23. Ember
Ember
“If I act normal long enough, maybe I’ll believe I am.”
— Ember
The seven-o’clock bell above the door gives a light, brass clink, and the first wave of the morning rush spills into the bakery.
“Morning, Ember,” Walt says, pulling his grease-stained cap off his head as he reaches the counter. “Just the usual today. Two bran muffins and whatever coffee’s hottest.”
“The dark roast just finished rolling, Walt,” I say, sliding the baked muffins into a small brown paper bag with two quick, practiced folds of the corners. “You want the plastic lid or are you drinking it in the truck?”
“Lid’s good. Don’t need to wash the dashboard twice this week,” he says, dropping a crinkled five-dollar bill onto the laminate counter. “That ridge fire didn’t give you too much trouble up at your place, did it? My missus said she saw the red flare from our kitchen window.”
“No, we were fine,” I say, offering him a small, easy smile as I slide his change across the wood. “The rain took care of it before it hit the lower lane. Sophie and I just stayed inside and did some singing.”
“Good deal,” Walt says. “Brooks is a good boy, but he treats every brush fire like it’s the end of the county. Glad you didn’t get smoked out.”
? ? ?
The kitchen of the bakery at three o’clock on a Thursday afternoon is a brutal, sweaty box.
The humidity settles into the valley like a wet wool blanket, and the massive industrial mixer in the corner lets out a high-pitched, mechanical whine as it whips four gallons of heavy cream into stiff peaks for the weekend tarts.
Marge stands at the central wooden bench, her arms coated in a thick layer of pastry flour that reaches all the way to her elbows. She hacks a block of cold butter into perfect cubes with a metal scraper, her timing so rhythmic it sounds like an axe hitting a chopping block.
“You’re off your game today, Emmy,” she says without looking up. “The apricot danishes are sitting right in the draft. If the glaze sets before the steam leaves the pastry, they’re going to look gray by tomorrow morning.”
“The glaze is fine, Marge,” I say, wiping a line of sweat and white flour dust off my forehead with the back of my sleeve. “I’m just keeping an eye on the driveway.”
“Clearly,” she mutters, her eyebrows drawing together as she shoves another sheet pan into the rack. “Brooks’s truck has passed the four-way stop three times since noon. Either he’s suddenly very invested in the county road gravel, or he’s completely lost his mind.”
Before I can come up with a neutral response, the heavy oak screen door gives a short, double rattle.
Brooks steps onto the threshold.
He doesn’t come all the way into the kitchen—he never does when Marge is in the middle of a rush—but his massive frame blocks out the blinding afternoon sun, casting a long shadow straight across my stainless steel station.
He’s wearing a faded gray work shirt with the sleeves cut off at the shoulder, revealing the thick, corded muscle of his forearms, dark with a few grease smudges. His dark hair is damp from the midday heat, and his jaw is set in that hard, stubborn line I’m starting to know by heart.
“Marge,” he nods, his deep voice cutting through the whine of the mixer.
“Brooks,” Marge says. “If you’re looking for a handout, the raspberry knots aren’t out of the oven yet.”
“I’m not looking for a handout.”
His eyes slide away from her, shifting across the narrow kitchen until they lock onto me. His gaze travels down to my flour-dusted apron strings, then back up to my face, his expression unreadable but his eyes dark and intense.
“I’m clearing some fallen brush on the lane after my shift. The county crew has the main road blocked off until six.”
I stay perfectly still, a pastry brush held tight in my right hand. “That’s right by my place.”
“Yeah,” he says, shifting his weight, his fingers tracing the edge of his belt. “Sophie’s staying down at her grandmother’s house tonight. She wanted to finish that painting she started, so she won’t be back up the hill until tomorrow morning. The house is going to be completely quiet.”
Marge lets out a sharp sound from the butter bench. “Well, at least the kid gets a break from your cooking.”
“She’s taken care of,” Brooks says simply. He looks at me for one more long, silent second, his jaw twitching once before he steps back onto the gravel. “Keep your car off the main driveway later, Ember. The gravel is soft from the rain.”
The screen door clicks shut.
I look down at the apricot danishes, my heart doing a heavy, fast thumping against my ribs that has absolutely nothing to do with the temperature of the kitchen.
? ? ?
I’ve been home from the bakery for an hour, my shoes dropped by the bench in the mudroom and my bare feet tracing the cool grains of my kitchen floorboards. The house is incredibly quiet—the kind of thick silence that sets into the hollow the second the sun goes down.
I am standing by the open parlor window, a cup of lukewarm tea held between both hands, watching the black line of the maples that separates my driveway from his.
There are no lights on in his house next door. The windows are nothing but dark rectangles against the cedar siding.
Then, a shadow moves across the grass.
He crosses the yard with long, steady strides, his boots making no sound on the lawn until he hits the bottom step of my porch. The third board creaks—a short, flat groan—and the screen door swings open with a soft, careful click.
Brooks steps into the parlor. He’s changed into a faded black t-shirt that clings to his broad shoulders.
“Ember.”
I set the tea down on the windowsill, the ceramic clicking sharply against the wood. I don’t look at him right away, letting the silence stretch, just to see if he’ll fidget.
He doesn’t.
“You’re late, Brooks,” I say, though my heart is already hammering against my ribs. “I actually started to think maybe I’d misunderstood all those hints you dropped at the bakery. I figured maybe you just wanted to make sure Marge knew Sophie was away for the night, and that was that.”
His shadow detaches from the wall, bridging the distance between us in two heavy, deliberate steps.
Before I can draw another breath, his hands settle at my lower back, guiding me toward him.
“Traffic,” he says. He leans down, his breath hot against the shell of my ear. “And I don’t like being told I’m late when I’ve spent the last six hours trying to keep my head on straight while I thought about nothing but your mouth.”
I let out a shaky breath, finally turning in his grip to face him. His eyes are dark, focused on me with an intensity that makes me feel like I’m standing under a spotlight.
“Is that right? You were thinking about my mouth? Maybe if you’d said something while we were at the counter, I wouldn’t have had to assume you were just being your usual, grumpy, silent self.”
“If I had said something at the counter, the entire town would know exactly what I crave,” he says. “And we both know that’s not an option. You’re lucky I have any restraint at all, city girl.”
“Restraint? Is that what we’re calling it?” I tease, letting a playful smirk tug at my lips. “Because from where I’m standing, you look like a man who’s one second away from doing something very, very reckless.”
He lets out a low sound in his throat and pulls me even closer, his hand sliding up my back to splay firmly between my shoulder blades, pinning me to him.
“Don’t push me. I’ve been holding back all day. I’ve had to watch you smile at every man who walked into that bakery, and all I could think about was dragging you out of there and locking you in my house where no one else can see you.”
“Possessive, are we?” I laugh. “I like it. It’s very caveman of you. Very rustic.”
“Stop,” he warns, tilting his head, his nose brushing against my cheek. “You don’t have a clue what you do to me. You walk around that town, all glitter and sunshine, acting like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing to every man in a ten-mile radius.”
“Maybe I don’t care about the other men,” I whisper. “Maybe I only care about you.”
He sighs, a ragged sound, and lifts me effortlessly, my legs wrapping around his torso before I even realize what’s happening. He carries me toward the sofa, his movements purposeful and heavy.
When he sets me down, he doesn’t let go of my hips. His hands slip beneath the hem of my shirt, his fingertips grazing my waist as he slowly lifts the fabric over my head. He tosses it onto the arm of the sofa before his gaze settles on the lace of my bra.
He traces the curve of one strap before easing it from my shoulder, then the other.
His hand slides behind my back to free the clasp, and I lift just enough for him to pull the bra away.
He lets it fall beside my shirt, his eyes lingering on me for a long, silent moment before he leans in, brushing his nose lightly against my breast.
“You’re beautiful,” he says quietly, almost like the words slipped out by accident.
I let out a breathy hum.
“Mm. I know,” I tease, tugging at his hair.
He lets out a low sound against my skin that’s dangerously close to losing composure.
“You think you’re in control?” he says. “Keep teasing me like this and you’re going to end up apologizing.”
“Keep dreaming, Chief,” I respond. “You know, you’re awfully talkative for a man who’s supposed to be doing all the heavy lifting. Maybe you’ve forgotten how this works? The big, scary fireman is supposed to be hands-on, not lecturing.”
His hands drift lower, settling at the waistband of my shorts. He glances up at me, waiting.
I answer by lifting my hips.
He eases my shorts down my legs, taking my underwear with them before setting both neatly on the floor beside the sofa.
“Or is this, like, your thing?” I tease. “Talking me to death until I forget you’re actually kind of a prick?”
He smirks, entirely unfazed by my jab. He reaches down, his fingers finding my pussy, and slides one finger deep inside. “Christ, Emmy. You feel even better than I imagined.”