Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Lucy
Devil’s Peak could host a bake sale and somehow turn it into a spectacle, but the annual Fire & Frost Charity Calendar? That’s a full-blown event.
Half the town is packed into the firehouse bay when I arrive—photographers setting up lights, volunteer coordinators barking instructions, Holly handing out candy canes like a tiny sugar-fueled dictator.
And then there’s Ash. Standing dead center. Jaw clenched. Arms crossed.
Expression carved from stone. Already annoyed, and the shoot hasn’t even started. Which means I am absolutely, definitely, one hundred percent in trouble.
I slip behind a row of folding chairs, but Holly spots me instantly and shrieks:
“LUCY!”
Her little boots slap across the concrete as she barrels into my legs. I scoop her up.
“Hi, sweetheart. You look very official with that candy cane badge.”
“It means I’m in charge,” she whispers. “Uncle Ash said don’t tell anyone that, but it’s true.”
Of course.
“Where’s your uncle?” I ask.
She points. And that’s when I see it: Ash is shirtless. Not halfway shirtless. Not “just taking off his jacket.” Fully. Shirtless. Broad shoulders. Hard chest. Muscles that look like they were handcrafted for sin and holiday marketing.
His turnout pants hang low on his hips, suspenders draped around his thighs, and he’s glaring at the photographer like he’s considering arson.
My lungs forget how to work.
Holly pats my cheek. “He hates it.”
“Yes,” I whisper hoarsely. “I can see that.”
“Everyone keeps saying he looks very… what was that word?”
“Photogenic?”
“No. The other one. The one Mrs. Stevens said when he took off his shirt.”
I swallow. “Uh—handsome?”
“No,” Holly says confidently. “The other thing. Thirsty.”
I choke so hard Holly thumps my back.
“Oh my God—Holly—you can’t—where did you hear that?”
She shrugs. “Everyone said it. And then Uncle Ash told them to shut up.”
Of course he did.
I spot the festival coordinator waving me over. “Lucy! There you are! We need your help with staging!”
Holly wiggles out of my arms to run after another kid, leaving me to face the firing squad. Or, more accurately, the shirtless firefighter. I walk toward him, calculating the odds of surviving this moment with any dignity. Low. Approximately zero.
He’s rubbing the back of his neck, irritation visible in every tense line of his body.
A photographer waves a clipboard. “Ash! We need you angled more toward the light—”
“Not happening,” Ash mutters.
“Ash,” I say gently.
He turns. And when his eyes land on me, something flickers—heat, annoyance, something too dangerous to name.
“Lucy.” His voice is low. Gravel. “What are you doing here?”
“I volunteer. Remember?”
“I remember you volunteering me for a snow cannon attack.”
“You walked into the blast.”
“You aimed it at me.”
My lips twitch. “Debatable.”
His gaze sweeps my face, lingering too long, lingering in a way that makes my pulse skip.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he murmurs.
“Why not?”
“Because I can’t—” He cuts himself off, jaw flexing. “Just… stay out of the staging area.”
“Too late,” I say brightly. “I’m literally the staging area.”
He drags both hands down his face like he’s praying for strength.
God, he’s pretty when he suffers.
The coordinator rushes over, thrusting a Santa hat at me. “Lucy, perfect! We need help with the December shot. Ash refuses to take direction.”
Ash growls. “I’m right here.”
“Exactly,” she says cheerfully. “And you’re impossible. So Lucy is handling you now.”
My eyebrows shoot up. Oh hell.
Ash’s glare swings to me. “No.”
“Yes!” the coordinator chirps. “Lucy, position him!”
Position him.
The words alone almost combust my nervous system.
Ash folds his arms—now making his biceps bulge in a way that should be illegal—and says, “Don’t even think about touching me.”
I try to keep my voice steady. “I have to adjust your pose.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
He steps closer, towering over me, heat rolling off him like a furnace.
“Lucy,” he says quietly, “I’m warning you.”
I look straight up at him, refusing to back down. “Ash, it’s for charity.”
“I don’t care.”
“You care about everything.”
“Not this.”
“Yes, you do.”
His eyes burn. “If I let you start touching me, I won’t be able to stop you.”
I freeze.
He freezes.
The whole firehouse goes silent.
Then Boone loudly whispers, “Oh my God.”
The coordinator claps her hands. “Perfect! Sexual tension sells calendars!”
“Ma’am,” Ash snaps, “please stop talking.”
I swallow hard, grab the Santa hat, and avoid looking at his chest as I step closer.
“Ash,” I murmur, “just let me help.”
He exhales through his nose. “Fine. One minute.”
I lift the hat, but my hands shake.
He notices immediately. “Lucy.”
“Yes?”
“Calm down.”
“I’m calm.”
“You’re trembling.”
“No, I’m—” My voice cracks. “Completely fine.”
His mouth curves—not a smile, but something darker. “You’re flustered.”
“You’re not special. Everyone would be flustered.”
“Uh-huh.”
He tilts his head, eyes drifting down my face, to my mouth. Damn it. Focus. I reach up to place the Santa hat on his head. I have to stretch onto my toes to reach, and that moves me closer— Too close. His breath grazes my cheek. His chest rises, brushing lightly against mine.
My hand slips, fingers brushing the back of his neck. He inhales sharply.
“Lucy,” he warns.
I yank my hand back like I touched a live wire. “Right. Sorry.”
The photographer laughs. “You two are killing me. Ash, lose the tension. Lucy—uh—keep doing what you’re doing.”
Ash turns his glare on the photographer. “Do you want to lose a tooth?”
“Wow,” I murmur. “So festive.”
“Lucy.”
“Lieutenant Calder.”
His eyes flare. I step behind him to adjust the angle of his shoulders, my palms dangerously close to warm skin.
“Turn a little to the left,” I say softly.
He doesn’t move.
“Left,” I repeat.
Nothing.
“Ash,” I whisper, “work with me.”
He finally shifts—but an inch too far.
“No, no—back a little.”
He doesn’t. Because he knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s making me push him.
Fine.
I place my hands on his shoulders.
And feel him tense like I’ve shocked him.
God. His skin is warm. His muscles hard under my palms. And when I apply pressure to turn him slightly— He exhales a sound that makes my knees weaken.
I freeze. “Ash?”
He’s quiet. Too quiet. Then—voice low, almost a growl: “You need to stop touching me.”
My heart slams against my ribs. “Why?”
“Because I’m one second away from—”
He stops again. I’m dying.
“Ash,” I whisper, “from what?”
He turns his head slightly. Just enough that I can see his eyes over his shoulder.
They are not safe eyes. They are I'm-going-to-ruin-your-holiday-decorations eyes.
He says, barely audible, “From forgetting we’re in public.”
My breath catches. We stand there—silent—surrounded by people but somehow alone.
“Okay,” I whisper. “I’ll stop touching you.”
“Good.”
I step back. He steps too— Toward me. Until my back hits the wall of the firehouse bay. He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t lean in. He just stands close enough that heat radiates through the inches between us. Close enough that the crew stares like they’re watching their favorite soap opera.
He lowers his head slightly. “Lucy.”
“Yes.”
“Tell them we’re done.”
“We’re… done?”
He nods once.
“That’s your professional opinion?”
“No,” he murmurs. “That’s me trying not to do something stupid.”
My pulse jumps. “Like what?”
His eyes dip to my mouth again. Oh. Oh God. He wants to kiss me. And I want him to.
Badly. But he doesn’t move. Just stands there, breathing like he’s trying to hold the world together.
“Lucy!” the coordinator calls. “We need you for the backdrop adjustments!”
Ash straightens immediately. I push off the wall, trying to look like a functioning human being. “I—I’ll go help them.”
He nods. But as I turn— His hand brushes mine.
Accidentally.
Or not.
I look back. He’s already facing the photographer again, shoulders squared, jaw set, pretending he’s fine. But his knuckles are white. And mine won’t stop tingling.
A while later, I’m adjusting the backdrop—tinsel garland, lighted wreaths, the whole glittery mess—when Ash approaches again.
Still shirtless. Still dangerous.
“You okay?” he asks.
“No,” I admit breathlessly. “Not even a little.”
His mouth curves, faint but real. “Good.”
“Good?”
“Means I’m not the only one losing my mind.”
My knees go weak.
Before I can respond, the photographer shouts, “Last shot! Ash, turn slightly toward Lucy!”
Ash glares at him. “Why toward her?”
“Because you look less murderous when she’s in your eyeline.”
Holly pipes up from the corner: “Uncle Ash likes Lucy!”
Ash chokes. I nearly drop the wreath. The crew starts hollering.
I whirl on Holly. “Sweetheart—maybe…inside thoughts stay inside your head?”
She shakes hers. “Nope! Mommy said to always tell the truth.”
Ash drags a hand down his face. “Jesus.”
The photographer snaps half a dozen pictures of Ash’s misery.
Finally he calls it. “We’re done!”
The crowd disperses. Ash grabs his shirt but doesn’t put it on yet. He walks toward me. Slow. Controlled. Predator controlled.
“Lucy.” My name sounds dangerous in his mouth.
“Yes?”
He stops in front of me, so close I smell cedar and winter air and warmth.
“You can’t volunteer for my shoots anymore.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” he says, eyes locked on mine, “you’re going to get me into trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“The kind I can’t walk away from.”
His voice wraps around me like a heated blanket.
I step closer without meaning to. “Ash…”
He leans in, eyes dropping to my lips—
And for one impossible second—
He’s going to kiss me.
My heart launches itself out of my chest.
But then—
“UNCLE ASH!” Holly barrels toward us. “Can we go get pizza with Lucy now?”
He jerks back.
I could scream. Instead I plaster on a smile. “Pizza sounds perfect.”
Holly grabs both our hands. Ash looks at mine, then at me.
Something softens. Something surrendering. He threads his fingers through mine. Not by accident. Not this time.
And as we walk out of the firehouse—him shirtless, annoyed, flustered, huge—Holly swinging between us—
I know one thing with absolute certainty:
He nearly kissed me tonight.
And next time? I don’t think he’ll stop.