He exhales in frustration, and it hits me in the face—warm, spicy, infuriating. Behind us, a few of the fire crew start gathering. Watching. Whispering. Because nothing is more entertaining than Ash Calder and the glitter librarian going head-to-head.
I keep my eyes on Ash. “You’re just mad because my gingerbread firefighter is cuter than you.”
He stiffens. “It—he—is not cuter than me.”
“He’s very cute.”
“He has icing for a face.”
“And it’s darling.”
Ash steps even closer. “Lucy.”
“Ash.”
He stares down at me, eyes narrowing, jaw ticking. My heart slams around in my chest like it’s trying to escape.
“How many lights did you wire into this thing?” he demands.
“Only three strands.”
“Liar.”
“Five.”
“Lucy.”
I sigh. “Eight.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“I used LED!”
“LED still draws power.”
“I used low wattage!”
“Show me your wiring.”
“No.”
“Lucy.”
“No, because you’ll just find reasons to hate it.”
He leans in—actually leans in—so close I feel the heat of his body seep into mine. His voice drops to a low, almost gravelly whisper.
“I don’t hate it.”
My breath catches. I don’t move. I can’t. He’s too close, too warm, too… everything.
“What do you hate then?” I whisper.
He studies me—slow, intense, like he’s trying to read thoughts I don’t dare speak out loud. Then he says, quiet and dangerous: “That you don’t listen.”
“No,” I murmur, “you hate that I challenge you.”
His eyes darken. “Maybe.”
