“Lucy—”
“Busy not dying,” I correct. “Well, busy trying not to. Same thing.”
The garland gets tangled on a stubborn branch, and I stretch higher to reach it. The ladder wobbles. My stomach lurches.
“Lucy,” Ash bites out. “I’m not asking again.”
“I’m almost done!”
“You’re going to fall.”
“No, I won?—”
The ladder shifts violently to the right.
My breath shoots out of me. The ground vanishes beneath my boots. I make a noise that can only be described as a terrified squeak. And suddenly— Arms. Strong, solid, unshakeable arms wrap around my waist, hauling me against a chest that feels like a brick wall wrapped in heat.
I blink, dazed. Ash. He’s holding me. Actually holding me. Like I weigh nothing, like he does this all day—catch idiots who ignore him.
His breath hits my ear, rough and warm. “Told you.”
His voice—the sound of it right there—vibrates all the way down my spine.
I swallow, hands unintentionally clinging to his jacket. “Okay, fine. I almost fell. No need to look so smug about it.”
“Oh, I’m beyond smug.” He sets me down slowly, deliberately, making sure my boots hit solid ground. His hand stays on my waist longer than necessary. “I’m seconds from lecturing you into next week.”
I step back like his touch burns—which, annoyingly, it kind of does. “Don’t lecture me. I’m doing something nice.”
“Nice doesn’t mean safe.”
“You’ve said that before.”
“And you haven’t listened before,” he growls.
Mrs. Garland clears her throat. “I’ll, um… go get cocoa.”
She scurries off, leaving me and Ash alone in a halo of falling snowflakes and unspoken tension that could set the tree on fire without a single light bulb. Ash finally drops his hand from my waist, but his eyes stay locked on me. Dark. Stormy. Impossible to read. Except… not always impossible. Sometimes I catch something else behind the scowl. Something molten.
I force myself to break the staring contest. “Why are you everywhere I go?”
His answer is immediate. “Keeping the town in one piece.”
I snort. “Funny.”
He steps closer. I don’t move. Maybe I can’t. He lowers his voice. “Starting with you.”
The words hit me square in the chest. Heat blooms between us—slow, steady, unmistakable.
I cross my arms, desperate for something to hold. “You know, most people say things like ‘be careful’ or ‘let me help.’ You say ‘you’re a hazard.’”
“That’s because you are,” he mutters. “A walking, talking, overdecorated hazard.”
“I am festive,” I correct sharply.
“Unsafe,” he counters.
“Sparkly.”
