Half the town is packed into the firehouse bay when I arrive—photographers setting up lights, volunteer coordinators barking instructions, Holly handing out candy canes like a tiny sugar-fueled dictator.
And then there’s Ash. Standing dead center. Jaw clenched. Arms crossed.
Expression carved from stone. Already annoyed, and the shoot hasn’t even started. Which means I am absolutely, definitely, one hundred percent in trouble.
I slip behind a row of folding chairs, but Holly spots me instantly and shrieks:
“LUCY!”
Her little boots slap across the concrete as she barrels into my legs. I scoop her up.
“Hi, sweetheart. You look very official with that candy cane badge.”
“It means I’m in charge,” she whispers. “Uncle Ash said don’t tell anyone that, but it’s true.”
Of course.
“Where’s your uncle?” I ask.
She points. And that’s when I see it: Ash is shirtless. Not halfway shirtless. Not “just taking off his jacket.” Fully. Shirtless. Broad shoulders. Hard chest. Muscles that look like they were handcrafted for sin and holiday marketing.
His turnout pants hang low on his hips, suspenders draped around his thighs, and he’s glaring at the photographer like he’s considering arson.
My lungs forget how to work.
Holly pats my cheek. “He hates it.”
“Yes,” I whisper hoarsely. “I can see that.”
“Everyone keeps saying he looks very… what was that word?”
“Photogenic?”
“No. The other one. The one Mrs. Stevens said when he took off his shirt.”
I swallow. “Uh—handsome?”
“No,” Holly says confidently. “The other thing.Thirsty.”
I choke so hard Holly thumps my back.
“Oh my God—Holly—you can’t—where did you hear that?”
She shrugs. “Everyone said it. And then Uncle Ash told them to shut up.”
Of course he did.
I spot the festival coordinator waving me over. “Lucy! There you are! We need your help with staging!”
Holly wiggles out of my arms to run after another kid, leaving me to face the firing squad. Or, more accurately, the shirtless firefighter. I walk toward him, calculating the odds of surviving this moment with any dignity. Low. Approximately zero.
He’s rubbing the back of his neck, irritation visible in every tense line of his body.
A photographer waves a clipboard. “Ash! We need you angled more toward the light?—”
“Not happening,” Ash mutters.
“Ash,” I say gently.
