27. Ember
Ember
“Competence is the most commonly misread form of seduction.”
— Anonymous Survey
The screen door slams, that final, rhythmic thwack echoing through the humid afternoon like a period at the end of an argument I definitely didn’t win.
I’m still standing by the counter, pinned there, my heart doing a frantic, traitorous drum solo against my ribs.
Good job, Emmy.
You really sold the ‘I’m an independent woman who doesn’t need a man to fix her life’ vibe. Except you’re currently panting like a golden retriever who just spotted a tennis ball.
I want to punch him.
I want to march across the property line, track him down in his office, and sock him in the jaw for the way he looked at me—that infuriating, bossy, protective smirk that makes my knees feel like they’ve been replaced by jelly.
I want to shatter his “Fire Chief” composure until he’s as messy and undone as I feel right now.
If I punched him, would he just stare at me with those intense eyes and ask if I’m done yet? Because that would be the most annoying, turn-on-est thing ever.
I’d probably just start apologizing while he’s still mid-glower.
But God, I also want to lick him.
My brain is officially broken.
I’m thinking about licking a man who spends his weekends hauling timber.
I need a therapist. Or a very big bucket of ice water. Actually, maybe just a damp towel. A very cold one.
I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to fuck someone more.
My pulse is still thumping in my throat where his finger traced my skin, and the memory of his mouth from last night makes me want to scream into a pillow.
“Such a total, monumental, frustratingly hot jerk,” I hiss at the empty air, grabbing a dish towel and wiping my face as if I could scrub the lingering electricity off my skin.
I pace the kitchen, my sneakers thudding against the floorboards he just tightened. They feel solid. Everything feels solid. And that’s the problem. He made my life functional, even while he was busy tearing my nerves to shreds.
I’m still spiraling when a deep, rumbling engine cuts through the valley silence. I freeze. It’s barely late afternoon—they weren’t supposed to be here for hours.
The car door clinks, and then, a voice that could cut through a hurricane with its sheer, dramatic volume tears through the trees.
“Emmy! If this is the place, I am going to faint! It’s positively, delightfully, devastatingly rustic!”
I dash to the porch, my overalls unbuttoned and my hair a chaotic bird’s nest of pins and frizz. “What—? You’re here? It’s not even dinner time!”
My parents are standing at the edge of the goat pasture, looking like they’ve just stepped off a yacht in the Mediterranean instead of a rental SUV in rural nowhere.
My father, Julian, is wearing a linen suit that is entirely too crisp for the humidity, trying to shield his eyes with a silk handkerchief.
My mother, Clara, draped in a scarf that’s blowing in the wind like a theatrical prop, is holding a massive bottle of gin in one hand and a suitcase in the other.
“Mom! Dad!” I shriek, sprinting across the grass, my brain struggling to catch up to the change in plans. “Why are you so early? I’m a mess!”
My mother drops the suitcase and launches herself at me. “Darling! Oh, look at you! You look like a bohemian goat empress! You’re covered in dust! It’s so authentic! I’m going to frame this moment!”
“I’m a disaster,” I laugh, burying my face in her shoulder.
It’s impossible to be stressed when they’re around.
“Nonsense,” my father booms, clapping me on the shoulder before pivoting to look at the goat barn. “Ember, darling, we saw the barn! Is it true? Did you paint it that shade of… what is it, neon fuchsia?”
“Magenta,” I correct him, grinning. “It’s a design choice.”
“It’s amazing,” Mother declares, grabbing the gin and pulling us toward the porch. “Now, tell me everything. Where is the man? The Chief? I have a hundred questions. Does he have a uniform? Because if he looks like a romance novel cover, I need to know immediately so I can prepare my vocabulary.”
I feel my face heat up.
Great. My parents are here to perform an autopsy on my love life. I should have moved to Alaska. Or the moon.
“He’s… next door, Mom. He’s busy.”
Mother narrows her eyes, a slow, predatory smile spreading across her face.
“Busy? Or are we currently in the ‘tormented tension’ stage of the plot arc? Because based on that flush in your cheeks, I’d say we’re in the middle of a very slow, very satisfying burn.
Is there tension? Tell me there’s tension. I need friction for the draft.”
“We are not in a burn,” I insist, grabbing their bags. “We are in the stage where he fixes my floorboards and I try not to lose my mind.”
“That is literally the definition of a burn, darling,” Dad says, wandering into the kitchen and inspecting the table. He runs a hand along the edge, then winks at Mom.
“Though, the table is a bit wobbly. Needs more structural integrity. A lot of friction required to get things properly braced, wouldn’t you say, Clara?”
Mother giggles, a high, girlish sound that makes them look more like teenagers than people in their sixties. “Oh, absolutely, Jules. Things that are poorly braced just tend to rattle around too much. It’s sloppy. One needs a firm hand to keep the furniture—and the occupants—in place.”
I am dying. My parents are essentially two horny teenagers in linen.
“Please,” I groan, covering my face. “I am begging you to keep the double entendres to a minimum.”
“Darling, we’ve been married thirty years,” he says, pulling Mom into his side and kissing her temple. “We’ve learned that the only way to keep the engine from stalling is to keep the conversation lubricated. It’s a delicate balance of tension and release. Like a good plot twist.”
“Or a very good martini,” Mother adds, already reaching for the gin. “Now, where is this Chief?”
“The Chief is a control freak,” I mutter, starting to pull out wine glasses.
“Every good hero is,” Mother says. She sighs dramatically, looking around the kitchen. “Though, darling, I’m still a little heartbroken that you refused to use any of that money for a proper shopping spree. It’s tragic. We could have been in Paris buying vintage Dior.”
“I transferred you both money!” I say, rolling my eyes as I pour the gin. “You didn’t need to be so dramatic about it.”
“It’s not about the money, Emmy!” Mom wails, taking a glass and clinking it against mine. “It’s about the experience. It’s never half as fun to shop without my favorite girl beside me.”
“Next time,” I promise.
“The Chief is a control freak,” Dad repeats, leaning back against the counter and pulling Mom closer until their hips are locked.
“Does he wear a uniform? I need to know if it’s tactical or traditional.
And does he have a walk-around? Because if he doesn’t have a walk-around, he’s clearly not taking his role as a neighbor seriously. ”
“He wears a t-shirt and work boots, Dad. Don’t start.”
“Too late,” Mother says, already opening her laptop. “Give us the full breakdown.”
? ? ?
“The bear trap is too cliché,” Dad says, tapping his chin with the end of the pen.
“It lacks sensory weight. If he’s a forester, he shouldn’t just fall into an old iron jaw.
He should be pinned by a secondary deadfall.
A cedar trunk that’s been hanging by a thread since the freeze in January.
Very symbolic, don’t you think? Holding onto something for dear life until it snaps? ”
“And she finds him because of the crows,” Mother adds, her fingers flying across her keyboard. “A man like that wouldn’t shout. He’d just sit there in the dark, bleeding into the moss, waiting for the fever to take him. It’s much more atmospheric. More… probing.”
“Mom!” I choke on my drink, nearly spraying gin across the table.
“Shush, darling! It’s all about the intensity. Speaking of which, when do we get to meet this hot neighbor? I want to see if his shoulders match his description. Does he have that ‘I’m going to carry you to safety whether you want me to or not’ build?”
I ignore her and move between the stove and the sink, pouring the remains of the gin over ice.
“You’re pacing, Emmy,” Dad says, not looking up. “And you’re pouring too much tonic. We might as well be drinking well water. You’re diluting the spirit, my dear. Not good for the nerves.”
“I’m not pacing and you’re an alcoholic,” I lie. I’m trying to stop my brain from replaying the way Brooks looked when he took his shirt off.
“You’re looking out the side window,” Mother says, her keyboard clicking to a sudden, deliberate halt. “And you’ve been adjusting that top button on your shirt for twenty minutes. Are you nervous, or just airing out the goods for the Chief?”
“The humidity is ninety percent, Mom,” I say, keeping my voice flat. “I’m just hot.”
“Mmhmm,” she hums, dragging out a worn, battered box of vintage Scrabble. The edges are taped with black electrical ribbon. “Clear the pads, honey. The girl is spiraling, and we need a distraction. Jules, darling, how about a little wager? Loser buys dinner?”
A distraction. Yes, please. Anything to stop them from analyzing my sex life.
“I never bet against you, Clara. You have a wicked way with words,” he says, kissing her shoulder. “But for a bottle of the good stuff, I’m in.”
We play in a hyper-focused silence that belongs only to people who make their living out of words. The only sounds are the tiles clicking against the wood and the distant, lonely call of a mourning dove.
My mom plays VINTAGE across a triple-letter tile, her rings catching the amber light of the lamp. Dad plays QUARRY, his brow furrowed as he uses the blank tile for the second ‘R,’ his mind clearly still half-stuck in the ditch with his fictional forester.
When my turn comes, my rack is a disaster of vowels and a single heavy consonant.
I stare at the wood grain, my mind sliding back to the way Brooks had stood over me, his bare chest damp with sweat and his voice dropping into that dark, low register that made my lungs feel empty.
I clear my throat and lay down letters, connecting them to Dad’s ‘R.’
R-A-S-P.
Mother leans forward, squinting through her reading glasses. “Rasp? Twelve points, darling. A bit utilitarian, don’t you think?”
“It’s a just word,” I mutter, drawing new tiles.
“It’s a sensory word,” Dad corrects her. “The texture of rough iron. Or a voice that’s had too much smoke in it. Very specific. I’d love to know what makes a man’s voice go raspy. Usually, it’s either hard work or… other, more pleasurable exertions.”
“You two are impossible,” I laugh, tossing a tile at Dad, which he catches with practiced, theatrical grace.
“We are authors, darling,” Mother says, grinning. “We deal in subtext. And right now, the subtext of this room is ‘I really want to go next door and see if the Chief is still awake.’”
“I do not!”
“You literally checked the window three times since I played QUARRY,” Dad points out. “It’s okay. We love a man who fixes floorboards. It’s very ‘competent protector’ energy. Does he have a good toolbox? Because if he has a heavy-duty wrench, I might just have to propose to him myself.”
“Dad!”
“What? A man who can handle a wrench can handle anything,” he shrugs, playing EXERT on a triple-word score. “Forty-two points. And yes, I’m counting that. It’s a versatile verb, after all. Especially in the context of endurance.”
Endurance.
He’s talking about sex. My father is talking about my neighbor’s sex stamina in front of my mother.
I love them, but I also need them to be kidnapped by aliens immediately.
“You are cheating!”
“It’s not cheating, it’s ‘creative interpretation’,” Mom says, her eyes sparkling as she reaches over to stroke Dad’s hand. “Just like the Chief’s ‘perimeter’ talk. Tell us again, Emmy. Did he really say that? Was it a formal declaration?”
“He said he was securing the perimeter,” I admit.
Mother gasps, clutching her chest. “Oh, stop. I’m going to die. That is so—it’s so primal! ‘Securing the perimeter!’ Does he check for invaders? Or does he just secure you? Because if it’s the latter, he’s a genius. I’m putting that in the next chapter.”
“Mom!” I whine.
“You have it so bad, baby,” she says, laughing. “It’s wonderful. Don’t you dare try to hide it from us. We’ve seen you look at men before, but never with that ‘I’m going to either kill him or kiss him’ look.”
“I’m not going to kill him,” I whisper.
I might kiss him though.
“Good,” Dad adds, drawing more letters with a smug look. “Murder makes for a very short book.”
? ? ?
Mom is half-asleep against Dad’s shoulder, while Dad turns the wooden tiles over one by one, occasionally murmuring something in her ear that makes her blush and swat at him playfully.
They’re so happy. It’s like they have their own little secret language.
The air has cooled down just enough for the scent of wet ferns to come through the window, mixing with the sharp, clean scent of the gin.
“Go to bed, Emmy,” Dad says quietly. He looks at me, his eyes softening behind his glasses. “You look like you’re carrying the weight of the world on those shoulders. And believe me, the world isn’t worth the backache.”
“I’m fine,” I say, though my eyelids are heavy.
“You’re tired,” Mom murmurs. “Go sleep it off. And dream of the Chief. Or don’t, if it’s going to keep you tossing and turning all night.”