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)
He’s in dark jeans and a flannel, beanie pulled low, jaw shadowed, that walk that says ex-military, current hero, professional brooder.
He sees me.
His eyes flick down over me—jacket still on, hands in pockets, cheeks pink from the cold—and his jaw does that barely there clench.
He walks over.
Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t smile.
Just moves like a storm.
“Firecracker,” he says.
“Fireman,” I chirp. “Look at us, doing small-town events, being wholesome.”
“We’re being watched,” he mutters, jerking his chin.
I glance around.
Half the town is looking at us. Phones out. Eyes bright. This is their Superbowl.
I grin up at him. “You want to give them a show?”
“No,” he says flatly. “I want to get through one night without you setting something on fire.”
“It was one studio.”
“Ember.”
“Okay,” I whisper, stepping closer, because if we’re gonna lie, we’re gonna be legendary. “Then hold my hand.”
His eyes flare.
Then, without a word, he laces his fingers through mine.
His hand is huge, callused, warm even in the freezing air. Everything in me…settles. Which is weird. I am not a settler. I am a chaos dragon.
But it feels…good.
A shutter clicks.
I groan. “They’re taking pictures.”
“They were always going to,” he says. “Might as well look convincing.”
“You look annoyed.”
“I am annoyed.”
“You look hot.”
His mouth twitches.
“Don’t say that in front of Tina,” he mutters. “She’ll print it.”
“Clay Walker: Annoyed, Hot,” I whisper. “I’d read that article.”
He squeezes my hand once. “Be good.”
“No promises.”
We make our way to the edge of the crowd. The bonfire roars to life, heat rolling over us. Kids cheer. The whole town is glowing—pumpkins, fire, faces. It’s stupidly perfect.
Then the wind shifts.
Cold slices right through my thermal. I shiver.
Clay looks down. “Cold?”
“Nope.”
“Liar.”
“I’m from Montana.”
“You’re from a studio with a space heater and seventeen kilns.”
“Still Montana.”
He releases my hand.
For one panicked second I think he’s leaving.
Then he shrugs out of his flannel—dark green, worn, warm—and drapes it around my shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He tugs it snug at my collarbone. His knuckles graze my throat.
Heat shoots down my spine.
Phones click.
People audibly swoon.
“Clay,” I whisper.
“Just keeping up appearances,” he says, voice rough.
“That was…a lot of appearance.”
He doesn’t let go of the collar immediately. His fingers stay there, thumb brushing the inside, like he’s feeling my pulse.
He sees how fast it is.
His eyes darken.
“You good?” he asks low.
I swallow. “Great.”
“You’re shaking.”
“Because it’s cold.”
“Because you like it.”
“Stop reading me like a weather report.”
“Then stop being obvious.”
We stare at each other. For a heartbeat, the rest of the town blurs. All I hear is the crackle of fire and the steady, calm cadence of his breathing.
I want to kiss him.
He wants to kiss me.
We don’t.
Because the Miller twins run up screaming, “KISS HER! KISS HER!” and that is not the way I’m letting my first Clay Walker kiss happen.
I laugh, shaking my head, and Clay gives them a look that says “not now, gremlins.” They scamper away, giggling.
“You’re good with kids,” I murmur.
He shrugs. “They like trucks.”
“You have that in common.”
He almost smiles.
We make the rounds, hand in hand. He’s polite in that clipped, efficient way. Nods. Shakes hands. Accepts congratulations. I chatter to everyone, hummingbird fast, filling the silences he leaves. We’re weirdly good at this.
When the wind turns brutal and the sun fully sinks, we step away from the fire to where it’s darker. My breath fogs. I want his arms.
“Hey,” I say, bumping his shoulder. “Thanks for…this.”
He studies me. “For what.”
“Not making me go through tonight alone.”
His brows knit. “You wouldn’t have been alone.”
“Oh, right, I forgot, I have the Paperwork Coven now.”
“You have the whole damn town now.”
I make a face. “That’s the problem.”
“You don’t like attention?”
“I love attention,” I admit. “I just like it for things I earned. Pieces I made. Not because I cried like a maniac on Main Street.”
He’s quiet for a second. Then: “You weren’t a maniac.”
“I was a mess.”
“You lost your place.”
“I lost everything.”
His eyes soften, barely. “I know.”
We stand there, fire glow painting his jaw bronze, snowflakes catching in his hair. I can’t stop looking.
He glances at me. “You’re staring.”
“You’re pretty.”
He huffs. “I’m not pretty.”
“Then stop having cheekbones.”
He shakes his head, amused despite himself. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re so repressed you squeak.”
His gaze snaps to mine. “I don’t squeak.”
“You squeaked when I kissed your cheek.”
His jaw ticks. “That was surprise.”
“That was interest.”
“That was me remembering rule two.”
I smirk. “You’re really clinging to the rules.”
“Someone has to.”
“Or…” I slide a little closer, lifting his flannel to smell him shamelessly, “we could admit this is fun.”
He stares down at me.
“You think this is fun?”
“Don’t you?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
He exhales, long and slow, breath fogging white. “You make it…less not fun.”
I grin. “High praise.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late.”
We’re interrupted by Marta, who wants a photo for the Gazette follow-up. Clay groans under his breath, but he pulls me in anyway, arm firm around my waist.
“Closer,” she says.