One cat rescued and we’re on our way back to the firehouse.
The bonfire site is already packed when the engine pulls up—families, tourists, kids running around with glow sticks, someone handing out hot cider near the bandstand at Bayside Park.
The is a towering sculpture of driftwood and stacked timber, nearly twelve feet high. The department has been prepping it for days.
We hop off the truck, and I settle into lieutenant mode. Helmet under my arm, boots crunching over frosted sand.
“Let’s make sure the perimeter is still marked like it should be,” I call, and the guys fan out, checking cones and stakes, running rope. Routine. Predictable. The kind of muscle memory we’ve lived in for years.
But even while I'm doing it, my eyes keep tracking the crowd.
I'm looking for her.
And when I spot her—there it is. That sharp, stupid thump behind my ribs.
Emmy stands near the rope line, bundled in a cream coat, hair in a braid over one shoulder, cheeks flushed pink from the cold. She’s holding something. A thermos, I think.
“There you are,” she calls out, cutting right through the noise.
I swear the damn world narrows until it’s just the two of us.
I stride over, stopping at the rope between us. “Hey, gorgeous.”
She lifts the thermos, a little grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. “I brought caffeine. In case you’re running low.”
I take it from her, letting my fingers brush hers. “You trying to butter up the guy responsible for keeping this thing from roasting the whole town?”
Her grin widens. “Always. Seems to work on you.”
It does. Way too well.
I want to touch her—her cheek, her hair, her waist—but half the town is milling around and my crew has eyes like hawks when they want gossip.
So I settle for a low murmur. “Everything going well over at Dockside?”
“Oh my god, Hayes!” Her excitement is immediate, bright. “It’s amazing. We got everything set up and we’ll be ready to open the doors again tomorrow.”
“Right in time for my after-shift caffeine fix.” I wink.
Her cheeks flame, and she nudges the toe of my boot with hers. “Should I let you get back to your supervisory duties?”
“We’re about to light it,” I say, glancing back at the towering stack of wood. “Stay close, okay? Winds shift fast.”
“I will,” she promises.
“Hayes! Ready when you are!” one of my guys calls.
I sigh. Damn, she makes leaving hard. “Don’t go far. I’ll be back.”
I jog toward the crew, slipping into work mode. We double-check hose lines, confirm wind direction, and prep the ignition torch. All textbook.
The second the flame touches the base of the pile and the fire roars up—low at first, then climbing in a fast, hungry curl of orange—I look for her.
Not the fire’s behavior.
Not the crowd’s reaction.
Her.
