“You’re also not driving home.”
“Yes, I am.”
“No, you’re not.”
I open my mouth to argue, but the second the wind hits me, my knees wobble. Hayes catches my elbow before I can pretend I don’t need it.
“Stay put. I’ll be right back,” he says, propping me up against the wall behind the bakery.
He exchanges a few words with Fire Chief Duke Burns, strips out of his turnout gear, and jogs back over to me in his blue cargo pants and blue button up uniform shirt that they all wear under their gear.
“Come on. I’m driving.” He holds out his hand for my keys.
“Uhm. No?”
“Emmy.” He raises his brow at me again.
“Give me the damn keys, Em. Or if you’d rather, I can throw you over my shoulder, tuck you into the back of the engine, and we can all take you home that way.”
There’s a joke about a fantasy menage with a bunch of hot fire fighters on the tip of my tongue, but I hold back because the look on Hayes’ face is anything but playful.
“I don’t want to be a burden.”
Moonlight glints off the soot still smudged on his jaw. “You’re never a burden to me.”
My breath fogs between us. His eyes hold mine for one long, unbearably tender beat.
Then he clears his throat. “Let’s get you home.”
I swallow, nod, and let him lead me to my car.
For the first time all night, the panic fades—not because the danger is gone, but because Hayes Thatcher is the one guiding me through the aftermath.
And that feels like safety I shouldn’t want, even though I do.
two
. . .
Hayes
Emmy’squiet on the short ride from the bakery to the house she shares with her sister and her mom, Elodie, over in Cranberry Point. It’s been just the three of them ever since Em and Evie’s father died, back when we were in high school. Ms. Elodie did an amazing job making sure her girls did more than just survive their teen years. Emmy and Eviethrived.Each of them graduated with honors and went off to Thackery College on full scholarships. Em for pastry school and Evie for business management.
Like their mom, those women are a force to be reckoned with.
But not tonight.
Normally, Emmy would be filling the silence without even realizing she’s doing it—little humming noises, soft rambling, commentary about the weather or the latest holiday drink she’s testing.
Now? Nothing.
Just her staring out the window with her hands folded in her lap like she’s afraid they’ll start shaking again. Not that I can blame her.
I keep glancing at her anyway, pretending I’m checking the road. She’s pale, exhausted, and still wearing streaks of soot on her cheek, like a reminder of how close tonight came.
Damn wiring. Damn old building.
She should’ve called. The second that outlet started acting up. The thought of her standing in that kitchen with flames catching…
