Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Ash
If the firehouse has ever smelled this clean, I don’t remember it.
Someone scrubbed the bay floors till they shine.
Garlands hang from the rafters. Strings of white lights arc across the truck bays like constellations.
The ladder truck is parked outside, making room for tables, a dance floor, and a stage where the mayor is currently giving a speech I’m not listening to.
I should be listening.
I’m the department liaison for the festival, which means I should be paying attention, shaking hands, and pretending to enjoy this whole production.
But all I can think about—all I can feel—is the small tremor running under my skin as I wait for her to walk in.
Lucy.
Hell. Even her name hits like a match strike.
I tug at my collar, suddenly too hot under the string lights. The bay door is cracked for airflow, but it doesn’t help. Nothing helps. I’m wired, restless, pacing the edge of the room like a man waiting for something he shouldn’t want as badly as he does.
“Relax,” Talon mutters, elbowing me as he helps set out hot cocoa cups. “You look like you’re prepping for a rescue.”
“This is relaxing,” I lie.
He snorts. “Sure. And I’m Santa Claus.”
Before I can fire back, the door opens. The world tilts. Lucy steps inside.
Red dress with a deep neckline that makes my pulse punch hard against my ribs. Soft fabric that molds to her waist and flares at her hips. Her hair pulled back just enough to show the line of her neck—and damn if that doesn’t finish me.
I forget how to breathe.
She pauses in the doorway like she’s unsure she belongs here, scanning the crowd, cheeks pink from the cold. Then her eyes land on me. That’s it. That’s the moment. Because her breath catches too.
She walks toward me, small steps, tentative, like she’s worried the floor might give out beneath her. Maybe it does. Maybe it’s just me who feels the ground slide.
“Wow,” Talon whispers behind me. “You’re dead.”
I ignore him. I meet her halfway, because waiting even two more seconds feels impossible.
“Hi,” she says, voice soft, nerves fluttering under it.
“Lucy.”
Her name comes out low, rough. Too rough. I clear my throat, try again. “You look…”
No good words exist. Not for this.
She lets out a shaky laugh. “You too. You, um—clean up well.”
“I showered,” I say.
She laughs harder, and damn if that doesn’t make me want to drag her somewhere dark and kiss her until I forget the rest of the world exists.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I ask, forcing the words out evenly.
“Hot cocoa.” She gestures toward the refreshment table. “It smells amazing.”
We walk there together, close but not touching, the space between us full of things we haven’t said. Every time her dress brushes her leg, my gaze darts down. Every time she glances up through her lashes, it knocks the air out of me.
She takes a cup and lifts it to her lips. I watch her mouth—too long. Too nakedly. And she notices.
Her cheeks flush deeper. “You good?”
Not even slightly.
“You shouldn’t wear that dress,” I say.
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Excuse me?”
I drag a hand through my hair, frustrated. “Not—you look incredible. Too incredible. It’s distracting.”
Her eyes widen, pupils blooming. “Distracting.”
“Yeah.”
“Good.” She sips from her cup, hiding a smile.
Good? I swallow hard.
Someone starts music. Gentle, holiday-themed. Couples drift to the dance floor, swaying under the lights. The whole atmosphere softens, warm, hazy. Lucy watches them, her expression dreamy.
“Dance with me,” I hear myself say.
She startles. “What?”
I step closer, close enough to smell the faint cinnamon on her skin. “Dance with me.”
“I—I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
“I do.”
Her breath shivers. Slowly, almost cautiously, she sets her cup down on the table. Then she places her hand in mine. Heat shoots straight up my arm.
I lead her to the floor, hand at the small of her back, fingers pressing the fabric of her dress.
She steps into me, soft, warm, trusting.
The music swells. We move together, her body fitting against mine like it’s meant to be there.
Her hand rests on my chest. She breathes in, slow, shaky, her fingers flexing lightly against my shirt.
“You okay?” I murmur.
“Yes. No. I don’t—” She squeezes her eyes shut for a second. “This is dangerous.”
“Everything with you feels dangerous,” I admit.
Her eyes fly open. I hold her tighter.
We keep moving, slow circles, her dress brushing my boots. Every time she shifts, her thigh brushes mine and sends heat straight through me. Her gaze dips to my mouth—once, twice—before darting away like she’s afraid I saw it.
I did.
She doesn’t know I watch her closer than I watch brush fires.
The song fades, applause rising around us. I lead her off the dance floor, not ready to let go, my hand still at her back. The firehouse is too bright, too crowded, too loud for what’s happening inside me.
I need air.
I need space.
I need her.
“Come here,” I say, voice low.
Her breath catches. “Ash—”
“We’re just stepping aside,” I rasp. “I’m not doing anything.”
Not unless she asks. Not unless she leans in first. Not unless she breaks me.
I guide her toward a side hallway near the gear lockers, dimly lit, mostly empty. White lights cast soft shadows along the walls. The faint scent of pine mixes with the familiar smell of smoke-stained gear.
She hesitates in the threshold. “Is this—”
“Quiet,” I murmur.
She goes still. Slowly, I step closer, bracing one hand on the wall beside her head. Her back presses lightly against the lockers, her breath stuttering as I lean in—but not touching her. Not yet.
“Lucy,” I say quietly.
She swallows. “Yeah.”
“You’re killing me.”
Her pupils expand. “Ash…”
“You walk in here wearing that dress, looking at me like you want something—don’t expect me not to react.”
Her voice shakes. “I wasn’t trying to—”
“Don’t lie,” I whisper.
Her breath catches sharply. My thumb grazes her hip, slow, deliberate. She inhales like the touch shocks her.
“Tell me to step back,” I murmur, leaning just enough for her to feel my breath on her cheek.
She doesn’t. Instead, her hand lifts—tentative, trembling—and lands on my chest. The contact detonates every ounce of restraint I have.
I cage her in with my body, close but not touching, my forehead nearly brushing hers. She looks up at me, eyes wide, lips parted like a promise.
“Ash…” Her whisper is barely a sound. “We shouldn’t—”
“I know,” I say.
Neither of us move. I lower my head another inch. She tilts hers up. Our noses almost brush. Her breath slips over my mouth, warm and sweet and ruining. Her hand slides higher on my chest. My pulse jumps. I lean in, and then footsteps echo down the main bay.
We freeze and the spell snaps.
Lucy’s eyes widen, and she inhales sharply as she steps sideways out of my space, putting a safe distance between us that feels anything but safe.
I scrub a hand over my jaw, trying to breathe, trying to get my heartbeat under control.
“We should—” she starts.
“Yeah,” I say, voice wrecked. “We should.”
We step out of the corridor just in time to hear someone shout from across the bay, “Mistletoe!”
I look up. Perfect.
A massive bundle of mistletoe hangs from the rafters right above us. The entire room gasps, then starts cheering like they’re at a championship game.
“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”
Lucy turns scarlet.
Someone whistles. Someone else bangs a spoon against a punch bowl. Holly—bless her chaotic little heart—jumps up and down yelling, “Do it!”
Lucy laughs nervously. “Oh no.”
I stare at her. She stares back. The chanting grows louder. I should kiss her. I want to kiss her. I’m dying to kiss her.
I step closer. Her breath hitches. Her hand lifts like she thinks I’m going to take it. Everything inside me tightens. I stop inches from her, close enough to feel her warmth but far enough she can still breathe.
The crowd groans dramatically.
Holly yells, “UNCLE ASH!”
Lucy’s eyes sparkle—nervous, flustered, wanting.
My voice comes out low. “Not like this.”
Her lips part. I step back. Slowly. Painfully. The crowd boos. Lucy laughs, flustered, cheeks bright red. I turn away, sucking in a breath so sharp it burns.
Because if I kiss her…
If I touch her…
If I take her face in my hands and finally taste her…
There won’t be any stopping.
Not tonight.
Maybe not ever.
I force myself toward the refreshment table, gripping the edge like it’s a lifeline. My pulse refuses to slow. My body is still tuned to the shape of her against the lockers.
Behind me, the music swells again.
Lucy’s laugh drifts across the room, warm and sweet and devastating. And I know with absolute certainty that tonight wasn’t the breaking point.
It was the warning.
The next time I get her alone?
There won’t be any holding back.