“Your sister is very thorough,” he says.
“She’s going to want a full report,” I warn him.
“I’m not giving a fifteen-year-old a report on my kissing technique.”
“Good, because I’m pretty sure she’d have suggestions for improvement.”
He laughs then, real and warm, and the sound does terrible things to my heart. Makes me want to believe in magic again. Makes me want to believe that maybe, just maybe, I’ve found someone who thinks my particular brand of chaos is worth keeping around.
“Kira!” Mom’s voice carries from outside. “Dinner prep time!”
“Coming!” Kira hops down from her workbench and heads for the door, then turns back with a solemn expression. “Goodjob, guys. Tomorrow we should work on keeping eye contact longer and maybe some hand-holding during the sleigh ride.”
She disappears before either of us can respond.
“Gotta love sisters,” I say, still slightly breathless from our kiss.
“She’s terrifying,” Asher mutters, but there’s fondness in his voice.
“She reads way too many romance novels. Just wait until she starts going to the Bookaholics Anonymous meetings.”
“I won’t survive that,” he says, and the way he says it—like he’s planning to stick around for Kira’s literary evolution—makes something warm and hopeful bloom in my chest.
We stand there for a moment, paint-covered and slightly stunned, looking at each other like we’re trying to figure out what happens next.
“So,” I say finally, “that happened.”
“Yeah. It did.”
“Any regrets?”
He considers this seriously, which I appreciate. “Ask me tomorrow. When I can think clearly again.”
“Fair enough.”
“Same time tomorrow?” he asks as we start cleaning paintbrushes in Jo’s industrial sink.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I say. Then, feeling brave: “Think Kira will have more romantic advice?”
“I’m counting on it,” he says, and when he smiles at me—really smiles, not just that almost-twitch of his mouth—I understand why people believe in Christmas magic.
Because standing here in this workshop full of broken things being made beautiful again, covered in paint and completely undone by the sweetest kiss of my life, I’m starting to think maybe Mrs. Claus knew exactly what she was doing when she told me to open my heart.
Maybe the best magic happens when you stop trying to be someone else’s version of perfect and start being brave enough to be yourself.
Even if yourself is currently covered in Christmas paint and falling for someone who thinks holiday decorating constitutes a public safety hazard.
Especially then.
Chapter Four
ASHER
Iwake up thinking about paint-covered hands and gentle eyes.
The fire station smells of coffee and diesel fumes this morning. Perfect. At least here, everything makes sense. Equipment checks, inventory lists, maintenance schedules—none of it requires emotional vulnerability or wondering what in the world I’m doing with a woman who brings sunshine to paint disasters.
“Morning, sunshine,” my partner calls from across the bay. “You look terrible.”
