“Ash…” she whispers, voice trembling.
I lean in, forehead almost touching hers, her scent filling my head, her body soft and tense and right there.
“Lucy,” I breathe.
Everything in me pulls toward her. Every instinct. Every ache. Every goddamn craving I’ve been swallowing for weeks. She doesn’t move away. She closes her eyes. Inhales. And for a moment—one suspended moment—we’re both leaning in. Not kissing. But close. Way too close.
Then Holly’s voice carries down the hallway again:
“Uncle Ash! Teddy says he’s hungry and I don’t know what bears eat!”
Lucy jumps back. I step away so fast I nearly smack into the counter.
We stare at each other.
Both breathing like idiots.
Both shaken.
Both wrecked.
“I—” She swallows. “I should go.”
I nod, unable to find my voice as she turns to the door. Her hand grips the knob, then pauses. She looks over her shoulder. “Ash?”
“Yeah.”
She hesitates. Soft. Vulnerable. “Tell Holly I loved her picture.”
I nod again. She steps outside into the cold. I watch her walk across the snow, scarf blowing in the wind, boots crunching softly. Every step she takes feels wrong.
Too far. Too away.
When the door closes, Holly runs out, dragging her bear. “Uncle Ash! Are books food? Teddy wants to know.”
But I barely hear her. Because the echo of her secret—I want Miss Lucy to be my family—is still ringing in the walls.
And worse: I want it too. Not someday. Not maybe. Not hypothetically.Now.
The realization hits like a freight train.
I am falling for Lucy Snow. Fast. Hard. Dangerously. And for the first time in years—I’m not sure I want to stop.
Chapter Twelve
Lucy
The firehouse garage always smells like cedar and cold metal and something distinctly Ash—dangerous, solid, masculine. Which is deeply unfortunate for someone trying to maintain composure. Like me.
I’m perched on a metal folding chair, tangled in a spool of tinsel garland while attempting to prep decorations for the Fire & Frost Festival. Holly is nearby drawing signs. The crew is in and out. Someone’s burning popcorn. Again. And Ash…
Ash is watching me. Not openly. Not obviously. But I feel him. Every time he moves. Every time he breathes. He’s fixing a plywood reindeer with a power drill, forearms flexing, jaw locked in that perpetual concentration that makes my stomach flip. He keeps glancing at me between screws—those dark eyes flicking over like he’s checking for sparks. Or making sure I’m still here.
I pretend I don’t notice. No one is fooled. Especially not me.
“Lucy,” he says suddenly, voice rough enough to pull my gaze without permission. “Come here a sec.”
I stand, brushing glitter off my jeans. “If this is about the tinsel again, I swear it’s fire-safe.”
