Total pages in book: 23
Estimated words: 24365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 122(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 122(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
“Excuse me?” I say, heat flaring in my chest. “That’s not what this is.”
“Isn’t it?” He gestures around the studio. “A fundraiser inspired by fire and trauma and tragedy. Sounds like a project to me.”
My spine stiffens. “You told me your story.”
“I didn’t give you permission to use it.”
“I’m not using you,” I fire back. “I’m honoring what you survived.”
He scoffs. “You think slapping some paint on walls honors anything?”
I take a step toward him, anger buzzing now, bright and alive. “You think hiding in your workshop does?”
Silence slams down between us.
His eyes flash. “Low blow.”
“Truth hurts,” I say. “And for the record, this wasn’t even about you.”
“That’s bullshit,” he says flatly.
“Is it?” I challenge. “Because last I checked, Devil’s Peak Fire & Rescue is more than one man.”
“You heard my story and decided to turn it into an event.”
“I heard your story,” I snap, “and decided it deserved light instead of silence.”
His hands clench at his sides. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”
“I’m not deciding for you,” I say, forcing my voice to steady. “I’m inviting you.”
“To what?” he bites out. “Relive it? Smile for donors? Stand around while people point at the scars you pretend not to see?”
I close the distance between us. “I see them. And I don’t look away.”
His breath hitches. Just once. Barely there.
“Firefly,” he says, voice low and dangerous, “you don’t understand what you’re poking.”
“Oh, I do,” I say softly. “I understand exactly. You’re angry because you care.”
“That’s not—”
“You care,” I repeat. “And it terrifies you.”
He laughs again, but it’s brittle. “You think you know me that well?”
“I know you don’t lash out unless something matters,” I say. “And this matters. I matter.”
The words hang between us, bold and naked.
He stares at me like I’ve just knocked the air out of him. “You don’t get to say that.”
“I do,” I say. “Because you let me see you.”
“I didn’t let you—”
“You did,” I interrupt. “You cooked with me. You talked. You painted. You stayed.”
His jaw works. “That was a mistake.”
The words sting, sharp and unexpected.
I swallow. Then I smile, slow and a little sad. “If that’s what you need to tell yourself to feel safe, go ahead.”
He stiffens. “I don’t need—”
“Boone,” I say gently, “you don’t get to decide what heals people. Not me. Not you. Not this town.”
“I didn’t ask to be healed.”
“No,” I agree. “You asked to be left alone.”
His gaze drops, just for a second. Enough.
“And I respected that,” I continue. “Until you let me in.”
He looks back up, fury and something raw colliding. “You think this is me letting you in?”
“I think,” I say, stepping closer, “that you wouldn’t be standing here yelling if you didn’t want to be part of this.”
He shakes his head. “You’re wrong.”
“Then walk away,” I challenge. “Tear up the flyer. Tell Saxon no. Tell the town to find another cause.”
He doesn’t move.
“See?” I whisper. “You’re still here.”
The air between us feels charged, thick enough to choke on. His chest rises and falls fast, eyes locked on mine like he’s trying to decide whether to run or burn.
“I won’t be your inspiration,” he says hoarsely.
“I don’t want you as my inspiration,” I reply. “I want you as my partner.”
That does it.
He crosses the last inch between us in one stride and grabs my arms—not rough, but firm, like he needs the contact to anchor himself. His hands are warm, calloused, familiar already in a way that makes my knees weak.
“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he says.
“Then show me,” I challenge softly.
For a heartbeat, I think he’s going to kiss me.
Instead, he pulls me into him.
It’s not tentative. It’s not polite. It’s full-body, chest-to-chest, my cheek pressed against his sternum, his arms wrapping around me like he’s been holding back from this for days. I gasp at the suddenness of it, then melt, fitting into him like my body has been waiting for permission.
There’s no mistaking it.
We align perfectly.
My forehead tucks under his chin. His hand spreads across my back, big and steady, rubbing slow circles like he’s soothing something that’s been screaming inside him. I breathe him in—woodsmoke, oil, clean soap—and my entire nervous system exhales.
“Damn it,” he murmurs into my hair.
I wrap my arms around his waist without thinking, fingers curling into his shirt. “You okay?”
He lets out a shaky breath. “No.”
“Good,” I say lightly. “Means you’re human.”
He huffs a laugh against my temple. “You’re infuriating.”
“So I’ve been told.”
He tightens his hold, just a fraction. “You really think this show is a good idea?”
“I think,” I say honestly, “that people want to give back. And kids want to paint. And pain doesn’t have to be ugly to be real.”
He’s quiet for a long moment.
“Promise me something,” he says finally.
“Name it.”
“Don’t make me the poster boy.”
I grin against his chest. “Deal. You can be the grumpy guy in the corner pretending not to care.”