Right there in the middle of Maplewood Lake, with kids screaming and sparklers flashing and snow threatening to fall, he kisses me for everyone to see.
When he pulls back, and I cling to his jacket for a second longer than necessary.
“Wait—” I glance around at the crowd, the tents, the fire truck parked down the back of the lot. “Aren’t you supposed to be working?”
His hand curls around mine. “I’mvolunteering.Which means I’m technically on crowd patrol and bonfire duty until midnight.”
I arch a brow. “And does crowd patrol usually involve making out with civilians?”
“Only the really fucking hot ones,” he mutters, tugging at my hand. “Come on, I need to show you something.”
“Don’t say it’s your dick. You should save that for midnight.”
He snorts. “Shut up and follow me.”
We weave through the crowd, Mason leading us toward the far end of the lake where a temporary skate rental station is set up under a tent.
He grabs a pair, glancing at my feet.
“You skating with me or you want me to carry you?”
“Please, I can skate.”
I cannot skate. He knows I can’t skate.
“These should work, then.” He drops to one knee on a bench just outside the tent, patting his thigh. “Foot up, Red.”
My eyebrows lift. “Are you trying to live out some hockey-themed foot fetish fantasy right now?”
“Correct.” He grins up at me. “So let me lace you up.”
I bite my lip as I rest my booted foot on his thigh. His hands move fast, stripping off my boot, fitting the skate, lacing it up tight. Then the other.
His head is bowed, brows furrowed with concentration, hands steady as he pulls the final knot tight. The sight of him like this, with his strong forearms and veined hands, makes heat pool low.
When he looks up again, I know he sees it in my eyes. His smile stretches smugly as he stands and presses a kiss to the corner of my mouth.
“Let’s skate before I bend you over the back of the truck right now.”
“Why not both?”
He laughs, tugs me toward the rink. “We’ll start with the skating.”
Ten minutes later, I’ve clung to him like a deranged octopus, nearly taken out a small child, and been laughed at by at least three elderly women Mason probably helped cross the road earlier.
“You’re enjoying this,” I mutter.
“I’m trying not to get a boner,” he replies cheerfully, arm tight around my waist. “You’re wiggling a lot.”
“I’m trying not todie.”
“Mm. Hot.”
I elbow him, but he’s a wall of solid firefighter. He doesn’t budge, but he eventually leads us off the ice and helps me unlacethe borrowed skates, steadying me with both hands as I wobble back into my boots.
The stalls are still buzzing—kids with glowsticks, teenagers chasing each other with plastic swords, parents clutching cider and trying not to lose mittens.
Mason introduces me to a few of his crew mates. Beck Holloway, with his messy man-bun who nods at me like I’ve just passed inspection, and Colt Lawson, who smirks at Mason like hedefinitelyknows what’s going on here.
