9. Ember #2
Brooks is standing by the sink, rinsing the soot off my heirloom tomatoes. He doesn’t look up, but I see the corner of his mouth twitch. “You are on observation duty until I’m sure you won’t set my countertops on fire, Emmy. Pick up that wooden spoon. Don’t swing it.”
“I’ll have you know I am an excellent stirrer,” I say, stepping into his space to snatch a knife from the magnetic strip on the wall. “I stir things up for a living. It’s on my resume.”
“I believe you,” he murmurs.
He turns around, his frame instantly crowding me against the edge of the sink. He reaches behind my back to grab a cutting board, his chest brushing right against my arm.
Every coherent thought immediately exits my body.
There is simply no reason a man should smell that good while discussing cookware.
He stays there for a second, entirely too close, his eyes looking down into mine with a slow, deliberate heat. “But around here, we keep the drama to a minimum. Can you handle that?”
“No,” I whisper honestly before I can stop myself.
His mouth twitches.
“I don’t do drama, Brooks. I do flair,” I say, my voice dropping its sarcastic edge as I look up at his jawline. The proximity is doing terrible things to my ability to think straight. “There’s a difference.”
“Yeah? Well, your flair nearly took out your eastern wall today,” he says, his voice a low, gravelly vibration.
He doesn’t move back. He just leans in a fraction of an inch closer, his thumb lightly brushing a stray speck of soot off my cheekbone. His touch is warm, rough, and entirely too steady.
“Daddy!” Sophie’s voice cuts through the kitchen from the hallway. “Can Emmy come see my room? I have the big triceratops!”
Brooks steps back, clearing his throat, though his eyes stay locked on mine for one more heavy beat before he turns toward the stove.
“Go on,” he grunts. “Go look at the dinosaur before she comes back in here and catches you trying to steal my cutlery.”
“Don’t miss me too much, hot neighbor,” I throw over my shoulder, giving him a wink before I duck out of the room.
Sophie’s room is a small kingdom of pink blankets, plastic blocks, and an impressive collection of prehistoric reptiles.
For the next twenty minutes, I am thoroughly briefed on the dietary habits of the stegosaurus and the dramatic social life of her stuffed animals.
It’s sweet, and it’s so completely heartwarming that it makes a strange, tight ache form right in the center of my chest.
Eventually, I manage to negotiate a temporary release for good behavior. “I have to go help your dad make sure the pasta doesn’t turn into a giant sticky ball, Soph. Can you finish building the dinosaur castle?”
“Okay!” she says, completely engrossed in a tower of wooden blocks. “Tell Daddy I want extra cheese!”
I walk back down the short hallway. When I step back into the kitchen, the room is warm, filled with the rich, savory scent of garlic sizzling in olive oil and the sharp, bright smell of crushed tomatoes.
Brooks is standing by the stove, his back to me.
His navy flannel shirt is stretched tight across his broad shoulders as he stirs the simmering sauce. He’s dropped his heavy work belt, and in the dim light of the kitchen overheads, he looks less like the fierce fire chief who handles local disasters and more like… a home.
I lean against the doorframe, my arms crossing over my chest, just watching him for a quiet moment.
“You know, for a guy who claims he doesn’t have a strategy, this smells suspiciously like a high-level culinary execution,” I say.
He turns his head, his eyes finding me in the doorway. He lowers the wooden spoon, setting it on a small ceramic dish, and leans his hip against the counter, mirroring my posture.
“I told you. I have food. It’s not complicated.”
“It’s very complicated,” I say, stepping into the room, my sneakers making no sound as I close the distance between us.
I stop right in front of him, looking up into his face.
“You rescued me. Again. I was supposed to be the one giving you dinner, and instead, I’m occupying your kitchen and eating your groceries. ”
“The tomatoes are yours,” he points out, his voice dropping into that low, quiet register that makes my skin tingle.
“The tomatoes were covered in the history of American manufacturing, Brooks. You washed them.” I reach out, my fingers lightly catching the cuff of his rolled-up flannel sleeve.
I tug on it, just a tiny, teasing pull. “Admission of defeat, Chief. I wanted to impress you. I wanted to show you I’m a useful asset to the neighborhood. ”
Brooks looks down at my hand on his arm, then his gaze slides slowly up to my face, tracking over my nose, lingering on my red lipstick.
The air in the kitchen instantly changes, turning thick, heavy, and hot.
“You want to impress me, city girl?” he asks, his voice rough.
He takes one deliberate step forward, his large frame completely trapping me against the edge of the counter.
He reaches out, his hand wrapping around my waist, his thumb hooking into the side of my denim overalls. The pressure is firm, pulling me just an inch closer until I can feel the heat radiating off his chest.
“Is that what this is about?”
“Maybe,” I whisper. “Are you impressed, Chief?”
“You’re a headache,” he murmurs, his face dipping down, his breath warm against my cheek as his eyes drop to my mouth. “A massive, loud, unpredictable headache.”
“Oh and you love the headache,” I taunt, my fingers sliding up his arm to rest against the warm skin of his neck. I tilt my chin up, my lips just bare millimeters away from his. “Admit it.”
“I’m thinking about it,” he whispers.
He leans in, his eyes darkening with a heavy, deliberate intent that makes my knees go completely wobbly. I close my eyes, leaning into him, waiting for the slide of his lips against mine—
“Emmy! The castle fell down!”
Sophie’s loud, tragic shriek echoes from the hallway, followed by the clatter of a dozen wooden blocks hitting the floorboards.
Brooks stops dead. His forehead drops against mine for a brief, agonizing second, letting out a long, defeated breath that feels like a low groan.
I open my eyes, a small, breathless laugh escaping my lips as I look at his frustrated expression.
“Operational interruption, Chief,” I whisper. “The castle requires immediate engineering support.”
“Fucking hell,” he mutters, releasing his grip, and stepping back, though his hand lingers on my hip for a fraction of a second before it drops away completely.
He rubs the back of his neck, turning back toward the boiling pasta with a sharp shake of his head. “Go. Before she comes in here.”
“Duty calls,” I chirp, my voice instantly regaining its bubbly, teasing edge as I step away from the counter. I smooth down the front of my overalls, flashing him a bright, wicked grin. “I’ll be right back to supervise your stirring.”
“Just go, Ember,” he says, but the small, reluctant smile breaking through his grumpy expression is the last thing I see before I turn the corner.