Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Ember
There’s a moment—right before he walks into the pottery studio—when I forget how to breathe. My mind replaying that kiss at the firehouse from this morning.
Clay Walker, firefighter, resident grump, panty-melter. My fake boyfriend turned very real distraction.
He’s leaning against the doorframe in that slow, unhurried way of his, like he’s got all the time in the world to watch me scrape clay off my apron and try not to look like I’m internally combusting.
He’s in uniform—black tee stretched tight across his chest, soot still smudged on his jaw—and his stare?
Unforgiving. Like he sees straight through the apron, the pretense, the dampness gathering between my thighs.
“You done playing with mud, sweetheart?” he asks, voice gravelly, laced with a smirk.
I don’t rise to it. Much.
“I’ll have you know I created a stunning ashtray-slash-salsa-dish hybrid,” I say, brushing past him, ignoring the jolt that lights up my spine when his hand grazes the small of my back.
He leans down, close enough I can taste the smoke clinging to his skin.
“I’ve got something else you can put your hands on,” he murmurs.
God help me.
The other women in class are watching, giggling like I’m walking off set with the Sexiest Man Alive. Which, to be fair, isn’t far off.
I try to keep my cool as we make it to his truck. Try to remind myself this isn’t real. We’re just... playing house. Teasing fire.
But when he opens the passenger door for me, places a hand on my hip to guide me in, I almost forget the rules I swore to keep.
“You pick me up in that thing one more time and the town’s going to assume we’re married,” I mutter, buckling in.
He shrugs. “Let ‘em.”
We ride in silence for a beat, the tension between us thick and humming. Then he pulls into the firehouse.
“You’re feeding the crew again?” I ask, grabbing the takeout bags from the backseat.
His smirk returns. “They only like me because I bring ‘em food. You? They like because you make me insane.”
I blink. “You’re insane all on your own.”
He climbs out and circles the truck, stealing the bags from my hands like I’m made of glass. “You’re the one bringing Thai to a bunch of grown men who think sriracha is exotic. Who’s insane now?”
I grin. “They love me.”
He doesn’t disagree.
Inside, the firehouse is chaos. Boots thudding, laughter ricocheting off brick. And then—
“Heyyy, is that Mrs. Walker?” Ramirez bellows from the recliner, tossing a foam football in the air. “Didn’t know we ordered a firecracker with our pad Thai.”
“She’s not Mrs. Anything,” Clay grumbles, setting the food on the counter.
Gabe leans in close, stage-whispering, “That denial was a little too quick, Chief.”
“Shut up and eat,” Clay snaps, but he’s biting back a smile.
I unload containers, pretending not to notice the looks exchanged between the guys. Or the way Clay stands just a little too close. Like maybe if we lean far enough into this charade, it’ll become real.
But the fantasy only lasts until later that night.
Until the check clears.
And suddenly, everything feels different.
The insurance money from the fire hits my account, and with it, the suffocating weight of reality. I’m not stranded anymore. I can leave. Go anywhere. Start over—for real this time.
But the thought doesn’t thrill me.
It wrecks me.
Because for the first time in forever, I don’t want to run.
So I do the next best thing.
I sabotage.
He’s in the garage, working on a cabinet, the scent of cedar and sawdust clinging to the air. His muscles flex as he planes a board, shirt discarded, sweat glistening across his back. He doesn’t notice me until I speak.
“So... big day. I got my check.”
He pauses, blade halting mid-stroke.
“Yeah?” he says without turning.
“Yeah.”
Silence.
And then, “Guess that means you’ll be hittin’ the road.”
My chest pinches.
“Do you want me to?” I ask, softer than I mean to.
He straightens, brushes a hand through his hair, and finally looks at me. Those damn eyes. Burned whiskey and heat.
“You deserve more than this place,” he says, gesturing to the garage, the cabin, all of it.
“That’s not what I asked.”
He stiffens. “You deserve someone whole, Ember. Not a man built from ashes.”
My throat burns. “I’m not asking you to save me.”
His eyes flicker. “Then what the hell are you asking?”
“I’m asking you to see me,” I snap. “Not the charity case. Not the girl who can’t cook rice without setting off the fire alarm. Me.”
“I see you,” he says, voice breaking. “That’s the problem.”
And before I can stop him, before I can find the words to fix it—he’s gone.
Out the back door.
Into the smoke.
I spend the next day hollow.
I tell myself it was always fake. Always temporary.
But the lie doesn’t stick.
Because the truth is, I fell for a man who never asked me to be anything but me. Who carried my groceries, rubbed my back during the meeting with the insurance company, and kissed me like he needed air.
The fireman who never flinched at my fire and ashes.
So that night, I do something insane.
I light a candle in the kitchen. Just one. A soft flicker.
And I wait.
And wait.
And just when I’m about to give up, the door slams open.
Clay stands in the entryway, melting snow dripping from his shoulders, eyes wild.
“I tried,” he growls. “I tried to let you go. To do the noble thing.”
I rise slowly, heart hammering.
“But I can’t, Ember. I won’t. I don’t want to be noble. I want you.”
I blink, tears blurring the edges.
He stalks forward, water pooling at his boots. “You hear me? I want your mess. Your clay-covered hands. Your stupid salsa-ashtray. All of it.”
“You want me,” I whisper, stepping closer.
His hands grip my waist. “I want all of it. And I’m done pretending otherwise.”
I reach up, fingers threading through his damp hair.
“Then stop talking and prove it.”
And he does.
Oh, he does.
He kisses me like it’s the last breath he’ll ever take.
Long and slow, sweet and demanding. He leaves me breathless, and just when I think he’s going to take me–he leads me to the couch, wraps me into his warm body, and tells me to sleep.
That he’ll be there in the morning, that he has no plans on leaving ever again.
And God help me I believe him.