Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Lucy
The firehouse garage always smells like cedar and cold metal and something distinctly Ash—dangerous, solid, masculine. Which is deeply unfortunate for someone trying to maintain composure. Like me.
I’m perched on a metal folding chair, tangled in a spool of tinsel garland while attempting to prep decorations for the Fire & Frost Festival. Holly is nearby drawing signs. The crew is in and out. Someone’s burning popcorn. Again. And Ash…
Ash is watching me. Not openly. Not obviously.
But I feel him. Every time he moves. Every time he breathes.
He’s fixing a plywood reindeer with a power drill, forearms flexing, jaw locked in that perpetual concentration that makes my stomach flip.
He keeps glancing at me between screws—those dark eyes flicking over like he’s checking for sparks. Or making sure I’m still here.
I pretend I don’t notice. No one is fooled. Especially not me.
“Lucy,” he says suddenly, voice rough enough to pull my gaze without permission. “Come here a sec.”
I stand, brushing glitter off my jeans. “If this is about the tinsel again, I swear it’s fire-safe.”
“It’s not.” He jerks his chin toward a corner where it’s quieter. “Just come.”
My pulse jumps. I follow him toward the back wall of the garage, weaving past toolboxes and stacks of wrapped presents.
Holly keeps drawing at the far table, humming to herself.
Good. She won’t overhear anything. When we stop, Ash crosses his arms over his chest, leaning against a support beam.
Not casually. There’s nothing casual about him.
This is the stance he takes when he’s interrogating someone.
“You okay?” he asks. The question lands heavier than it should.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” I counter.
His eyes narrow. “Don’t deflect.”
I wince. I hate that he’s learning my habits. Or maybe I love that he is. Which is worse.
I shrug. “I’m fine.”
He scans my entire face—slow, careful—until I feel completely transparent.
Then: “No, you’re not.”
I blink. “Wow. Rude.”
“Truthful.”
He pushes off the beam, stepping closer. Close enough that I feel heat roll off him. Close enough that my breath catches.
“Something’s been bothering you,” he says, low. “You’ve been jumpy all week.”
“Maybe I just have a lot going on.”
“Maybe,” he murmurs, “you’re avoiding talking about it.”
Damn him. Damn his intuition. Damn the way he looks at me. Damn the way my throat tightens.
“Ash,” I whisper, “I’m really okay. Just tired.”
He tilts his head, studying me like he can read every lie I’ve ever told. “Lucy.” His voice drops to a warning. “Talk to me.”
There it is—the unfiltered command underneath his calm. The thing that makes my knees go weak and my spine straighten at the same time. I swallow. Hard. “You want the truth?”
“Yes.”
I wrap my arms around myself. “You’re not going to like it.”
“I’ll manage.”
I exhale shakily. “Fine.”
And I tell him. Not everything at once. But enough to rip open the wound I’ve kept stitched tight since arriving in Devil’s Peak. “I left Denver,” I begin, “because I needed a fresh start.”
He waits.
“My ex cheated,” I say flatly. “On me. Repeatedly. With someone younger, blonder, and impressive in absolutely no ways except the ones that mattered to him.”
Ash’s jaw flexes so hard I hear the teeth grind. I keep going, because if I stop, the words will rot inside me again.
“When I found out, he said it was my fault. That I’d ‘changed.’ That I wasn’t fun anymore. That caring for my grandmother had made me… boring.”
I laugh—sharp, humorless. “Imagine that. Sacrificing your life for someone who raised you, only to be told it made you unlikable.”
Ash’s fists clench. I stare at the floor.
“My grandma got sick last winter,” I whisper. “I was her only family. I spent months driving her to treatments. Sitting beside her hospital bed. Reading to her. Feeding her. Living in this… constant fear of losing the person who meant everything to me.”
My throat tightens.
“She passed in the spring.” I feel the ground shift beneath my feet as the memory rises—cold and lonely and sharp. “And two weeks later,” I say softly, “he left. Said he’d outgrown the relationship. Said I’d changed too much.”
Silence swallows the garage.
Ash’s breathing has changed. Deeper. Rougher. Controlled only by sheer force of will.
“Lucy,” he says, voice shaking with contained fury, “why the hell didn’t you tell me that sooner?”
“Because it wasn’t your business.”
“The hell it wasn’t.”
I raise a brow. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
He steps closer—too close. My back grazes the wall. He cages me there, not touching, but absolutely claiming the air around me.
“Nobody,” he growls, “gets to treat you like that. Nobody gets to break you and walk away like you’re replaceable.”
My breath stutters. He leans in, just enough that my lips tingle with heat.
“You are not boring,” he says fiercely. “You are not unlikable. And you damn sure aren’t someone a man outgrows.”
“Ash…”
He breathes hard, fighting something. Fighting himself. Fighting us.
“You don’t let people in easily,” he murmurs. “I’ve seen that. Felt that.”
I swallow. “Yeah, well. Getting burned does that.”
“Then why tell me now?”
I meet his eyes—dark, molten, consuming. “Because,” I whisper, “you asked.”
His jaw softens. Not much. Just enough to make him look painfully human.
“Lucy…” He closes his eyes for a second, like he’s fighting the urge to pull me into him. “…you deserved better.”
The words slam into me. Heavy. Real. Raw. I blink back sudden heat behind my eyes. “Don’t say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because you mean them.”
He opens his eyes, staring at me like I’m something breakable and dangerous all at once. “I do.”
I shake my head. “Ash…”
He lifts a hand—hesitates—then rests it against the wall beside my head instead of touching me.
“Whoever he was,” Ash says, voice now low enough to curl around my spine, “he was a coward for leaving.”
I laugh bitterly. “No. He just didn’t love me enough.”
Ash’s eyes flare. “That’s bullshit.”
“No, it’s—”
“No.” His voice cuts through mine. “You don’t get to blame yourself for a man who didn’t deserve you.”
I’m breathing too fast now.
“And caring for the woman who raised you?” he adds. “That isn’t something that makes you less. That’s something that makes you more.”
My chest aches. “Ash…” My voice cracks. “Stop.”
“I’m not stopping.”
“Please,” I whisper.
“No.” He leans in until our noses almost touch, the heat of him drowning the cold air.
“Lucy,” he murmurs, “if I ever hear you say you weren’t enough again, I swear—”
“You’ll what?” I breathe.
His voice drops to a warning growl. “I’ll show you exactly how wrong you are.”
Everything inside me twists. “Ash…”
He closes his eyes briefly, jaw locked. “This is why I asked,” he mutters. “This is why I wanted to know.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve been trying—really fucking trying—to give you space. To keep my distance. To do the right thing.”
“And this ruins that?”
He laughs once, a dark, frustrated sound. “You ruined that the day you showed up with glitter in your hair and told me my cabin was cute.”
My stomach flips violently. “Ash…”
He steps back suddenly—as if he knows staying this close will end in something neither of us is ready for. He scrubs a hand through his hair. “Jesus. Why does this feel like a goddamn confession?”
“Because it is.”
His eyes snap to mine.
I cover my mouth, horrified I said it. “Ignore that. Forget I said that. Erase it.”
He shakes his head slowly. “No.”
“Ash—”
“No,” he repeats, softer this time. “I’m not ignoring it. I’m not pretending.”
My pulse races. He looks at me with something dangerous in his eyes.
“You didn’t deserve what he did,” Ash says quietly. “You deserve someone who shows up. Someone who stays.”
My throat burns.
“You deserve better than lies. Better than selfish men. Better than a life spent taking care of everyone but yourself.”
“Ash…”
“You deserve,” he finishes roughly, “better than the hell you were put through.”
I breathe in sharply. He steps closer again—close enough that I feel his heat everywhere. “I don’t know what this is between us,” he admits, voice raw. “But I know it’s real.” My heart stops. “I know,” he continues, “that when you look at me like that, I can’t think straight.”
“Ash…”
“And I know,” he whispers, “that if your ex stood in this firehouse right now, I’d throw him through a wall.”
A laugh bursts out of me—wet and shaky and unsteady. He smirks, just a little. Then we both go still again. The tension thickens—hot, electric, coiling tighter with every breath.
I whisper, “Why are you telling me this?”
His answer is barely audible. “Because you deserve better.”
And then— With an expression that looks like pain and want and surrender tangled together— He steps back. A full step. Distance drops between us like a wall. It hurts. Worse than I expect.
“Ash—”
“We should get back to work,” he says gruffly.
“Ash.”
“Lucy,” he warns.
“Ash,” I counter.
We stare at each other—neither moving, neither breaking.
He breathes out hard. “If I stay this close to you…” I wait. “If I stay close,” he whispers, “I won’t be able to stop myself.”
Heat slams through me. “Ash…”
“Don’t say my name like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you want me to lose control.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.”
Silence.
Hot, electric, unbearable.
Slowly—so slowly—I nod. “Okay,” I whisper. “We’ll work.”
He closes his eyes like he’s fighting the urge to drag me right back into him. When he opens them again, he’s composed. Barely. But enough to turn away. Enough to act like we didn’t almost shatter something fragile and inevitable between us.
Holly runs over, waving her drawing. “Uncle Ash! Look! It’s you and Miss Lucy and me and a giant snowflake!”
He freezes. I turn to him. He meets my eyes. And for the first time since I met him— He looks terrified. Not of danger. Not of responsibility.
Of me.
Of this.
Of us.