He blinks once. “No.”
“Wrong answer.”
He walks toward the float like a man approaching a live bomb. “Lucy.” His voice drops into that deep, dangerous register that shouldn’t warm my stomach but absolutely does.
“What the hell is this?”
“A masterpiece,” I say cheerily.
He points at the gingerbread fire truck. “That is thirty percent candy. Candy, Lucy.”
“It’s holiday spirit.”
“It’s an ant infestation waiting to happen.”
I scoff. “Oh please?—”
“And frosting?” He gestures to the gingerbread firefighter’s helmet. “Real frosting?”
“It’s royal icing. It dries hard.”
“I don’t care if it’s cement icing. It violates?—”
“Don’t you dare say it.”
He glares. “Fire code.”
I groan dramatically. “Ash, it isnotgoing to ignite.”
He circles the float slowly, muttering under his breath. “One… two… three… seven violations. Seven.”
I gasp in offense. “You didn’t even count four, five, or six!”
“Didn’t need to.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And you’re reckless.”
There it is—the classic exchange. Our greatest hits album. Only today, things feel… different. Sharper. Closer. Because when I step toward him, he doesn’t back up. Instead he stands there, boots shoulder-width apart, gaze locked squarely on mine. Heat rolls off him like he’s a furnace and I’m standing too damn close. Which—okay—maybe I am.
I fold my arms. “The float is staying.”
“No,” he says. “It’s not.”
“Yes,” I say, “it is.”
“Lucy.” He steps closer. “You made a gingerbread firefighter.”
“And?”
“And it’s got gumdrop buttons.”
“They’re festive.”
“They’re a choking hazard.”
“For who, Ash? The other floats?”
