Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Lucy
The town Christmas tree looks like it’s swallowed half the season’s budget and the soul of every Hallmark movie ever made. It towers over the town square—fifty feet of pine bristling with potential.
Potential for magic. Potential for joy. Potential for falling to my death.
“Hold the ladder steady!” I shout down to Mrs. Garland, who at eighty-two has the enthusiasm of a parade float and the upper-body strength of a warm noodle.
“It’s steady, dear!” she calls back, even though the ladder wobbles like a drunk reindeer.
I climb anyway.
Because someone has to attach the final star-shaped garland to the top boughs, and that someone—apparently—is me. My mittens are dusted with snow, my boots slipping on each rung, but I refuse to be deterred.
This is going to be beautiful. This is going to sparkle. This is—
“Absolutely not.”
The voice hits me like a gust of cold air and strong judgment.
Ash Calder. My neighbor-from-Hell and resident firefighter grump. Of course.
I whip my head down, and there he is—standing at the base of the tree, boots planted in the snow, arms crossed, jaw tight, and eyes locked on me like I’m currently violating every known safety protocol. Which, okay, maybe I am.
But still.
“Ash,” I call down, “unless you’re here to help, you can take your grumpy commentary back to whatever fire-glorified cave you crawled out of.”
Mrs. Garland gasps softly. “Lucy…”
Ash doesn’t flinch. He just steps closer, voice low and dangerous.
“Get off the ladder.”
I wave him off. “Busy!”
“Lucy—”
“Busy not dying,” I correct. “Well, busy trying not to. Same thing.”
The garland gets tangled on a stubborn branch, and I stretch higher to reach it. The ladder wobbles. My stomach lurches.
“Lucy,” Ash bites out. “I’m not asking again.”
“I’m almost done!”
“You’re going to fall.”
“No, I won—”
The ladder shifts violently to the right.
My breath shoots out of me. The ground vanishes beneath my boots. I make a noise that can only be described as a terrified squeak. And suddenly— Arms. Strong, solid, unshakeable arms wrap around my waist, hauling me against a chest that feels like a brick wall wrapped in heat.
I blink, dazed. Ash. He’s holding me. Actually holding me. Like I weigh nothing, like he does this all day—catch idiots who ignore him.
His breath hits my ear, rough and warm. “Told you.”
His voice—the sound of it right there—vibrates all the way down my spine.
I swallow, hands unintentionally clinging to his jacket. “Okay, fine. I almost fell. No need to look so smug about it.”
“Oh, I’m beyond smug.” He sets me down slowly, deliberately, making sure my boots hit solid ground. His hand stays on my waist longer than necessary. “I’m seconds from lecturing you into next week.”
I step back like his touch burns—which, annoyingly, it kind of does. “Don’t lecture me. I’m doing something nice.”
“Nice doesn’t mean safe.”
“You’ve said that before.”
“And you haven’t listened before,” he growls.
Mrs. Garland clears her throat. “I’ll, um… go get cocoa.”
She scurries off, leaving me and Ash alone in a halo of falling snowflakes and unspoken tension that could set the tree on fire without a single light bulb.
Ash finally drops his hand from my waist, but his eyes stay locked on me.
Dark. Stormy. Impossible to read. Except…
not always impossible. Sometimes I catch something else behind the scowl. Something molten.
I force myself to break the staring contest. “Why are you everywhere I go?”
His answer is immediate. “Keeping the town in one piece.”
I snort. “Funny.”
He steps closer. I don’t move. Maybe I can’t. He lowers his voice. “Starting with you.”
The words hit me square in the chest. Heat blooms between us—slow, steady, unmistakable.
I cross my arms, desperate for something to hold. “You know, most people say things like ‘be careful’ or ‘let me help.’ You say ‘you’re a hazard.’”
“That’s because you are,” he mutters. “A walking, talking, overdecorated hazard.”
“I am festive,” I correct sharply.
“Unsafe,” he counters.
“Sparkly.”
“Distracting.”
My pulse jumps. “There it is. Again.”
He goes still. I should shut up. I should back off. I should pretend his words don’t send electricity skittering under my skin. But I don’t do any of those things.
Instead, I tilt my head. “Why do you keep calling me distracting, Ash?”
He exhales like he’s fighting something. Himself, probably. “Because you are.”
“That’s not an explanation.”
“It’s all you’re getting.”
“What if I want more?” I whisper.
His jaw flexes. “Then you’re asking for trouble.”
A shiver runs all the way down my spine. “Why? Because you don’t like me?”
“Don’t put words in my mouth, Sparky.”
My breath catches. “Then what is it?”
His eyes drop to my mouth. My heart slams against my ribs.
He steps closer—so close that the cold air between us warms, charged. “I can’t decide,” he says slowly, “if you’re testing me… or trying to kill me.”
My laugh is shaky. “Why would I want to kill you?”
“Because,” he rasps, leaning in just enough to brush my hair with his breath, “you make me forget how to think.”
My knees almost buckle. “Ash…”
He pulls back just a fraction, eyes burning.
“Get out of my head, Lucy.”
“I’m not trying to be in your head.”
“You’re in it anyway.”
I don’t have a response to that. I don’t know if there is one.
We stare at each other like the snow isn’t falling, like the world isn’t turning, like the air between us isn’t vibrating with something wild. Then he breaks the moment—he clears his throat and points to the fallen ladder. “You’re done for the day.”
“I am not—”
“You are.”
“You can’t just—”
“I can.” He grabs the ladder and folds it up one-handed, like it weighs nothing. “And I am.”
“Ash—”
He turns, locking eyes with me again. “Don’t fight me on this.”
My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
“I’m trying to help,” he says, softer this time. “Let me.”
The softness is worse than the growling. It sinks under my skin, lingering. I exhale, deflated. “Fine.”
He watches me for a beat too long, expression unreadable.
“Good,” he murmurs, and there’s something almost… warm in his voice.
Almost.
Two hours later, the finishing touches on the town square are done—mostly thanks to the committee, partly thanks to Mrs. Garland’s surprise thermos of peppermint cocoa, and definitely not thanks to me being banned from ladders.
I’m sweeping pine needles off the sidewalk when I sense him again.
I don’t know how I know he’s there. I just…
do. His presence is like static. Like a shift in the air.
Like gravity tipping in his direction. I straighten and turn.
He’s leaning against the side of the firetruck—because of course he brought a firetruck—arms crossed, watching me with an expression I can’t decipher. “You missed a spot,” he says.
I point the broom at him. “Say one more word about pine needles and I will shove this handle somewhere festive.”
His mouth twitches. “Tempting offer.”
Heat shoots up my neck. “That’s not what I—ugh. Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Twist my words.”
“I don’t twist them.” He pushes off the truck and stalks closer, each step heavy and deliberate. “You hand them to me already shaped like trouble.”
I swallow. “I’m not trouble.”
He stops inches from me. “You’re the most trouble I’ve seen in years.”
My breath stalls. His eyes drag over my face, lingering on my mouth again.
I hate that he does that. I hate that I like it.
“So.” I clear my throat. “You come to critique my sweeping?”
“No.”
“Then why are you—”
He steps closer—close enough that the broom handle between us becomes the only thing keeping our bodies from touching. “I came to say thank you.”
I blink. “For what?”
“For helping with the festival. For caring.” His voice lowers. “For giving Holly something to be excited about.”
Oh. That… hits differently.
I soften. “She’s a great kid.”
He nods. “She likes you.”
“I like her too.”
He watches me with something softer than I expect—something dangerous in its own way. “You’re good with her,” he murmurs. “Better than I am sometimes.”
“That’s not true,” I whisper.
His jaw tightens, and for a second I see something raw in his eyes. Vulnerability.
“I’m trying,” he says quietly.
“You’re doing great,” I tell him. “Really.”
His gaze sharpens, like my words hit something he keeps hidden. He looks at my mouth again. I grip the broom harder.
“Lucy,” he says, voice low.
“Ash.”
We hover there—so close the space between us feels like it could combust. But then he steps back. Just an inch. Just enough to breathe.
“We should head out,” he says. “Storm’s coming.”
I nod, trying to steady my heartbeat. “Right.”
He turns… then pauses. “Oh.” He points at me again. “You have glitter on your face.”
I wipe my cheek. “Here?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “Other side.”
I wipe the other cheek. “Here?”
“No.”
I frown. “Can you just tell me where—”
He lifts his hand. I freeze. His knuckles brush my cheekbone gently, sweeping the glitter away. His touch is warm. Careful. Slow enough to feel like a confession.
My breath catches. His eyes flick to mine. Then he drops his hand, stepping back fast, jaw set like steel.
“Be careful on the way home,” he mutters, turning away. “Seriously.”
I watch him walk off toward the firetruck, broad shoulders outlined in the fading daylight, steam rising off him like he’s walking through the cold unbothered.
He climbs in, slams the door, and drives away.
Leaving me standing in the snow, broom dangling in my hands, heart hammering, pulse racing, body still tingling where he touched me. I whisper into the quiet: “I am so screwed.”