Total pages in book: 31
Estimated words: 32231 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 161(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 107(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32231 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 161(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 107(@300wpm)
“You catching me or am I face-planting?”
“Slide. I’ll be here.”
She hesitates.
“Scared?”
She glares. “Daring me again?”
I grin. “Every time.”
She grabs the pole. “Fine.”
Then she lets go.
She lands against my chest with a thud, her body plastered against mine. My hands grip her hips on instinct. Her chest heaves against me. Our faces are too close.
“Good form,” I say, voice hoarse.
She sways. “I think I broke something.”
“My sanity?” I murmur.
She tries to push off me, but I hold her there. Just a second longer.
“Let go, Clay.”
“No.”
Her hands flatten on my chest. “People—could come back—”
“They won’t.”
Her eyes blaze. “This is a bad idea.”
I dip my head. “Say stop.”
She doesn’t.
Instead, her fingers fist in my shirt and she drags my mouth down to hers.
The kiss is chaos. Teeth, tongue, years of tension exploding in a collision of mouths. She tastes like strawberries and regret. Her moan ignites something in me, something reckless and deep. I back her against the wall, bracing my forearms beside her head.
She gasps. “Clay—”
“I’ve waited too long to do this,” I growl.
“You should’ve said something.”
“You should’ve run.”
She exhales, trembling. “You should stop daring me to.”
I press my forehead to hers. “Then stop answering the dare.”
She leans up and kisses me again—harder this time. A slap of lips and desperation, like she’s trying to burn every thought from her head.
I lift her onto the wall-mounted hose rack, her thighs parting instinctively around my waist. I press my body into hers, groaning into her mouth. My hands roam, greedy, selfish.
She arches into me. “Clay…”
“I’m not sorry,” I whisper, dragging my mouth along her jaw. “For this. For wanting you.”
Her nails scrape my scalp. “This is insane.”
“Then let’s lose our minds together.”
We don’t go all the way. Not yet. But the way she shudders when I suck a bruise into her neck, the way her hips roll when I press my palm between her legs over her jeans?
It’s enough to wreck me.
We part only when the sound of tires crunching gravel warns us someone’s back.
She pushes me off, breathless. “I need—space.”
“Too late,” I say. “You’re in my head now.”
She swallows hard and bolts toward the locker room.
I watch her go, jaw tight.
Because this?
This is going to get complicated fast.
And I’m not sure I’ll survive it twice.
Chapter Nine
Ember
There’s a moment—right before he walks into the pottery studio—when I forget how to breathe. My mind replaying that kiss at the firehouse from this morning.
Clay Walker, firefighter, resident grump, panty-melter. My fake boyfriend turned very real distraction.
He’s leaning against the doorframe in that slow, unhurried way of his, like he’s got all the time in the world to watch me scrape clay off my apron and try not to look like I’m internally combusting. He’s in uniform—black tee stretched tight across his chest, soot still smudged on his jaw—and his stare? Unforgiving. Like he sees straight through the apron, the pretense, the dampness gathering between my thighs.
“You done playing with mud, sweetheart?” he asks, voice gravelly, laced with a smirk.
I don’t rise to it. Much.
“I’ll have you know I created a stunning ashtray-slash-salsa-dish hybrid,” I say, brushing past him, ignoring the jolt that lights up my spine when his hand grazes the small of my back.
He leans down, close enough I can taste the smoke clinging to his skin.
“I’ve got something else you can put your hands on,” he murmurs.
God help me.
The other women in class are watching, giggling like I’m walking off set with the Sexiest Man Alive. Which, to be fair, isn’t far off.
I try to keep my cool as we make it to his truck. Try to remind myself this isn’t real. We’re just... playing house. Teasing fire.
But when he opens the passenger door for me, places a hand on my hip to guide me in, I almost forget the rules I swore to keep.
“You pick me up in that thing one more time and the town’s going to assume we’re married,” I mutter, buckling in.
He shrugs. “Let ‘em.”
We ride in silence for a beat, the tension between us thick and humming. Then he pulls into the firehouse.
“You’re feeding the crew again?” I ask, grabbing the takeout bags from the backseat.
His smirk returns. “They only like me because I bring ‘em food. You? They like because you make me insane.”
I blink. “You’re insane all on your own.”
He climbs out and circles the truck, stealing the bags from my hands like I’m made of glass. “You’re the one bringing Thai to a bunch of grown men who think sriracha is exotic. Who’s insane now?”
I grin. “They love me.”
He doesn’t disagree.
Inside, the firehouse is chaos. Boots thudding, laughter ricocheting off brick. And then—
“Heyyy, is that Mrs. Walker?” Ramirez bellows from the recliner, tossing a foam football in the air. “Didn’t know we ordered a firecracker with our pad Thai.”
“She’s not Mrs. Anything,” Clay grumbles, setting the food on the counter.