Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Clay
Sirens are loud.
Gossip is louder.
By the time I finish the incident report the next day, file the preliminary cause notes, and lecture my guys about ground-fault breakers, Copper Mountain already has us married. Her. Ember. She’s been on my mind since the moment I carried her out of the smoke.
I know it the second Ramirez comes back from coffee with that look.
He leans against the office door, sipping like he’s settling in for a show. “So, Cap. Anything you wanna tell us?”
I don’t look up from the tablet. “About what.”
“The artist.”
I stop typing.
Look up slow.
“Try that again,” I say.
He grins like a punk. “The engagement. You and the clay girl. Fire-forged lovers. ‘He carried her from the flames and straight into forever.’” He actually clasps his hands like he’s swooning. “Town is eating it up, man.”
I stare.
“I didn’t say that,” I grind out.
“You didn’t have to,” he says. “Ivy and Ruby were at the station earlier to drop off cookies. Said Tina at the Gazette called to confirm, mentioned you got down on one knee in the snow. Said she heard it from Lottie at the insurance desk, who heard it from Indie—”
I hold up a hand. “Ramirez.”
He snaps his mouth shut.
I push back from the desk, muscles tight from no sleep and too much smoke. I rinse the taste of ash from my mouth with lukewarm coffee and grab my jacket.
“Where are you going?” he asks.
“To put out a worse fire,” I mutter, and head for the door.
Because I know exactly how this happened.
She did it.
The barefoot chaos goblin with paint on her arms and tears in her eyes who tried to run into a fully involved structure.
Ember Quinn.
Pretty name. Stupid choices.
I climb into the truck and gun it for my rental cabin.
I pull up in front of the cabin five minutes later and kill the engine.
It’s late afternoon, snowmelt dripping off the eaves, sun low and gold.
There’s a blanket tacked up as a curtain and a potted plant already on the porch. Less than 24 hours and she’s nesting.
Of course.
I stomp up the steps and knock once.
No answer.
I hear music, though. Some indie-folk-hippie shit with wind chimes and a banjo.
I knock again, harder. “Ember.”
Footsteps.
The door cracks.
Brown eyes, wide. Messy bun. She’s in leggings and an oversized sweatshirt that says Kiln It across the chest in glitter. There’s a smudge of clay on her jaw.
And she smiles.
Then she sees my face.
“Oh,” she says, smile fading. “You look…fun.”
“Cute,” I say flatly. “We need to talk.”
She opens the door wider and waves me in like this is normal. The place smells like coffee, vanilla, and something floral. Her duffel lies open on the couch, shoes everywhere, sketchbooks stacked on the coffee table like survivors.
“Sorry it’s a mess,” she says, kicking a paintbrush under the couch. “It’s been a day.”
“It’s about to get worse,” I tell her.
She turns, hands on hips. “Did the studio spontaneously un-burn itself?”
I level her a look. “Why is the Copper Mountain Gazette calling me your fiancé?”
Her mouth opens.
Closes.
She winces.
“Okay,” she says slowly, walking backward like she can make space with charm. “So, funny story.”
“It’s not funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
“Ember.”
“Okay, okay.” She plants her palms toward me, surrender. “So I went to file the insurance claim—”
“Today?”
“Yes. First thing this morning.”
“Saw the kitchen light on from my place late last night–did you even sleep?”
She shrugs. “Couldn’t. Kept smelling smoke. And I wanted to document everything while it was still in my head. I brought pictures, estimates, lists—”
“Good.” I nod once. “That helps.”
“—and then I met Lottie—”
I close my eyes. “Jesus.”
Lottie is seventy, nosy, and runs the front desk like it’s a gossip ministry.
“She saw the incident report. She saw your name. And in the little emergency contact section on the intake, it had you listed as fiancé.” Ember winces. “Which was obviously wrong.”
“Obviously,” I deadpan. “Since we’ve never been on a date.”
“You’ve never even bought me dinner,” she agrees, tone wounded.
“You were on fire,” I remind her.
“You can still buy dinner after,” she says. “Rude.”
My jaw flexes. “So why didn’t you correct it?”
“I was going to!” she says, marching toward me.
“But then Tina walked in and started talking about doing a feature on ‘love in the line of fire,’ and Lottie was like ‘Oh my gosh, yes, she was so brave and he carried her,’ and they were both looking at me with hearts in their eyes and I—” She breaks off, hands flailing. “It just…came out.”
“What came out,” I say slowly.
“That you were my fiancé,” she says in a rush. “Kind of.”
I stare.
She winces again. “I said ‘Yes, that’s him.’ I panicked.”
“You panicked,” I repeat. “So you invented an engagement.”
“Invented is such a harsh word,” she says, biting her lip. “I confirmed a clerical error with enthusiasm.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Ember.”
“I know, I know. But they were so happy about it. And listen—listen.” She hurries closer, hands up. “There’s a reason it helps.”
“Oh, I cannot wait to hear this.”
She narrows her eyes at my tone. “The investigator is coming up from Denver.”
“Already?”
“Yeah. Tomorrow. Because the fire was electrical and the panel was old and my claim is…big.” She grimaces. “I told you I insured everything.”
“Good,” I say again, automatic. “So what does that have to do with—”
“If it looks like I was being negligent,” she talks over me, words spilling like marbles, “or if it looks like I just moved here and torched my own studio to get a check—”
“You didn’t,” I cut in, firm.
“I know that,” she says, eyes flashing, “and you know that, but he doesn’t know that.
And Lottie said—and I didn’t even think about this, she just said it—‘well she can’t have done it on purpose, she’s getting married to the fire captain, he wouldn’t let that slide,’ and Tina was like, ‘that’s so true,’ so… yeah.”
I blink.
“So…yeah?” I repeat.
“So…now we’re engaged,” she finishes, hands flopping to her sides.
I stare at her for a good ten seconds. She fidgets under it, dragging a bare foot across the rug, chewing her lip.
“You couldn’t have told them the truth?” I ask finally.
“You couldn’t have smiled for five seconds?” she fires back.
My brows snap down. “What?”
“You growled the whole time I was at the station,” she says. “Lottie was scared of you.”
“Good.”
“Not good,” she huffs. “Scared people ask more questions. I was trying to make it look normal. Like we’re…together.”
“We’re not together.”
Her gaze drops to my mouth. Just for a beat.
Then back up.
“Then stop looking at me,” she says quietly, “like you wish we were.”
The room goes still.
She said it.
I don’t flinch.
Because she’s not wrong.
I do look at her like that. I looked at her like that last night, ash-smeared and crying and still smart-mouthed when I dropped her off at my rental cabin. I looked at her like that at two in the damn morning when I replayed pulling her away from the door.
I just didn’t think she noticed.
I take a step forward.
She sucks in a breath but doesn’t retreat.
“You have no idea,” I say, voice low, “what I wish.”
Her pulse jumps in her throat. I see it. I want to put my mouth there.
But I don’t.
I drag a hand through my hair and force myself to back up two inches. “We’re not engaged, Ember.”
“I know that.”
“So tell them.”
“I can’t,” she says, frustration flaring. “Do you understand how fast this town turns? One second you’re a cute story, the next you’re a liar who tried to steal money. And I just lost everything.”
The wobble in her voice hits me harder than the fire did.
She looks so small suddenly. Still mouthy. Still bright. But small.
“The investigator’s gonna be looking for a reason to deny me,” she says, softer now. “He sees I have no family here, no fiancé, no roots? He might think I set it. I didn’t. I swear to God, Clay, I would never—I love that studio. I built it. It was my dream.”
Her eyes shine. She blinks fast.
Damn it.
I curse under my breath and pace away, then back. The place is tiny; I’m too big in it. I glance out the window. Across the road, Mrs. Vance is on her porch, watching. Of course she is.
I look back at Ember. “So what. We fake it.”
“Yes.”
“For how long.”
“Until the claim clears.”
“That could be weeks.”
“Yep.”
I stare.
She folds her arms. “It’s not like we’d have to…you know.”
I lift a brow. “Know what?”
Her cheeks pink. “Kiss. Or anything.”
“You started telling people I got down on one knee in the snow,” I remind her.
“Okay, that was Tina, but I didn’t correct her,” she says. “Anyway, we don’t have to make out. Just…go to a few things. Be seen. Look coupley. Convince people that I’m stable and not some weird arsonist.”
“You’re not stable,” I mutter.
She tilts her head. “And you’re not nice, but here we are.”
I bite back a smile.
This woman is gonna kill me.
I scrub a hand over my jaw, weighing it. On one hand: I hate lies. I hate drama. I especially hate my name in the damn Gazette. On the other: she’s right. Investigators look for people who are isolated, stressed, desperate. A fiancé with a solid job and a reputation for being boring and reliable?
That helps her.
And—if I’m being honest, which I hate—it helps me too. Because right now I look like a hard-ass who dragged a crying woman away from her life and then left her. If the town thinks we’re together, they’ll stop asking why I didn’t let her save her work.
“Fine,” I say.
Her head snaps up. “Fine?”
“Fine. We fake it.”
Her whole face lights.
I hold up a finger. “But. There are rules.”
Her smile turns sly. “Ooo. Bossy fiancé.”
“Rule one,” I say, ignoring that. “No touching.”
She snorts. “That’ll make it believable.”
“We can hug,” I allow, jaw tight. “In public. Quick. Like normal people.”
Her eyes sparkle. “I do nothing quick.”
“I noticed,” I say, voice dipping.
Her pupils flare.
Shit.
“Rule two,” I say roughly. “No kissing.”
She actually pouts. “What if the town demands it?”
“This town demanded a kissing booth for the Fourth of July parade,” I say. “They can live without.”
She grins. “You jealous?”
I glare. “Rule three. No trouble.”
She laughs. “Clay. Sweetheart. Baby. Mountain caveman. That’s not a realistic rule for me.”
“It’s the only way I’m doing this.”
She considers. “Define trouble.”
“No press you don’t clear with me. No social posts without telling me. No dragging me to weird events where everybody’s drunk and asking when we’re having babies.”
She blinks. “So…you’re saying I can drag you to events. Just not weird ones.”
I rub my temples. “You’re gonna do whatever you want anyway.”
“Correct.”
We stare at each other. She’s winning and she knows it.
I let out a long breath through my nose. “I’ll tell the guys at the station we’re…seeing each other.”
Her lips twitch. “And I’ll tell Tina we’re doing an interview.”
I narrow my eyes. “No.”
“Clay.”
“No interviews.”
“But the town–and the insurance guy–will believe it more—”
“No.”
She sighs dramatically. “You are no fun.”
“I’m doing this, aren’t I?”
She bites her lip, looking me over in a way that should not make me feel ten feet tall. “Yeah. You are.”
Silence drops.
The air shifts.
She’s close again. The sweatshirt slides off one shoulder, revealing a strap and a hint of tattoo—something floral, maybe, inked along her collarbone. I want to trace it with my tongue.
I don’t move.
She does.
She steps in, up on her toes, like she’s gonna test me. “So. Fireman fiancé,” she murmurs. “You gonna pick me up for the charity bonfire tonight like a good fake partner?”
My jaw flexes. “I have a shift.”
“You’re off at six.”
Damn it. “You checked.”
“I asked,” she says, all innocence. “Everyone loves to talk about you.”
“Wonderful.”
She grins, wicked. “They said you were hot and cranky and never dated anyone here, so I figured—”
“You figured I needed a mail-order artist to fix me?” I cut in.
“You figured right.” She taps my chest with one finger. “Also, maybe the fire burned up my ride and I could use one.”
“You have friends.”
“You’re my favorite friend,” she says brightly. “My fian-friend.”
I stare at her mouth.
“Don’t,” I warn.
“Don’t what,” she whispers.
“Don’t make up words like that.”
“Fian-friend,” she repeats, slower, more obnoxious.
I grab her wrist.
Her mouth pops open in a sweet little O.
I lean in, real close, let her feel the heat she keeps teasing.
“We’re not engaged,” I say, voice rough. “We’re not dating. We’re not anything.”
Her breath hitches. “Then why,” she whispers back, “do you look at me like you want to peel me out of this sweatshirt?”
Because I fucking do.
My hand tightens on her wrist for one second. I make myself let go.
“Because I’m human,” I say, stepping back. “Not dead.”
Her eyes darken. “And I’m your fake fiancée.”
“Exactly.”
She tilts her head, smile slow, dangerous. “Then act like it.”
Before I can ask what she means, she lifts onto her toes and presses her mouth to my cheek.
Soft.
Warm.
Vanilla.
I go statue-still.
It’s not a kiss, not really. But it’s enough to make every muscle in my body fire.
She pulls back, eyes triumphant. “Public display of affection,” she says. “In case Mrs. Vance is still watching.”
I glance out the window.
Mrs. Vance is, in fact, still watching.
Of course she is.
I exhale hard. “You’re gonna make this hell.”
She beams. “You already started a fire, Fireman. Too late for that.”
I shake my head, turn toward the door before I forget the rules I just made. “Six,” I say. “Be ready.”
“Define ready.”
“Clothes,” I say over my shoulder. “Shoes. Don’t smell like paint.”
“Rude,” she mutters. “Paint is my scent.”
I pause in the doorway. “Ember.”
She looks up.
“It wasn’t your fault,” I tell her again, because I saw the way she looked at the ashes.
Her throat moves. “Say it again later,” she says quietly. “So I believe you.”
I meet her eyes.
“I will.”
I step out onto the porch, nod once to Mrs. Vance, and head back to the truck.
By the time I pull out, I can already imagine the rest of the day.
Station: I get razzed. Gazette: front-page bullshit. Bonfire: small town spectacle.
And standing in the middle of it—barefoot, wild-haired, smelling like clay and smoke—will be the woman who roped me into pretending I’m hers.
The problem is, every time I look at her?
Pretending feels less like a lie.
And more like a test I’m about to fail.