Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Lucy
The wind picks up before noon.
Devil’s Peak weather is chaotic, unpredictable, slightly vengeful. One minute the air is crisp and clear, the next it’s a swirling mess of winter mischief that laughs right in your face.
I’m standing on the parade grounds next to my gingerbread firefighter float—my pride, my baby, my two-week labor of glitter, cardboard, and questionable engineering.
I’m adjusting the peppermint swirl banners along the sides, humming to myself, trying to ignore how every time I let go of a ribbon, the gusting wind whips it against my cheek like a festive insult.
“Hold still,” I mutter to the misbehaving decoration as I secure it with an extra staple. “You will not embarrass me in front of the entire town, do you hear me?”
The peppermint doesn’t answer, but I consider that a good sign.
What’s not a good sign?
The creaking. The groaning. And the unmistakable sound of something very large and very important beginning to tip.
My head jerks up.
The giant gingerbread firefighter figure—the centerpiece of the float, the eight-foot-tall cardboard-and-wood Frankenstein creation I’ve poured half my soul into—is swaying dangerously. The wind shoves it, and it tilts, wobbling like a drunk linebacker at last call.
“Oh no. Oh—no, no, no,” I whisper, scrambling up onto the float to steady it.
The platform shifts under my feet. Another gust slams into the float. The gingerbread firefighter lurches. I grab the wooden support beam and throw my weight against it, my boots skidding on the painted plywood.
“Don’t you move,” I hiss.
The wind laughs. The float tilts harder. I wobble, fingers slipping. The world tilts with me. My heart lurches into my throat as my foot catches on a coil of lights and I pitch forward, arms flailing—then suddenly I’m not falling.
A strong arm slams around my waist. A hand clutches the back of my coat. My body is yanked backward into a wall of heat and muscle.
Ash.
His chest hits my back, solid as a brick furnace. His arm locks around me like a steel band, hauling me against him.
For a split second, I’m weightless. For a split second, I’m airborne. Then he catches me fully, grounding me, pulling me tight—too tight—like he’s scared of something.
“Jesus Christ, Sparky,” he growls into my ear, breath hot against my cheek, “are you trying to give me a heart attack?”
I’m shaking, from fear, from adrenaline. From him.
“Ash,” I whisper, breathless.
He doesn’t let go. His hand is splayed across my stomach, fingers gripping the fabric of my jacket like he’s physically preventing me from disappearing.
“Why,” he says, every word thick, rough, vibrating through his chest, “are you on a goddamn float in this wind?”
“I—I was fixing the decorations—”
“You were about to go flying into the next county.”
My mouth opens, then closes again. He finally exhales, the sound sharp and uneven, like he’s been holding his breath for twenty minutes.
He turns me around so I’m facing him, hands still on my hips, thumbs brushing dangerously close to the hem of my coat. His eyes are storm-dark, jaw tight, the tendons in his neck flexing.
“You good?” he asks.
The concern is real. So is the anger. So is the heat. All of it aimed directly at me.
I nod, but it’s weak. My voice barely makes it out. “I—yeah. I’m okay. Thanks to you.”
His fingers flex at my waist. It’s a small movement. Tiny. But it ignites something low in my stomach.
“Sparky,” he mutters, eyes flicking down to my lips. “You’ve gotta stop making me chase after you like this.”
“I wasn’t— I didn’t mean—”
“Doesn’t matter.” His voice drops another octave. “You scare the hell out of me.”
And I should say something normal. Rational. Appropriate.
But all I can hear is the rasp in his voice.
All I can feel is the heat of his hands.
All I can think about is the way he’s looking at me, like I’m the fire. Not the float. Not the hazard. Me.
My breathing stutters. “I didn’t know it was that windy.”
“It’s always that windy.” His thumb strokes a slow arc at my hip. The touch is barely there, but enough to unravel me. “And you climbed up anyway.”
“I needed to fix it.”
“You needed to wait for help.”
I swallow hard. “I didn’t think you’d be here.”
His jaw ticks. “I’m everywhere you are.”
The words land like a strike of lightning. My knees wobble. His grip tightens.
There’s a beat—long, heavy—where neither of us moves or speaks. The world fades out. The wind still howls. Decorations flap. But it’s all distant, muffled, unimportant.
Ash is here.
Ash is holding me.
Ash is looking at me like he’s seconds away from ruining us in the best possible way.
I don’t know who moves first. Maybe neither of us does. But suddenly his face is closer. His breath mixes with mine. His eyes flick to my mouth again, slower this time, deliberate. My pulse thunders in my ears.
“Ash,” I whisper, but it’s barely sound.
His hand slides from my waist to the small of my back, pulling me flush to him. My chest hits his. My breath catches. His other hand cups my jaw, thumb brushing the corner of my lips.
The world narrows into a single point: his touch. His breath. His mouth, inches from mine.
“Lucy,” he murmurs, voice shredded, “what are you doing to me?”
I don’t answer because I can’t.
Because all I want—all I feel—is the gravity pulling me forward. The ache. The heat. The electric stretch of air between our lips. His eyes flicker closed for one second.
One. Agonizing. Second.
Then he opens them and the restraint there almost breaks me.
I whisper, barely audible, “I trust you.”
The words leave me before I can stop them. Honest. Too honest.
His hand on my jaw freezes. He looks like the ground just shifted beneath him. Like he’s not sure whether to pull me closer or run from the weight of what I just said. Then his thumb strokes my cheek, slow as a heartbeat.
“Don’t say things like that,” he whispers, voice trembling. “Not when I want you this badly.”
My knees give out. He holds me tighter, like he expected it. His forehead drops to mine. We’re breathing the same air now. Sharing the same heat. Standing on the same dangerous line.
His nose brushes mine. His lips hover. That’s it. That’s all it would take. A millimeter. A breath. A choice. I feel his breath shake. His fingers dig into my hip. He’s losing it. He’s losing it and I want him to.
“Kiss me,” I whisper before my brain can catch up.
His reaction is immediate—a rough inhale, a soft curse breathed into my cheek—but he still doesn’t close the distance.
He pulls back an inch, jaw clenched hard. “I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because if I do, I won’t stop.”
Something dangerously warm spreads through my chest.
“Ash…”
He steps back another inch. Then another. His hands fall from my waist, leaving cold air where his heat had seared into me. He runs a hand through his hair, shaking like he’s fighting a demon.
“Lucy, I swear to God,” he mutters, “you’re gonna be the end of me.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Yes,” he cuts in, low, intense. “You did.”
He stares at me like he’s memorizing my face, then turns away, bracing both hands against the side of the float to steady himself.
The wind whips again. This time, the float doesn’t budge. But I do.
I sink onto the edge, heart hammering, legs trembling, lips tingling with a kiss that didn’t happen—but almost did. Ash exhales hard, still facing away.
“I need to… I need a minute,” he says, voice shredded.
I nod, because I need a minute too. Or maybe an hour. Or maybe a lifetime.
The wind howls again, rattling the decorations, flinging glitter off into the sky. But I barely hear it over the sound of my own heart.
And Ash Calder, still gripping the float like it’s the only thing keeping him from doing the one thing we’re both drowning in—turning around, grabbing me, pulling me in, and finally, finally, kissing me.