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)
Caveman.
I scrub my hands harder than necessary and tell myself I don’t care.
But the light’s different now.
And for the first time in a long time, I don’t know how to put the shadows back where they belong.
Chapter Two
Ember
Water is everywhere.
Not a gentle leak. Not a polite drip. Full-on betrayal.
It’s pouring out from under the sink in my new studio like the building itself has decided to test my commitment on day one. Cold water soaks into my boots, spreads across the concrete floor, creeps toward my stacked canvases like it’s aiming for maximum emotional damage.
“Okay,” I tell the room, hands on my hips, hair in my face, paint still smudged on my cheek from unloading supplies. “I hear you. You hate me. Message received.”
The sink gurgles in response.
I wrench the cabinet open and stare at a tangle of pipes that look like they were installed during a different century by someone who actively despised plumbing. I twist something. The water laughs and comes faster.
Perfect.
I bolt upright and sprint next door, sloshing through the snowmelt and mud between buildings, skidding to a stop in front of the big, dark workshop that belongs to my grumpy neighbor from hell.
Boone Lawson.
I met him yesterday. Briefly. Memorably. He glared at me like I’d personally offended his ancestors and called me trouble without blinking.
Naturally, I knock.
Once.
Twice.
The door opens just enough for his face to appear. Grease on his hands. Scowl firmly in place. Dark eyes already irritated.
“What.”
It’s not a question.
“My studio’s flooding,” I say, breathless and cheerful out of spite. “Do you have a wrench?”
“No.”
I blink. “No?”
“No.”
“That’s it?”
“I’m busy.”
I peer past him into the workshop. He’s standing beside an engine that looks halfway disassembled, tools spread with military precision across the workbench. Sparks of light catch in his dark hair. His shoulders fill the doorway like a warning.
“You don’t look busy,” I say lightly.
His jaw tightens. “You don’t look welcome.”
“Wow,” I say. “And here I thought small towns were friendly.”
“They are. I’m not.”
I cross my arms, water squelching in my boots. “It’s a pipe. I just need a wrench.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because if I help you once, you’ll keep asking.”
“I will not.”
“You already did.”
“That was literally ten seconds ago.”
He sighs like I’m a personal inconvenience fate has dropped at his feet. He reaches behind him, grabs a wrench from the wall, and thrusts it toward me without meeting my eyes.
“Take it. Fix it. Bring it back.”
I grab it. Our fingers brush.
Electric.
Annoying.
Something in my chest flutters before I can stop it.
“Thank you,” I say, sincere.
His gaze flicks to my face. Lingers. Then he looks away.
“Don’t thank me yet.”
I trot back to my studio, muttering under my breath about grumpy mechanics and anti-social mountain men. I kneel under the sink, twist the wrench the way I think I’m supposed to, and immediately make things worse.
The pipe shudders. The water sprays harder. A cold stream hits my neck.
I shriek.
“I hate this place,” I announce to no one.
And then—because apparently I’ve reached my emotional limit—I burst into tears.
Full-on, ugly, overwhelmed sobbing. Because I moved my entire life here. Because I spent my savings on this studio. Because I just wanted to teach kids to paint and instead I’m losing a fight with plumbing.
A shadow fills the doorway.
The water shuts off in less than thirty seconds.
I blink through my tears to find Boone crouched under the sink, wrench in hand, calm and efficient like this is nothing. He tightens something, checks another joint, then stands.
Silence.
The flood stops.
I stare at the fixed pipe. At him.
“That’s it?” I demand.
“Yes.”
“That took you thirty seconds.”
“Thirty-one.”
My annoyance flares hot and immediate. “You could’ve just done that in the first place.”
He straightens, towering over me, expression unreadable. “You wanted to do it yourself.”
“I wanted to prove I wasn’t helpless.”
“You proved you’re stubborn.”
I push to my feet, wrench clutched like a weapon. “I am not helpless.”
He arches a brow. “You cried.”
“That was—” I stop. Reset. “That was strategic.”
He snorts.
I bristle. “You think I’m some delicate city girl who can’t handle a little chaos?”
“I think,” he says slowly, eyes darkening, “that you walked into a workshop yesterday covered in paint like you owned the place, knocked on my door without fear, and tried to fix plumbing without knowing how.”
“That sounds brave.”
“That sounds reckless.”
“That sounds like my entire personality.”
Something shifts in his expression. Not soft. Not quite a smile. But something less sharp.
I hand him the wrench. “Thank you.”
He takes it. Our fingers brush again. This time neither of us pulls away right away.
“You owe me,” he says.
I laugh. “For thirty seconds of work?”
“Cookies,” he says. “Or something.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because then you’ll expect more.”
He smirks. It’s quick. Dangerous. “I already do, Firefly.”
My breath stutters.
“Don’t call me that.”
“You glow when you’re mad.”
“I do not glow.”
“You’re glowing.”
I step closer without thinking. “You’re impossible.”
“You’re loud.”
“Grumpy.”
“Messy.”
“Hot.”
The word slips out before I can stop it.
His eyes drop to my mouth.