28. Brooks
Brooks
“Morning heat rises early in the valley.
So do poor decisions.”
— County Weather Observation
I haven’t seen Ember since her parents left, and honestly, that’s for the best.
Her parents. God. I still haven’t fully processed that encounter.
Passing by them two days ago, the mother—a woman who radiates enough chaos to cause a natural disaster—had leaned out of the SUV window, sunglasses perched on her nose, and leveled me with a look that felt like a tactical assessment.
“You know, Chief,” she’d said, her voice dripping with amusement, “you’re remarkably good at acting like Emmy’s a complete nuisance, but we both know how much you enjoy the show.
Tell you what—keep that stoic act up, and maybe by the time I’m back, you’ll have finally perfected your ‘I don’t care’ face.
It needs work, by the way. Your eyes tell a very different story. ”
That had made my face go up in flames, and then she followed up with, “Also, for the record? You have a fantastic ass in those pants. It’s a tragedy we won’t be here to see them off.”
“I’m sorry?” I’d choked out.
Her mother had just grinned wider behind the sunglasses. “Oh, don’t act shocked. You’re a very large man in a very fitted uniform. We all have eyes.”
“Dear,” her husband muttered from the driver’s seat.
“What? I’m complimenting the poor boy. He looks like he’s one strong breeze away from cardiac arrest every time Emmy smiles at him.”
I’d stood there like a complete idiot while she pointed a red-painted fingernail at me.
“And another thing, Chief. Stop looking at my daughter like she personally invented oxygen if you’re not planning to do something about it.”
Then they drove away while I stood there overheating in broad daylight.
I’m still trying to un-hear that.
Every time I look at my uniform pants hanging on the back of the bedroom door, I feel a strange heat behind my ears.
The house is quiet this morning.
I dropped Sophie off at kindergarten at eight—she had a look in her eye that told me her teacher was going to have an exhausting morning—and I’ve just been sitting at my desk, staring at a stack of paperwork without actually reading a single line.
My phone buzzes against the wood.
Emmy: I finally got the goat cheese right. Come over and eat this before I lose my mind and dump the whole thing in the yard.
I stare at the screen.
I should text back that I’m busy.
I actually open the message box.
Busy. Later.
I stare at the words for a solid ten seconds before deleting them.
Because the truth is, if Ember asks me to come over, I’m going.
That’s it. That’s the whole situation.
It doesn’t matter if I’m buried in reports or halfway through calibrating air tanks or actively putting out a fire.
The woman says my name in that sharp little voice and suddenly my priorities start rearranging themselves like furniture in a storm.
It’s embarrassing.
Honestly, deeply embarrassing.
? ? ?
Ember is standing by the sink, her back to me. She’s got her hair done up in a loose knot with a yellow pencil shoved through the middle to keep it off her neck.
She spins around, and the look on her face is a masterpiece of frantic impatience. She’s got a tiny smudge of white curd right at the base of her throat.
She holds up a thin-bladed knife like she’s threatening the appliance.
“Okay, listen,” she says. “I’ve been up since four.
I’ve been talking to goats like they’re professional critics.
If you take one bite and give me that neutral ‘Chief’ face—that face where you’re trying not to be mean but you clearly want to be anywhere else—I am going to have a full-blown existential crisis.
Do you understand? I am holding my life together with, like, two bobby pins and this batch of cheese. ”
She throws both hands into the air. “If this cheese is terrible, I’m selling the goats, changing my name, and moving to a convent. I’ll spend the rest of my life making candles and pretending dairy never happened.”
I lean against the doorframe, crossing my arms over my chest. I can’t help the grin that pulls at my mouth. She’s so dramatic.
“You’re going to move to a convent because of goat cheese?”
“Yes,” she says immediately.
“You’d get kicked out in forty-eight hours.”
Her eyes narrow. “Why?”
“Because you flirt too much.”
“I do not flirt too much.”
I just stare at her.
She points the knife at me again. “Okay, rude. Also inaccurate.”
“Ember.”
“What?”
“You once told Mrs. Hargrove at the feed store her tomatoes looked ‘sensual.’”
“They did.”
“She’s seventy-three.”
“And thriving! Anyway, I’m going to lose my mind!” She thrusts the knife toward me. “Just eat it! But if you hate it, for the love of everything pretty and pink, lie to me. Tell me it’s the best thing you’ve ever had, even if it tastes like wet socks.”
I step closer.
The kitchen is small, and as I close the distance, she doesn’t back away. She stands her ground, though her breathing hitches.
I don’t take the knife from her. Instead, I lean down, my eyes locking onto hers, and I take the wedge from the blade with my teeth.
The cheese is incredible. Sharp, creamy, perfect. I swallow, letting the silence stretch just to watch her twitch.
“Well?” she asks, eyes narrowing as she waits for the verdict. “Am I a failure?”
“It’s perfect, Emmy,” I say, my voice dropping. “The cheese is perfect. But you? You still taste better.”
She blinks, the snarky comeback dying in her throat as she flushes a deep, beautiful crimson. I reach out, my thumb catching the small smear of curd, dragging it slow against her skin.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, hot neighbor,” she whispers, though she leans into the touch. She bats her eyelashes at me with such exaggerated innocence that I have to laugh. “Careful. You might lose your clothes.”
“Is that what we’re calling this? A game?” I murmur, my hand sliding to the back of her neck, fingers tangling in the loose strands of hair that escaped her bun.
“It’s a very specific game,” she purrs, a wicked light entering her eyes.
She drops the knife—it clatters onto the counter—and her hands slide down, her palms pressing against my belt buckle.
She tilts her head. “I was thinking about how much work you put into the floorboards, Brooks. And then I started thinking about how much work I could put into… other things. Like how I’d love to see if you’re as ‘controlled’ and ‘professional’ when I’m on my knees.”
My breath hitches. I let out a sharp, incredulous laugh, my hands tightening on her waist to steady myself. “You are absolutely shameless. Does your mother know you’re this much of a menace?”
“She’d be proud,” Ember says. “So, Chief… do you have any other pressing engagements, or are you going to stop staring at my mouth and actually do something about it?”
I step into her, trapping her between my body and the cold counter. I reach up, pulling the yellow pencil from her hair. The knot collapses, a cascade of blonde, messy curls spilling over her shoulders.
“You want me to stop staring?” I murmur, letting the pencil drop to the floor. It clatters, forgotten. “You’re inviting trouble into your kitchen.”
She runs her hands up my chest. “I like trouble. Trouble is at least interesting. Unlike the budget, which is what I assume you usually stare at.”
“The budget doesn’t look at me like you do,” I mutter.
“And how is that?” she whispers, her hands sliding up to my shoulders, pulling me down until my forehead rests against hers.
“Like you want to burn the whole county down,” I say.
“Maybe I do.”
She reaches up, her thumb tracing the line of my lower lip. Her skin is cool, but the trail she leaves behind is searing. “Maybe I want to see just how much of that iron-clad discipline I can melt before you snap.”
I groan, a low, frustrated sound, and I capture her mouth with mine. Her hands tangle in my hair, dragging me closer.
We’re a mess of limbs and fabric, of heavy breathing and muffled protests against each other’s lips.
She’s small, but she’s fierce, her body molded against mine with a frantic sort of energy that makes my blood boil.
I shift my grip, hoisting her up until she’s sitting on the edge of the counter, her legs wrapping around me, pulling me tight against her.
“Brooks,” she gasps against my lips. “Stay. Forget the truck. Forget the logs. Stay right here.”
I want to.
Fuck, I want to say yes so badly it hurts.
I lean in, my nose brushing against hers.
“Emmy,” I groan. “You are going to be the death of me.”
“Is that a complaint?” she teases, her hands trailing lower, her thumb brushing the hard ridge of my cock through my pants. “Because you seem pretty responsive.”
I grip her wrists, pulling her hands away, my jaw tight enough to crack. I lean in to kiss her, my lips hovering inches from hers—
Squawk.
My radio screams on my belt, a harsh, static-filled intrusion.
“Station Two to Chief Lawson. Brooks, you copy?”
I freeze.
Ember doesn’t let go.
She leans in closer, her lips brushing my ear, her voice a low whisper.
“Tell them you’re busy. Tell them the Chief is occupied with a very serious, very urgent inspection.
Don’t you dare answer that, Brooks. Just…
let them find someone else. You don’t need to go.
You need to be here, inspecting my perimeter. ”
Fuck.
My heart is hammering against my ribs.
I want to throw that radio out the window and drag her into the bedroom. I want to spend the next six hours doing absolutely nothing but making sure she doesn’t have a single coherent thought left in her brain.
“I have to,” I say, the words feeling like glass in my throat.
“You don’t have to do anything,” she whispers, pressing her lips to the sensitive skin right under my ear. “Stay. Let me show you exactly how good I am at ‘inspecting’ the Chief.”
I am literally vibrating with the need to say yes, but the weight of my life—the radio, the uniform, the daughter waiting for me—is a physical anchor.
It’s the difference between the man I pretend to be with her and the man I really am.
I unclip the radio, my thumb hitting the lever. “Lawson. Go ahead, Miller.”
“We’ve got a three-car tangle at Route Nine. Birch logs everywhere. We need the winch truck. You clear?”
I look at Ember.
She’s standing there, looking like a beautiful, chaotic mess, her lips swollen, her eyes defiant and hungry.
She’s waiting to see if I’ll break. She’s waiting to see if the professional exterior is just a layer of paint over a very volatile structure.
“I’m clear,” I say. “Five minutes out. Have the chains ready.”
“Copy. Out.”
I clip the radio back on.
“You’re no fun, Brooks.”
“I need to work,” I correct her.
I turn back, stepping into her space one last time. I take the knife off the counter, cut another wedge of the cheese, and eat it right in front of her, holding her gaze until she blinks.
“Keep the crock covered,” I say. “I’m coming back after. And if you eat it all… you’re going to owe me, Emmy. And trust me, I’m going to make sure you pay in full.”
She rolls her eyes, but her hands are trembling as she folds her arms across her chest. “Get out of my kitchen, hot cheese stealing neighbor. Go move your logs.”
I laugh and walk out into the sunlight.
I’m going to lose my mind, I think. And it’s going to be the best damn thing that’s ever happened to me.