “Magic doesn’t keep people safe.”
“No,” she agrees, stepping closer to the front of the room—and closer to me. “But it does make people happy.”
Her eyes meet mine. Something kicks in my chest.
“And I’m not going to apologize for wanting that,” she finishes softly.
I look away before I do something stupid. Like stare at her mouth. Or say something I’ll regret later.
“Let’s move on,” I mutter.
Lucy brightens like she just won a small battle. She probably did.
“Great,” she says. “The charity gala.”
Of course. The one event I always try to avoid.
She clicks to another page.
“We’ll need more volunteers for decor this year. And yes, before Ash says it—everything will be fire resistant.”
The crowd laughs again. I just… watch her.
The way her hair falls over her shoulder, catching the light. The way she gestures with her hands while she talks. The way her voice lifts when she gets excited, softening when she mentions kids, warming when she talks about community.
And for the first time since she opened her mouth, I realize:
She really does just want to make this town better. She wants people happy. Safe. Connected.
It messes with my head more than I want to admit.
She finishes her rundown. “Questions?”
Half the committee raises their hands at once.
She points to Mrs. Garland. The woman drones on about gingerbread house replicas for the kids’ table. Then Lucy says something I absolutely shouldn’t like:
“Oh! And we’re doing a candy workshop for Holly’s age group—”
I stiffen at my niece’s name. “Holly shouldn’t have that much sugar.”
“It’s Christmas,” Lucy says. “She’ll be fine.”
“She’ll be bouncing off the walls.”
“Good for her,” Lucy says. “Kids should bounce.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “We’re not doing a sugar workshop.”
“Yes, we are.”
“No, we’re—”
She sets her binder on the table and looks directly at me.
“Lieutenant Calder,” she says sweetly, “are you planning to fight me on every single idea I bring to this committee?”
Every pair of eyes turn to me. Her tone is pure sugar. Her expression pure challenge.
She’s daring me to say no. Daring me to push back. She has no idea how dangerous that is.
“Yes,” I say simply. “If they’re unsafe.”
Her lips part. “Joy is not unsafe.”
“With you?” The words slip out before I can stop them. Again.
The committee sucks in a collective gasp. Lucy’s cheeks go pink. She presses her hand against her binder like she needs something to hold on to.
Then she smiles. Slow. Dangerous.
“Well then,” she says, “I suppose you’ll be seeing a lot of me.”
My pulse spikes.
“I suppose I will,” I answer, my voice lower than it should be.
One woman whispers, “Dear Lord,” under her breath.
I don’t look at her. I don’t look at anyone.
I only look at Lucy.
And the way she’s looking at me.
Like she feels something too. Like she’s curious. Drawn. Maybe even a little shaken.
She clears her throat and faces the room again.
“That’s it for today,” she announces. “Thank you all for coming!”
Chairs scrape. People stand. The committee dissolves into small conversations. Lucy starts packing her binder, her movements neat but rushed. I push to my feet. I shouldn’t talk to her. I shouldn’t go near her.
But I do.
I walk straight toward her.
She pretends not to notice until I’m close enough that she can feel my shadow stretch across her table.
She looks up—wide eyes, pink cheeks, breath catching.
“Lieutenant Calder,” she says, a little too quickly.
“Lucy.”
Her spine straightens. “Miss Snow.”
I huff a laugh. “Right.”
She shoves her papers into her bag. “Was there something you needed?”
I study her.
The nervous fingers. The way she avoids my gaze. The heat between us, humming like a live wire. I don’t touch her. I don’t step closer. But I lower my voice so only she can hear.
“You can throw all the glitter you want, Sparky. Just don’t expect me to stop calling out hazards.”
Her eyes flare. “You’re impossible.”
“And you,” I murmur, “are reckless.”
Her breath stutters.
“And distracting,” I add before I can think better of it.
She swallows. Hard. “Stop calling me that.”
“What? Distracting?”
She glares. “Yes.”
“No.”
“No?” she echoes.
I lean in slightly—close enough to see the flecks of gold in her eyes. “Not when you keep proving me right.”
Her lips part like she’s about to say something sharp.
Instead she whispers, “I don’t know what to do with you.”
“Good,” I say. “Try not to figure it out.”
“Why?”
“Because you won’t like the answer.”
We stare at each other. Heat rising. Air tightening. Something dangerous pushing at the walls between us.
Someone coughs loudly nearby, jolting us apart.
Lucy steps back like she needs air.
I step back too—but only because I have to.
She grabs her bag. “See you at the next meeting.”
“Count on it,” I say, voice rough.
She turns. Takes three steps toward the door. Looks back over her shoulder. And gives me a smile that hits like a spark straight to the chest. Then she walks out, boots crunching in the snow-covered hallway, disappearing around the corner. I exhale slowly, gripping the back of the chair.
Christ.
I’m in trouble.
Deep, glitter-covered, irresistible trouble.
And her name is Lucy Snow.