25. Ember
Ember
“I don’t speak human, but even I could tell
something was about to go terribly,
entertainingly wrong.”
— Kevin
I’m standing at the end of the bakery counter, the register humming a low, steady note as I tally the receipts.
My mind keeps looping back to the house—the fierce, desperate hunger of Brooks’s mouth, the hard, relentless pressure of his tongue, and the absolute greediness of the way he’s devoured me over these last few nights.
I reach up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, my fingers trembling.
It’s the thrill of it that gets me.
The fact that the entire town sees Brooks Lawson as their stoic, unshakable Fire Chief—a man of checklists and safety regulations—while I know exactly how he sounds when he’s losing his composure.
I know the way his hands, usually so steady when he’s directing a crew, will tremble when he finally lets his control snap. I know the specific, guttural groan he makes when he’s pushed to the edge, a sound that has nothing to do with the man the council members discuss in board meetings.
It’s a secret language only I speak, and there is an intoxicating, dangerous kind of power in that.
But then, the flip side of that coin cuts a little deeper.
I watch a group of loggers walk past the bakery window, laughing and shoving each other, and a shadow of doubt creeps in, cold and sharp.
He’s so careful. So damn protective. He moves through the world like he’s guarding a vault, keeping his distance in public, his eyes flicking to the door every time someone enters, as if he’s constantly checking the perimeter.
I know why he does it. I know he’s terrified of being reckless after what happened with Tommy, I know that Lauren leaving changed how he views the world.
He protects Sophie like she’s his only tether to the earth.
But knowing the “why” doesn’t make it sting any less when I feel like a secret he’s hiding in the dark.
I swallow hard, forcing the thought away.
I tell myself it’s a game. A high-stakes, breathless game of pretend where we’re just neighbors.
I like the secret, but sometimes the secrecy feels less like protection and more like a curtain he can pull at any second.
I don’t want to be a dirty secret. I don’t want to be the woman who only exists when the sun goes down and the blinds are drawn. I want to be able to say his name without checking over my shoulder.
But if Brooks wants to play at secrecy, I’ll match him beat for beat. I can take it. I can be whatever he needs me to be until he realizes he doesn’t want to hide anymore.
? ? ?
By four-thirty, I’m walking home with a paper bag tucked under one arm and my keys dangling from my fingers.
The mountains glow gold beneath the lowering sun. The town feels smaller at this hour. Softer. Like everything exhales at once.
As I pass the hardware store, old Mr. Jenkins waves from his rocking chair.
“Evening, Ember.”
“Evening,” I call back, adjusting my grip on the bread.
“Need help carrying those?”
“It’s one loaf of bread, Mr. Jenkins.”
“Still.”
I laugh, a genuine sound that lightens the heavy tension in my chest. “I’m good.”
“You tell that fire chief I said hello,” he adds, his voice gravelly and deceptively casual.
I nearly trip over my own feet, the bag shifting precariously. Mr. Jenkins doesn’t even blink. He just keeps rocking, his eyes fixed on the horizon as if he hasn’t just dropped a grenade into my afternoon.
The entire town is impossible. They’re all watching. They’re all guessing.
? ? ?
I’m sitting on the steps with a mug of tea, watching the clouds break over the ridge, when my phone buzzes against the wood.
I pick it up, my heart doing a joyful, frantic leap. “Hi!”
“Darling!” My mother’s voice is a symphony of dramatic, breathless energy. “We are in the terminal in Albany. We have rented an SUV, and we shall be arriving by dinner time tomorrow!”
“You’re coming here?” I squeak.
“We decided that your descriptions of the ‘rustic, soulful, and structurally challenged’ farmhouse were a cry for help,” my father says, his voice booming in the background.
“We’ve brought gin and a plot outline for the new series that requires someone with a background in local forestry to tell me if a man can realistically get his foot stuck in a bear trap in the middle of a glade. ”
“Oh my god,” I say.
Part of me knows they’ll love this place. But I also know them. They’re Erotica royalty—they live for atmosphere, for tension, for the theatre of life.
I don’t just want them to see a house; I want them to see the life I’ve carved out here. I want them to see that I didn’t just run away—I built something.
“I’m so excited!” I say, my brain pivoting to the house. The kitchen table has a wobble I’ve been ignoring for weeks. The fence—the one Brooks just fixed—still has a stray piece of wire hanging off the corner. “I just—I need to prepare!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” my mom laughs. “We want the authentic experience. We want to see the man you’ve been writing about in your frantic, cryptic texts.”
“He’s not a character, Mom!” I laugh, but my pulse is racing.
When I hang up, I don’t think. I just jump up and sprint across the property line, toward the house next door. I reach his porch, my heart hammering against my ribs, and I hammer my fist against his door.
The door swings open.
And there he is.
Brooks Lawson. Fire Chief. Town hero.
Destroyer of my ability to think like a functioning adult.
He’s fresh out of the shower, his dark hair damp and messy, a towel hanging low around his hips. He’s wearing a t-shirt that clings to his damp skin, and he’s holding a half-finished cup of coffee.
He looks at me, eyes widening. “Ember? What’s wrong?”
“My parents are coming!” I blurt out. “They’re arriving tomorrow! They’re novelists, Brooks. They’re dramatic, they’re chaotic, and they’re my biggest supporters, but they’re also going to walk in and write a critique of my entire existence if the table isn’t level!”
Brooks stares at me, his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. He doesn’t move, anchored by his sheer confusion. “Your parents. Here. Tomorrow.”
“Yes, keep up! And I have no idea how to make a farmhouse look like a ‘rustic chic retreat’ in twenty-four hours! I need your tools. I need your, I don’t know, your structural expertise. You’re the only person I know who owns a level that’s longer than six inches!”
I’m pacing his entryway, my hands flying, gesturing to the air as if I can manifest a contractor. “And the garden! Do you have a rake? Do you have heavy-duty fertilizer? Can we install a path? Is there time to install a path?”
Brooks leans against the doorframe, a slow, amused smile spreading across his face. He watches me, his eyes tracking my frantic energy with a kind of grounded patience that makes my chest hurt.
“Ember.”
“Yes? Yes, do you have a path-laying tool?”
“Take a breath,” he says.
He sets his coffee mug down on the console table and walks over to me, his hands settling on my shoulders. His grip is firm, warm, and grounding, his thumbs rubbing through the thin cotton of my shirt.
The contact is electric, and for a second, I forget about the table. I forget about the parents. I just feel him.
“Your parents are going to love this place,” he says. “They’re going to love this place because they love you.”
“You don’t know them!” I wail, but my voice is shaking with laughter now. “They once had a dinner party in a tent in the middle of the Sahara because the ‘aesthetic was better’! They care about everything!”
“Okay,” he shrugs, a glint of challenge in his eyes. “Okay. Then we have to follow the procedure. We need a list. We need a timeline. We need to prioritize the structural integrity over the aesthetic finish.”
I blink at him, my heart slowing down. “A list?”
“A list,” he says, walking over to his desk and pulling out a yellow notepad and a pencil.
I stare at him for a second. Then, embarrassingly, I almost melt on the spot.
“What?” he asks cautiously.
“You making lists for me is weirdly attractive.”
Brooks pauses with the pencil halfway to the paper. “…What?”
“I don’t know,” I admit helplessly. “It’s the competence. The emotional support. The terrifying organizational skills.”
A laugh escapes him before he can stop it. “Emmy.”
“I’m serious. This is foreplay for you, isn’t it?”
“It is absolutely not.”
“You’re literally prioritizing my structural vulnerabilities.”
“That sounds dirty when you say it like that.”
“Everything sounds dirty when I say it.”
He snorts but doesn’t disagree. “Now. What’s the biggest problem?”
I look at him—the way he’s ready to drop everything to help me, the way he’s already taking charge of my chaos—and the panic dissipates, replaced by a warm, bubbling sense of relief.
“The kitchen table,” I say. “It rocks to the left.”
Brooks nods, writing it down. “Leveling the table.”
“The mudroom floorboards,” I say, leaning against the doorframe, watching him write. “They’re loose.”
“Tightening the sub-floor,” he mutters. “And those latch hooks on the pantry—they’ve been loose since you moved in. We’ll fix those, too.”
We stand there for the next hour, me rambling about table cloths and wine glasses, and Brooks methodically turning my panic into a series of actionable, structural repairs.
He doesn’t laugh at me once. He treats my parents’ visit like an emergency response—an operation that needs to be perfectly executed.
There’s something so incredibly erotic about watching him work through this list.
He’s so focused, his brow furrowed in deep concentration, his pencil scratching against the paper.
“You’re taking this very seriously,” I murmur, my voice quiet.
He stops writing, looking at me with an intensity that makes my knees feel weak. “Anything that impacts your peace of mind is serious, Ember. You know that.”
When the list is finally finished, he puts the pencil down and looks at me. The room is quiet, the evening sun casting long, golden shadows across his office.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say, and I mean it. “I know it’s a lot to ask.”
Brooks looks at me, his gaze lingering on my face. “It’s not a lot to ask, Emmy,” he says. “It’s the perimeter. I’m just helping you secure it.”
I look at him, my breath catching.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay. Let’s start with the table.”
“Tomorrow morning, at first light,” he says. “We’ll be there. I’ll bring the drill, the level, and the wood glue.”
He holds the door open for me, his hand brushing my back as I walk out into the cooling air of the evening.