Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Lucy
If there’s an award for “Most Adorable Holiday Float in the History of Ever,” I’m about to win it.
The Fire & Frost Festival float is perfect—absolutely, undeniably perfect—and no one, especially not one tall, glowering firefighter with biceps that belong in a safety hazard manual of their own, is going to ruin this moment.
I tug the tarp with a flourish. “Ta-da!”
Underneath, the magnificent creation stands proudly: a six-foot gingerbread firefighter. Helmet. Suspenders. Frosting smile. Licorice axe. Gumdrop buttons. Cinnamon-stick ladder leaning against a gingerbread fire truck.
It’s whimsical. It’s magical. It’s everything.
And then— A low, slow growl behind me. “Absolutely not.”
Of course.
He stands there with his turnout jacket unzipped, gloves shoved in the back pocket, jaw tight, eyes burning in full “ruin Lucy’s fun” mode.
I turn slowly. “Do you like it?”
He blinks once. “No.”
“Wrong answer.”
He walks toward the float like a man approaching a live bomb. “Lucy.” His voice drops into that deep, dangerous register that shouldn’t warm my stomach but absolutely does.
“What the hell is this?”
“A masterpiece,” I say cheerily.
He points at the gingerbread fire truck. “That is thirty percent candy. Candy, Lucy.”
“It’s holiday spirit.”
“It’s an ant infestation waiting to happen.”
I scoff. “Oh please—”
“And frosting?” He gestures to the gingerbread firefighter’s helmet. “Real frosting?”
“It’s royal icing. It dries hard.”
“I don’t care if it’s cement icing. It violates—”
“Don’t you dare say it.”
He glares. “Fire code.”
I groan dramatically. “Ash, it is not going to ignite.”
He circles the float slowly, muttering under his breath. “One… two… three… seven violations. Seven.”
I gasp in offense. “You didn’t even count four, five, or six!”
“Didn’t need to.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And you’re reckless.”
There it is—the classic exchange. Our greatest hits album.
Only today, things feel… different. Sharper.
Closer. Because when I step toward him, he doesn’t back up.
Instead he stands there, boots shoulder-width apart, gaze locked squarely on mine.
Heat rolls off him like he’s a furnace and I’m standing too damn close. Which—okay—maybe I am.
I fold my arms. “The float is staying.”
“No,” he says. “It’s not.”
“Yes,” I say, “it is.”
“Lucy.” He steps closer. “You made a gingerbread firefighter.”
“And?”
“And it’s got gumdrop buttons.”
“They’re festive.”
“They’re a choking hazard.”
“For who, Ash? The other floats?”
He exhales in frustration, and it hits me in the face—warm, spicy, infuriating. Behind us, a few of the fire crew start gathering. Watching. Whispering. Because nothing is more entertaining than Ash Calder and the glitter librarian going head-to-head.
I keep my eyes on Ash. “You’re just mad because my gingerbread firefighter is cuter than you.”
He stiffens. “It—he—is not cuter than me.”
“He’s very cute.”
“He has icing for a face.”
“And it’s darling.”
Ash steps even closer. “Lucy.”
“Ash.”
He stares down at me, eyes narrowing, jaw ticking. My heart slams around in my chest like it’s trying to escape.
“How many lights did you wire into this thing?” he demands.
“Only three strands.”
“Liar.”
“Five.”
“Lucy.”
I sigh. “Eight.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“I used LED!”
“LED still draws power.”
“I used low wattage!”
“Show me your wiring.”
“No.”
“Lucy.”
“No, because you’ll just find reasons to hate it.”
He leans in—actually leans in—so close I feel the heat of his body seep into mine. His voice drops to a low, almost gravelly whisper.
“I don’t hate it.”
My breath catches. I don’t move. I can’t. He’s too close, too warm, too… everything.
“What do you hate then?” I whisper.
He studies me—slow, intense, like he’s trying to read thoughts I don’t dare speak out loud. Then he says, quiet and dangerous: “That you don’t listen.”
“No,” I murmur, “you hate that I challenge you.”
His eyes darken. “Maybe.”
“And maybe,” I say, tilt my chin, “you like it.”
His jaw flexes. His nostrils flare. For one wild second, it feels like he might grab the float, throw it, grab me, shake me, or kiss me.
I don’t know which would be more devastating.
Behind us, someone whispers loudly:
“Thirty bucks says they kiss before lunch.”
Another voice: “Nah, no way. She’s gonna break first. That librarian’s about to melt.”
Heat floods my face. Ash turns slowly toward his crew, voice sharp: “Don’t you all have work to do?”
They scatter. Poorly. And I hear muffled snickering from behind the engine. Ash turns back to me, exasperation mixing with something else entirely.
“Lucy, I can’t approve this float.”
“And I can’t build a new one.”
“You’re not listening—”
“No,” I cut in, stepping closer, “you’re not listening.”
His eyes lock on mine. “Try me.”
I jab a finger toward the gingerbread firefighter. “Kids are going to love this. The town is going to love this. The festival is supposed to be fun. Whimsy. Magic.”
“It can be all of those things without turning into a bonfire waiting to happen.”
“You’re overreacting.”
“You’re underreacting.”
“You’re bossy.”
“You spark fires.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“You’re infuriating.”
“YOU’RE—”
He steps in. Close. Close enough that our bodies don’t touch, but only because he’s holding himself back by sheer force of will. His voice drops to a warning murmur. Low.
Firm. Hot enough to melt snow. “Lucy.”
“Ash.”
“You’re pushing me.”
My pulse jumps. “Maybe I want to.”
His jaw tightens. “Maybe I’m letting you.”
Oh. Oh no. Oh yes.
I swallow hard. “Well. Good.”
“Not good,” he says. “Very not good.”
“I disagree.”
“Shocking.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You’re distracting.”
There it is again. That word. Spoken rough and raw and without hesitation.
I inhale sharply. “Stop calling me that.”
“Stop being that.”
“I’m not—”
“Yes,” he says quietly. “You are.”
My knees wobble.
He reaches out—just barely—fingertips grazing the edge of the float behind me like he needs something to hold on to. He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t have to. His restraint is worse than contact. Better. Hotter. Dangerous.
“Ash…” My voice breaks, embarrassingly soft.
His eyes flick down to my mouth. Slow. Deliberate. That look alone could knock me off my feet harder than falling off a thirty-foot ladder.
Someone behind us whispers:
“They’re doing that stare thing again.”
Another voice: “Ten bucks says they make out by the time the sun sets tonight.”
Ash snaps, without looking away from me, “I can hear you.”
The crew laughs and I breathe out shakily. “So what now? You cancel the float?”
His gaze flicks from my mouth to my eyes, and I swear the air tightens around us.
“I don’t want to cancel it,” he says.
I blink. “What?”
He takes a slow breath. “I want it safe.”
I blink again. “Safe?”
“You heard me.”
“You don’t… hate it?”
He looks at the gingerbread firefighter, then back at me. “I hate the wiring,” he says. “And the frosting. And the gumdrops. And the questionable structural integrity.”
I roll my eyes. “Okay—”
“But,” he adds, stepping impossibly closer, “I don’t hate the idea.”
Shock slips through me. “Really?”
“Really.”
I stare at him. Big. Stoic. Infuriating. Impossible. And doing something unexpected:
Compromising.
“Okay,” I say softly. “Then… help me fix it.”
His eyes widen a fraction. You would’ve thought I just asked him to strip naked in the town square. He clears his throat. “Fix it?”
“Yes.”
“As in… work together?”
“Yes.”
“On a gingerbread firefighter.”
“Yes, Ash.”
He drags a hand down his face like I’ve aged him ten years. “Jesus,” he mutters. “This is a mistake.”
“Probably,” I say, “but so is eating grocery store sushi and people survive that.”
He glares. “This is not the same.”
“You’re avoiding my point.”
“And you’re avoiding reality.”
“Which is?”
He leans in, voice rough, low, meant only for me.
“That getting closer to you is dangerous.”
My breath stutters. “For who?”
“For me.”
The world stops.
The snow. The float. The crew snickering behind the engine. All of it disappears.
“You think I’m dangerous?” I whisper.
“I know you are.”
“How?”
He doesn’t hesitate. Not even a second. “Because I can feel you, Lucy.” His voice is low enough to make my stomach drop. “Every time you walk into a room. Every time you argue with me. Every time you smile. I feel it.”
My knees nearly buckle.
“And I don’t want to feel anything I can’t control,” he finishes quietly.
I swallow hard. “And this? You can’t control this?”
His eyes darken to something heat-heavy and undeniable.
“No,” he admits. “Not even a little.”
I exhale, shaking with something I don’t want to name. “Then maybe,” I whisper, “you shouldn’t try.”
He stares at me and the tension stretches tight enough to snap.
Then he steps back—one step, two—like distance is the only thing keeping him sane.
“We fix the float tomorrow,” he says roughly. “If we can stand each other that long.”
“We can,” I shoot back.
“We’ll see.”
He turns, calling over his shoulder, “Crew, get back to work.”
They scatter again. I stand there in the snow, heart hammering, skin flushed, thoughts spinning, staring after him like he’s the fire and I’m the idiot leaning too close.
He doesn’t look back. But I know—I know—he felt it too.
Because that wasn’t a float argument.
That was a warning.
A promise.
A spark.
And I’m starting to think the real danger in Devil’s Peak…isn’t fire at all.
It’s him.
And the way he looks at me like we are seconds from burning.