Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 48518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 243(@200wpm)___ 194(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 243(@200wpm)___ 194(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
“No,” he says. “It’s not.”
“Yes,” I say, “it is.”
“Lucy.” He steps closer. “You made a gingerbread firefighter.”
“And?”
“And it’s got gumdrop buttons.”
“They’re festive.”
“They’re a choking hazard.”
“For who, Ash? The other floats?”
He exhales in frustration, and it hits me in the face—warm, spicy, infuriating. Behind us, a few of the fire crew start gathering. Watching. Whispering. Because nothing is more entertaining than Ash Calder and the glitter librarian going head-to-head.
I keep my eyes on Ash. “You’re just mad because my gingerbread firefighter is cuter than you.”
He stiffens. “It—he—is not cuter than me.”
“He’s very cute.”
“He has icing for a face.”
“And it’s darling.”
Ash steps even closer. “Lucy.”
“Ash.”
He stares down at me, eyes narrowing, jaw ticking. My heart slams around in my chest like it’s trying to escape.
“How many lights did you wire into this thing?” he demands.
“Only three strands.”
“Liar.”
“Five.”
“Lucy.”
I sigh. “Eight.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“I used LED!”
“LED still draws power.”
“I used low wattage!”
“Show me your wiring.”
“No.”
“Lucy.”
“No, because you’ll just find reasons to hate it.”
He leans in—actually leans in—so close I feel the heat of his body seep into mine. His voice drops to a low, almost gravelly whisper.
“I don’t hate it.”
My breath catches. I don’t move. I can’t. He’s too close, too warm, too… everything.
“What do you hate then?” I whisper.
He studies me—slow, intense, like he’s trying to read thoughts I don’t dare speak out loud. Then he says, quiet and dangerous: “That you don’t listen.”
“No,” I murmur, “you hate that I challenge you.”
His eyes darken. “Maybe.”
“And maybe,” I say, tilt my chin, “you like it.”
His jaw flexes. His nostrils flare. For one wild second, it feels like he might grab the float, throw it, grab me, shake me, or kiss me.
I don’t know which would be more devastating.
Behind us, someone whispers loudly:
“Thirty bucks says they kiss before lunch.”
Another voice: “Nah, no way. She’s gonna break first. That librarian’s about to melt.”
Heat floods my face. Ash turns slowly toward his crew, voice sharp: “Don’t you all have work to do?”
They scatter. Poorly. And I hear muffled snickering from behind the engine. Ash turns back to me, exasperation mixing with something else entirely.
“Lucy, I can’t approve this float.”
“And I can’t build a new one.”
“You’re not listening—”
“No,” I cut in, stepping closer, “you’re not listening.”
His eyes lock on mine. “Try me.”
I jab a finger toward the gingerbread firefighter. “Kids are going to love this. The town is going to love this. The festival is supposed to be fun. Whimsy. Magic.”
“It can be all of those things without turning into a bonfire waiting to happen.”
“You’re overreacting.”
“You’re underreacting.”
“You’re bossy.”
“You spark fires.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“You’re infuriating.”
“YOU’RE—”
He steps in. Close. Close enough that our bodies don’t touch, but only because he’s holding himself back by sheer force of will. His voice drops to a warning murmur. Low.
Firm. Hot enough to melt snow. “Lucy.”
“Ash.”
“You’re pushing me.”
My pulse jumps. “Maybe I want to.”
His jaw tightens. “Maybe I’m letting you.”
Oh. Oh no. Oh yes.
I swallow hard. “Well. Good.”
“Not good,” he says. “Very not good.”
“I disagree.”
“Shocking.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You’re distracting.”
There it is again. That word. Spoken rough and raw and without hesitation.
I inhale sharply. “Stop calling me that.”
“Stop being that.”
“I’m not—”
“Yes,” he says quietly. “You are.”
My knees wobble.
He reaches out—just barely—fingertips grazing the edge of the float behind me like he needs something to hold on to. He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t have to. His restraint is worse than contact. Better. Hotter. Dangerous.
“Ash…” My voice breaks, embarrassingly soft.
His eyes flick down to my mouth. Slow. Deliberate. That look alone could knock me off my feet harder than falling off a thirty-foot ladder.
Someone behind us whispers:
“They’re doing that stare thing again.”
Another voice: “Ten bucks says they make out by the time the sun sets tonight.”
Ash snaps, without looking away from me, “I can hear you.”
The crew laughs and I breathe out shakily. “So what now? You cancel the float?”
His gaze flicks from my mouth to my eyes, and I swear the air tightens around us.
“I don’t want to cancel it,” he says.
I blink. “What?”
He takes a slow breath. “I want it safe.”
I blink again. “Safe?”
“You heard me.”
“You don’t… hate it?”
He looks at the gingerbread firefighter, then back at me. “I hate the wiring,” he says. “And the frosting. And the gumdrops. And the questionable structural integrity.”
I roll my eyes. “Okay—”
“But,” he adds, stepping impossibly closer, “I don’t hate the idea.”
Shock slips through me. “Really?”
“Really.”
I stare at him. Big. Stoic. Infuriating. Impossible. And doing something unexpected:
Compromising.
“Okay,” I say softly. “Then… help me fix it.”
His eyes widen a fraction. You would’ve thought I just asked him to strip naked in the town square. He clears his throat. “Fix it?”
“Yes.”
“As in… work together?”
“Yes.”
“On a gingerbread firefighter.”
“Yes, Ash.”
He drags a hand down his face like I’ve aged him ten years. “Jesus,” he mutters. “This is a mistake.”
“Probably,” I say, “but so is eating grocery store sushi and people survive that.”
He glares. “This is not the same.”