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)
Lucy laughs—light, bright, infuriatingly adorable. “They’re not wrong, you know.”
“I’m going to pretend I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You never know what I’m talking about.”
“And you always talk too much.”
She gasps. “Rude.”
“Honest.”
“You love it.”
My jaw tightens. “Lucy.”
“Yes?”
“Step away from the snow machine.”
“No.”
“Lucy.”
“Nope.”
I inhale slowly, deeply. Counting to ten so I don’t throw her over my shoulder and march her away from heavy machinery. She plants both hands on her hips—her dangerous stance—and says, “I just need to test the pressure output. That’s all.”
“Pressure output?”
“Yes.”
“On a machine that shoots snow.”
“Yes.”
“Do you hear yourself when you speak?”
“All the time.”
“And you don’t think, ‘wow, this sounds dangerous’?”
She grins. “Not once.”
I close my eyes. “Lucy.”
When I open them, she’s already walking toward the control panel like a woman who has never once worried about consequences. “Kid—” Not kid, I correct myself. “Lucy. Don’t—”
She flips a switch. There’s a rumble. A hiss. The crew scatters like cockroaches.
“Lucy,” I bark, “don’t turn that—”
She presses a button.
FOOOOMPH.
The machine roars to life. A hurricane of artificial snow explodes out of the nozzle— Directly. Into. My. Face. Full pressure. Full blast. The force hits me like a punch.
Cold. Wet. Violent.
I stumble back two steps before catching myself, blinking through a whiteout that makes me look like someone dipped me in a blizzard. The entire fire truck disappears behind a wall of manufactured winter. For a full five seconds, the world is nothing but ice, wind, and humiliation.
Then, mercifully— It stops. Silence.
I wipe my face with both hands. I am soaked. My jacket. My hair. My eyelashes. My dignity.
Lucy stands frozen ten feet away, hands clasped over her mouth. Her cheeks puff. Her shoulders shake. Then she breaks. She laughs. Hard. Uncontrolled. Bending-over-at-the-waist, hand-on-her-knee, absolutely-unhinged laughter.
“Oh my God—Ash—your face—” She wheezes. “Your—face—”
I stare at her. Stoic. Dripping. Frozen in place.
“You think this is funny.”
She nods frantically. “So—funny—I can’t—oh my God—”
I step toward her.
She backs up instantly. “Ash—wait—no—hold on—”
“You think blasting me in the face with a snow cannon,” I say, walking her down, “is funny.”
She squeals. “Don’t! Don’t you dare—your shirt is soaked—”
“You’re laughing at me.”
“I—I—yes—but—Ash—I’m sorry—I swear I’m sorry—just give me—a minute—”
She can’t even finish a sentence. She’s doubled over, tears streaming, gasping for breath. I’m going to murder her. Lovingly. Eventually.
“Lucy.”
She looks up at me between laughs—eyes shining, cheeks flushed, hair falling out of her bun, beautiful in the most chaotic way. And something inside me shifts—dangerously. The tension we've been dancing around explodes. Not out loud. Not with words. With the way her laughter fades into breathless silence as I keep walking toward her.
She straightens slowly, voice softening. “Ash…”
Her name leaves my mouth like a warning. “Lucy.”
“You’re—soaked.”
I glance down. My shirt is plastered to my chest. My jacket dripping. My gloves squishing with every move. “Noticed.”
“And you’re—really—really mad.”
“Oh yeah.”
Her breath catches. “You’re—you’re looming.”
“Good observation.”
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re going to… do something.”
The air between us tightens.
“What,” I ask quietly, “do you think I’m going to do?”
Her pulse jumps at her neck.
The crew whispers behind us:
“Oh, this is getting good.” “God damn.” “Just kiss her already, Calder!” “Let Sparky take the reins!”
Lucy flushes scarlet. “Ignore them.”
“Trying,” I mutter.
“You’re not trying very hard.”
“No,” I say, stepping closer, “I’m not.”
Her back hits the railing of the gazebo before she realizes she’s backing up. I plant my hands on either side of her, bracketing her in. Not touching. Not yet.
She swallows. “Ash…”
“You’re a menace.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“You blasted me with a snow cannon.”
“It wasn’t on purpose!”
“Liar.”
“Okay—maybe a little purpose—”
I raise a brow. She bursts into laughter again. Soft, breathless, uncontrolled.
And damn it all— I feel my mouth twitch.
Just a twitch.
Then— Crystal clear in the cold air— her laughter melts into something quieter.
Gentler.
She reaches up—hesitant—and brushes a piece of fake snow from my hair.
Her fingers hover. Close. Too close.
“Ash…” she whispers.
“Lucy.”
Her hand drops. But her eyes—those soft, bright, infuriating eyes—don’t look away.
And for the first time in weeks, something inside me eases. Just a fraction. She whispers, “You almost smiled.”
I lean in, voice low. “Don’t push your luck.”
“You did.” Her lips curve. “A tiny bit.”
I step even closer. “You think you’re cute.”
“I know I am.”
“I think you’re dangerous.”
She shivers. “Why?”
My voice drops to a warning edge. Because I’m losing the battle I swore I’d win. Because she makes me feel things I’ve spent years trying to bury. Because she’s sunlight and warmth and I’m frozen solid half the time.
But I don’t say that. Instead: “Because,” I murmur, “I can’t tell if I want to throw you in the back of the engine or—” I stop. Her breath catches. She steps closer—just an inch, but I feel it everywhere.
“Or what?” she whispers.
I swallow hard. “Nothing.”
“Ash.”
“Lucy.”
We inhale at the same time. The air between us crackles—hot, melting, dangerous.
We are one heartbeat away—one breath—from crossing a line neither of us will come back from.