Chapter Twenty-Nine
Things That Catch Fire
Chase
Scarlett is sitting on my kitchen counter, legs swinging, hair twisted up in some messy knot that’s making it really hard to focus on the task at hand.
Which is—not setting the kitchen on fire.
“I thought you said you knew how to cook,” she says, eyeing the smoke curling up from the pan like she’s already planning her escape route.
“I do,” I say confidently, even as the smoke alarm starts to beep. “Mostly.”
Rip is lying in the corner, head on his paws, watching this whole disaster unfold like he’s seen it a hundred times. Which he has.
Scarlett hops down from the counter, waving a dish towel at the smoke alarm while laughing. “Should I call for backup? Or maybe a pizza?”
“You’re seriously underestimating my capabilities,” I mutter, grabbing the skillet and trying to salvage what used to be chicken.
“You’re seriously overestimating your stove settings.”
I roll my eyes.
Eventually, I manage to get dinner on the table—somewhat charred chicken tacos, homemade guac that turned out suspiciously decent, and store-bought churros I tried to pass off as handmade until she caught the price tag still on the box.
We eat on the couch, Rip wedged between us like the world’s fluffiest chaperone, while a low-fi playlist hums in the background. Scarlett’s curled up with her knees tucked under her, a taco in one hand and a margarita in the other.
“This is fun,” she says, and I glance over, surprised by how soft her voice sounds.
“Even with the almost-fire?”
She grins. “Especially with the almost-fire.”
I’m just glad she agreed to come over.
She takes a sip of her drink, then nudges my knee with hers. “So. How was the road trip?”
“Exhausting,” I say. “California, Arizona, back-to-back games. But good. We won both.”
“Look at you. A functioning adult with a winning streak.”
“Shocking, I know.”
She gives me a look.
I shrug, trying to downplay it. “Yeah, I felt good on the ice. Fast. Focused.”
She studies me for a second. “You’ve been playing really well lately. I read that stat thing online. Your coach said something about how you’ve stepped into a leadership role.”
I glance away, caught off guard by the pride in her voice. “Yeah, well. Trying not to screw it up.”
“You won’t,” she says simply, like it’s a fact.
I glance over. “You sure about that?”
“Pretty sure.” She pops the last bite of her taco into her mouth.
Next, she asks about my parents, and I ask about the first book she ever wrote. She tells me about her writing process—equal parts caffeine, panic, and Google Docs. I tell her about the time I accidentally texted my coach instead of my dog-sitter and invited him to stay in my guest room.
It’s easy.
We navigate between deeper topics and amusing ones like it’s nothing.
By the time we’re done eating, the sky outside has darkened. She’s sitting beside me now, close enough that her bare leg brushes mine every time she shifts. My hand is draped along the back of the couch, fingers itching to reach for her.
She catches me staring, and her lips curve. “What?”
“Nothing.” I shrug. “You just…fit here. Better than I thought you would.”
Her smile falters for half a second, then softens. “I’m not staying the night, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
I laugh. “Didn’t say you were. Although Rip would be thrilled.”
At the sound of his name, Rip lifts his head and promptly rests it in Scarlett’s lap with a dramatic sigh.
“Betrayal,” I mutter.
Scarlett scratches behind his ears. “You’ll live.”
I lean forward, nudging her foot with mine. “Want another churro?”
She hesitates for a second, then nods.
I go grab them, and when I come back, she’s tucked under a blanket, Rip still using her as a pillow, and she looks so ridiculously at home that something shifts in my chest. A little jolt, like maybe I’m not just falling for her—I already have.
I hand her the churro.
She arches a brow. “Is this how you woo women? Flammable dinners and pre-packaged desserts?”
“It’s a high-risk, high-reward strategy.”
She takes a bite. “Well. You’re lucky I have low standards.”
I smirk. “Noted.”
We fall into a comfortable conversation, with the sound of Rip snoring and the soft hum of music.
And for the first time in a long time, my house doesn’t feel like just a place I sleep.
It feels like something more.
It feels like her.
I don’t know how long I’ve been staring at her. Probably too long. Definitely too long.
Her lips are parted, her cheeks a little flushed. There’s something soft in her eyes now—unguarded.
I shift slightly, resting my arm on the back of the couch behind her.
“You tired?” I ask.
She shakes her head, her voice barely above a whisper. “Not yet.”
I nod slowly. “Cool.”
Because I am smooth. And articulate. And absolutely not spiraling internally over whether this is a moment or not.
Scarlett turns to me, curling her legs a little closer to her body, one hand brushing back a loose strand of hair. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
I blink. “Like what?”
“Like I’m going to disappear.”
I don’t answer. I can’t. Because that’s exactly what it feels like. Like if I don’t hold on tight enough, she’ll vanish.
She swallows. “Say something.”
So I do.
“You drive me insane,” I murmur. “And I can’t stop wanting you, even when I know I might end up hurt.”
Her breath catches.
I lean in—slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wants. But she doesn’t. Her eyes flicker to my mouth, then back to my eyes.
She whispers, “You’re not supposed to make me feel like this.”
My voice is low. “Like what?”
“Like maybe I’ve been wrong about everything.”
That’s all the permission I need.
I close the space between us, pressing my lips to hers—slow, tentative, like I’m afraid to want it too much.
But then she kisses me back.
And it’s not slow anymore.
It’s soft, then demanding. Her fingers curl in my shirt, and my hand slides up to cradle her jaw, angling her closer like I need her in every way a person can need someone.
The blanket slips to the floor. Rip snorts in protest and jumps down, giving us a wide berth as Scarlett shifts to straddle my lap, her hands threading through my hair.
She tastes like cinnamon and sugar and something I’ve been craving for a very long time.
She kisses like she argues—fierce, unwavering, and with absolute certainty she’s going to win.
When we finally pull apart, her breath is shaky. Mine’s wrecked, too.
Her forehead rests against mine.
“Well,” she murmurs, her voice low and still a little breathless, “that was… really good.”
I grin, still catching my breath. “Yeah?”
She nods, but her lips twitch into a smirk. “Bonus points for actually knowing how to kiss. I wasn’t convinced you would.”
I laugh, leaning in to press my lips against hers again. “You were testing me?”
She shrugs, eyes dancing. “Consider it a trial run. I guess you’ll do.”
“You guess I’ll do?” I echo, mock-offended. That’s a first.
She arches a brow, smug. “Don’t get cocky.”
“Too late,” I murmur, kissing her again.
And this time, she doesn’t pull away.
And she might not be ready to say it out loud—but that? That was her letting me in.
And I’m not going anywhere.